David Wishart: Germanicus

'No, that about covers it.' My head was spinning. 'You mind explaining why, now?'

She lowered herself painfully back into her chair. It must've been built up because we were on the level again.

'Why the oath?' she said. 'Or why I brought you here in the first place?'

'Both, Excellency. They're the same thing anyway, aren't they?'

'Naturally. But if you've realised that then the answer to your question should be obvious.'

'Let's pretend it isn't. Tell me anyway.'

'Oh, Corvinus! You disappoint me!' Her thin lips turned down. 'Of course, now you know that I wasn't responsible for Germanicus's death I want you to find out who was.'

We stared at each other. She wasn't smiling any more, and the dead eyes were expressionless. I swallowed painfully.

'Excellency, this wouldn't be official, would it?' I said at last.

She tutted with impatience. 'Don't be a fool, boy! Of course it isn't! Officially my grandson died of a fever. You know that.'

I nodded. 'Okay. Just asking. So why me?'

'Because you've already shown certain…talents in that direction.' Was that a smile again? I doubted it. 'And I'm betting on your curiosity.'

She had me there. Ever since the business with the altar I'd stopped sweating. Instead I could feel the little tingle at the nape of my neck that I'd been missing these past eighteen months. Not regretting, just missing.

'Fair enough,' I said. 'You have any ideas yourself?'

This time I detected a definite smile; but it was like the smile you sometimes get on the face of an old Greek statue; the smug sort I always feel like wiping off with a hammer.

'Naturally I do,' she said. 'But that's all they are. Ideas. I would hate to prejudice your investigation by sharing them.'

'Yeah. Sure.' I hoped that didn't sound as sour as I thought it did; I hadn't missed the irony there. 'So no help at all, right?'

'No help at all. But then, no hindrance, either.' She paused. 'Well? Was I right? About your curiosity? I need a definite answer.'

Shit. I'd hate to play her at dice, not with these eyes staring across the table at me. She had me hooked, and she knew it. Nevertheless I hesitated for form's sake. 'No help and no hindrance, right, lady?'

'You have my word.'

Uh-huh. Whatever that was worth. But then, I didn't have any choice. 'Okay' I said. 'I'll settle for that.'

The smile widened. 'Good. I thought you might. And now if you'll excuse me I have work to do.'

She turned back to the writing tablet in front of her. It was like she'd forgotten me already. I stood up. Then a thought struck me. It wasn't a pleasant one, but I couldn't leave without putting it into words. I cleared my throat, and the mask raised itself.

'Yes, Corvinus? What is it now?' Testy as hell. You'd've thought I'd been the one asking the favour.

‘One last thing, Excellency.' I hesitated. 'The rumours in the Market Square. They don't just concern you. Maybe you'd like to add something to that oath you took after all.'

She didn't blink. 'You mean in respect of my son.'

'The emperor. Yeah.'

'Young man.' She placed her hands flat on the desk. 'I cannot and will not answer for Tiberius. We are no longer close, and I refuse to perjure myself where I have no definite knowledge.' She waited. I waited longer. 'However I will say that I find the attempts to link him with Germanicus's death both malicious and…ill informed. My son, unlike myself' — that smile again — 'is not by nature a murderer. Will that serve?'

It'll have to, lady, I thought. For the moment, anyway. But I didn't say anything. I just nodded.

'Good. Thank you. Come back when you've solved our little mystery, won't you? That's all.'

This time Oily Phormio wasn't poised at the door to let me out. With a brief bow to the top of her head and a few parting politenesses that she ignored, I left.

Hermes wasn't in evidence outside either, but I couldn't wait to get shot of the place and back to the real life of the city. Outside the gates I just stood and breathed for a while. After the atmosphere of the palace, Rome had never smelt so sweet.

I thought things over in the litter on the way home. The facts of the case were pretty straightforward. Germanicus had been the nephew and adopted son of the Emperor Tiberius (aka the Wart). At his death the previous year he'd been thirty-four, two years older than his stepbrother Drusus, and Rome's blue eyed darling. After his campaigns in Germany the Wart had sent him east to dicker with the Parthians over Armenia and generally make sure the bastards knew their place and kept to it. Which was where Piso came in.

Calpurnius Piso was the Syrian governor. Syria borders on the Parthian Empire, Armenia and our screen of client kingdoms, so the two were bound to see a lot of each other; which was a pity, because they hated each other's guts. The wives didn't get along either. Piso's Plancina was an arrogant, snobbish bitch with imperial connections who had no intention of playing second fiddle even to a granddaughter of Augustus, while Agrippina could've given even old Cato lessons in character building and made him thank her for the privilege. A situation like that was bound to lead to trouble. Finally Piso had yelled obstruction, thrown his hands in the air and left the province.

Meanwhile Germanicus had fallen ill. He got worse — both he himself and his friends suspecting poisoning and witchcraft — and died accusing Piso and Plancina. After his death Piso made the mistake of trying to shove his way back into power. The attempt didn't come off and he was captured by Germanicus's appointee governor and sent back for trial. Agrippina was on her way back, too, with her husband's ashes.

I remembered the next part myself. The funeral party had arrived in Rome in November. The whole city was in mourning, except, so it seemed, the Wart and his mother who carried on as normal. There'd been no state funeral and no special games; in fact, the Imperials had hardly bothered to go the length of seeing the guy buried. Curious, right? Curious enough for even their biggest supporters' noses to start twitching. Sure I'd thought Livia was guilty, with Tiberius covering for her. If it hadn't been for that business with the altar I'd still think so. Even now I wouldn't've risked a heavy bet.

We'd reached the Septizonium, which is a real bugger to get along ten hours out of the daylight twelve, and the road was jam packed up ahead. The litter slowed to a crawl, and five minutes later we came to a dead stop. Litters aren't really my bag. They're de rigueur when you go visiting and want to arrive with a clean mantle, but generally I can do without them. I had the lads set me down and went the rest of the way on foot. It'd been a long hard winter and a cold spring, but the weather had broken at last and the slopes of the Palatine were beginning to look interesting again. Good walking weather, in other words, if you don't mind the disapproving stares of the fat guys with beefsteak faces who pass you in litters of their own.

So. Piso and Plancina got back just after the Spring Festival to find themselves charged with murder and treason. Not by the Wart: Tiberius was careful to stay neutral. The trial was held privately in the Senate House, with the mob baying for blood at the doors: like I say, Germanicus was everyone's hero and they wanted his murderer's head. They got it. When they couldn't make the poisoning charge stick, Germanicus's pals went all out for a conviction for treason based on Piso's armed revolt after the Caesar's death, which would come to the same thing. As a result, Plancina slipped through the net, but Piso was caught. The bastard suicided before the verdict came in. Case closed.

Only it wasn't, seemingly. Not unofficially, not any more. These might be the facts, but even as facts they stank like fish sauce in a heatwave. Whether Piso was guilty or not, whether the Imperials were involved or not, Germanicus had been murdered. It wasn't just the rumours. Livia had said so, and as an expert on murder they don't come better than the empress. So who had done it, and why?