David Wishart - Sejanus

Interesting, right?

I sat back and took a sip of my wine. At my elbow, the reading lamp guttered. It'd been full when I'd started, and I hadn't realised how long I'd been lying here. It must be almost dawn.

So. Where to now? Sure, there were plenty of other names in my notes, and I wasn't fool enough to believe they weren't important, maybe even more important than the ones I already had. When you get right down to it treason's only a word; the charge itself doesn't matter if the result's the same. As I'd found years back with sweet little Julia, a prosecution for adultery can cover a multitude of sins. Then there were the off-the-wall cases. Like the sleepwalking murder, or the hack poet prosecuted for publishing a premature lament for Tiberius's son Drusus. Bad taste, sure, since Drusus had recovered; but hardly worth garrotting the poor bugger for. Or was it? I could be missing something there or in half a dozen other places. I probably was.

I needed expert help with this. So who could I ask?

I took another mouthful of Setinian and considered the options. A broad-striper like Arruntius or Lamia would've been perfect, but senators were too high profile to be safe and I doubted anyway if when push came to shove that there was one of them I could trust. Dad might've helped this time; but Dad was dead. Of my other relatives Priscus would be about as much use as a eunuch in a brothel, and I didn't consider Cotta for one second. So who did I know who had both ears to the ground, more inside his skull than feathers, and a low enough profile not to run the risk of going down with me if the shit hit the shovel?

Lippillus, that was who. Flavonius Lippillus.

I'd met him over the Germanicus business, and we'd kept in touch off and on since. When I was back in Rome he and his stepmother had come round for dinner a few times. Forget every stepmother story you've ever heard. Marcina Paullina was a honey: a tall, willowy African with sleepy eyes, not five years older than he was. Yeah. Lippillus would do very well. In fact, he was perfect.

Something was going squeak squeak in the lobby outside. Either we'd got a ghost in a new pair of sandals or…

I got off the couch and opened the study door. Bathyllus was polishing the bronze statue in the alcove.

'You not in bed yet, little guy?' I said.

'No, sir.' He breathed gently on the dryad's toenails and gave them another rub.

I felt guilty as hell. When I'd taken the jug into the study I should've told him I'd finished for the night. He probably wouldn't've taken any notice, but at least I'd've salved my conscience.

'Then go now,' I said. 'Okay?'

'Yes, sir. In a moment.' He moved on to the left ankle. Ah, well. I'd tried. I paused, my hand on the doorknob.

'Hey, Bathyllus. You happen to know if Flavonius Lippillus is still in town?' One thing I learned early in life: assume your slaves know everything. They usually do, and it saves endless hassle.

The little guy's rag didn't pause. 'Yes, sir,' he said. 'He's a district commander now, I believe. Of the Racetrack and Public Pond regions.'

That made sense. Lippillus had been the best the Aventine Watch could show, and the Watch didn't waste their talent. 'He still live in the same tenement? On the Aventine?'

'That one collapsed a few months ago, sir. During the night, I believe.'

'Sweet gods!' Falling tenements are no joke. It isn't so bad during the day when most of the residents are out at work or gossiping in the street, but a collapse at night when everyone's in bed is bad news. 'Is Marcina okay?'

'Oh, yes, sir.' Bathyllus was blushing. He may be getting on a bit and have a scalp as bald as a marble statue's backside, but he'd always had a soft spot for Marcina Paullina. Unrequited, let it be said. Luckily; the little guy wears enough hernia supports to power a catapult. 'She was at her sister's at the time, and Lippillus was on duty. They have a first-floor flat now, near the Temple of Mercury.'

I nodded and yawned. I suddenly felt tired. 'Okay. Bed, Bathyllus. And not too early in the morning, right? We're on holiday, remember.'

As I dragged myself upstairs I thought: Yeah. Some holiday. First a funeral, now an investigation that's practically an act of suicide. Nice one, Corvinus.

Perilla had been right about us being different, anyway. Most people go to Baiae.

Next morning I called round at the Watch's regional headquarters near the Capenan Gate. I'd expected to be told that Lippillus was out, but there he was, bawling at a young squaddie who towered over him by at least a head.

'Hey, Lippillus,' I said.

He looked up, did a double-take and grinned: not so much the twelve-year-old lookalike he'd been when I first met him, more a disreputable dwarf. He jerked his thumb.

'Out!'

The squaddie fled.

'I heard you were back, Corvinus,' he said. The grin had faded. 'And the reason. I'm sorry about your father. And for missing the funeral. A knifing in the Remuria.'

'That's okay.' I watched the squaddie's back as he disappeared. Well, at least if I did nothing else today I'd taken one poor bugger's balls out of the mangle. I could still smell his sweat. 'How are things?'

Lippillus shrugged: he was watching the squaddie as well, but with disapproval. 'A cartload of kitchen ware goes missing and the next day that stupid bastard buys a casserole from a guy in a wineshop and doesn't make the tie-in. Can you believe that?'

'Not easily, no.'

'Fact. The only reason it's come out now is that I overheard him myself telling his mates he knew where they could get a half-set of Samian cost.' He spat onto the floor. 'Jupiter on a bloody tightrope!'

'Yeah. I see what you mean.'

He shook his head. 'They're not a bad lot, the Pisspond lads. When they get round to telling their arses from their elbows, that is.'

'Better than the Aventine?'

'Rome's Rome. It's the same all over. Just some parts, you get a better class of criminal.'

'Like the senate house district?'

The grin came back. 'Like the senate house district.' He paused. 'Split a jug of wine?'

'You twisted my arm.'

'One thing to be said for being the boss,' he said as we left. 'You can slope off for a drink whenever you like and people are glad to see you go.

'The wineshop by the Temple of the Good Goddess was obviously familiar ground: the waiter didn't ask what we wanted and Lippillus didn't tell him. Two minutes later he came back with a jug of white, a charcoal-grilled Lucanian sausage, bread and a saucer of olives in their own oil.

'Cheers. Welcome home.' Lippillus lifted his cup and took a long swallow. I did the same. The wine was a surprise, one you didn't come across very often in Rome: Gauranum, from around Puteoli, cold from the cellar and not at all bad. The sausage wasn't bad, either, heavy with garlic and cumin.

'So. How's life in Athens?'

The way he said the name made it sound like some mud-hut village in the sticks; but then Lippillus didn't have much time for anywhere outside the fifth milestone.

'It's okay, if you happen to like culture and old marble.' I sliced up the sausage. 'I'm learning.'

'How's Perilla? Any kids yet?'

For someone so smart you'd've thought Lippillus would've been more sensitive; but then he wasn't married. Not properly, anyway.

'No,' I said quietly. 'No kids.'

'Shame.'

'Yeah.' I tore off a bit of bread and sopped it in the olive oil. 'Marcina's fine?'

'Putting on weight, but yes, she's fine.' That one I didn't chase; I'd never been exactly sure what Lippillus's relationship with his stepmother was. His father had been dead for years, of course, since long before I knew him, and like I said the lady was no fat-jowled Roman matron. Anyway, it was none of my business.