David Wishart: Germanicus

I turned up Poplicolan Street, heading for my own gate. There was a flower seller on the corner and I bought a bunch of late narcissi for Perilla. Call it a prospective peace offering. A sweet girl, Perilla, but the news that Livia wanted me for a sunbeam was going to go down with her like a slug in a salad. I wished I'd thought of a quick trip to the Argiletum for the latest tome on speculative philosophy, but that would've really made her suspicious. Besides, she'd've read it in bed. Out loud. In preference to anything else.

Crumbs in the mattress I can take. Speculative philosophy at bedtime is a complete bummer.

My head slave Bathyllus had the door open for me before I knocked. He always did, Jupiter knew how; the little bastard could've cleaned up in the prediction business without even breaking sweat. He also had a flask of Setinian and a wine cup waiting in the lobby, as per standing orders. This time the wine was practically neat, because Bathyllus had known where I was going that morning. I hadn't told Perilla, though. She'd only have worried.

'You have a visitor, sir,' he murmured.

'Hmm?' I let the nectar slip past my tonsils and sing its way down towards my sandal straps. Not just neat Setinian, this, but the Special, the strongest I'd got. Bathyllus's prognosticative faculties were shit hot that day. 'What visitor?'

'Your uncle the consul Marcus Valerius Cotta Maximus Messallinus, sir.' He rolled the five names off his tongue. That explained the perfect butler act: Bathyllus was the biggest snob in Rome. 'He's with the Lady Perilla. In the atrium.'

I grinned. 'You lock the spoons up, little guy?'

Bathyllus didn't answer, of course. He just sniffed as he took my mantle and folded it neatly. Sniffing's about all he allows himself to express his disapproval. Mind you, a sniff from Bathyllus hits most people like a clout from a knuckleduster. Not me, I'm immune. And he doesn't even try with Perilla.

I took my flowers, empty cup and wine jug through the hall. Perilla was sitting by the pool. Even in her plain white mantle she looked sexy as hell. Forget the spoons. Anyone with my uncle's tastes and experience wouldn't've given them a second thought. Maybe I should've got back earlier.

'Hi, lady.' I gave her the bunch of narcissi and planted a smacker on top of her smile. 'Uncle Cotta.'

'You carrying that jug around for show, boy, or can anyone join in?' Cotta held up an empty wine cup of his own.

I poured. Perilla was looking at the flowers. Hard.

'Corvinus,' she said. 'What are these, exactly?'

'Uh, they're called flowers. They grow in parks and gardens, you know?' I poured myself another whopper of the Special and drank it down. 'Big open spaces with earth and walls round them. They're a present.'

'Why?'

Gods. I looked at Uncle Cotta. The bastard was grinning like a drain. Perilla wasn't.

'Marcus, dear,' she said, 'I can count the number of times you've brought me flowers on the fingers of one hand. Jewellery, yes. Books, yes. But not flowers. You don't think of them unless you're feeling especially guilty or want something out of the ordinary. So tell me why the flowers, please. Now.'

There was no escape. I sent Uncle Cotta out to look at the garden and told her. Not everything. Just where I'd been. And that I was glad as hell to get back.

'But why didn't you say? Before you went, I mean?' Perilla blew her nose while I tried to get the mascara stains off the front of my best tunic. Bathyllus would have a fit when he saw them. 'Livia could've done anything to you.'

'At her age? Come on, lady!'

'Don't joke.' Another sniffle, but this time cut short: Perilla's got her own pride. 'What did she want?'

So I told her that as well. All of it. I reckoned I was safe enough now to let her have the whole nasty truth.

'Why you? If she really wants to find out who was responsible for her grandson's death there are dozens of better ways to go about it.'

'Hey thanks.' I sat down and poured myself a third cup of the Special. 'Confidence in my powers of deduction always was one of your strong points, lady.'

She kissed me. 'You know perfectly well that's not what I meant.'

I grinned. 'Yeah, sure. So maybe I've got more going for me than you think. Or maybe the old girl's finally hocked her marbles.'

'But you agreed?'

'Of course I agreed. You don't say no to the empress. Not when she's in that mood. Not when she's in any mood.'

Perilla sat down. 'Very well,' she said at last. 'It can't be helped, I suppose. Where do we start?'

I stared at her. '"We"? There's no "we", Perilla. Livia gave me the job. She didn't mention sharing it with sassy divorcees with a down on flowers. Besides, things could get difficult.'

'That's nonsense.'

'Believe it!'

'All right, Corvinus, if you say so.' Her brow creased. 'But if you're going to be brought back on a board one night with your throat cut or sent off to exile in Spain then I'd like to know the reason. Now don't argue, please. We'll discuss it later if we must.'

At that point Cotta came sidling back thirsting for wine and I had to leave it and play the genial host.

Livia, yeah. I can understand what makes her tick, or I can begin to, anyway. But not Perilla. Her I'll never understand. Not if I live to be ninety.

Having Cotta round at that moment was a plus, which didn't happen all that often because likeable though the guy was (at least I liked him) nine times out of ten he'd get the vote for the Most Dispensable Member of the Group. This was the tenth time. Cotta scored because as consul he'd been one of the presiding officers at the Piso trial, which like I said was held behind closed doors. The drawback was that smart though the guy might be in his way he couldn't put two and two together without using an abacus, and all we'd get from him was the authorised version; which on reflection might not be a bad thing because Cotta was also a blabbermouth and with Germanicus's death officially written off as natural and the case closed the Wart wouldn't take kindly if word got around that Corvinus was ripping the scabs off.

Prising information out of a witness without letting on why you're interested is an art calling for delicacy, finesse and a good sense of timing. Or alternatively, in Cotta's case, a good dinner and two flasks of Falernian. Luckily Meton the chef had done us proud: calf's brain and almond sausage, wild duck braised with dates, puréed greens in a lovage-savoury sauce and a honey and pine kernel omelette to finish. By the time we'd reached the nuts the guy was purring. It wasn't too hard to introduce the subject either. Piso had been dead less than a month, and the Senate were still feeling their oats. It isn't every day you get to preside over a case of high treason, and Cotta had loved every minute of it.

'They murdered him, all right,' he said. 'They were guilty as hell, the pair of them.'

'Is that right?' I signalled to Bathyllus to pour more wine. 'Tell us.'

'Okay.' Cotta settled back. 'Take motive. Syria's the plum imperial province, top of the tree, and the Syrian governor's practically vice-regent of the whole eastern sector. If you're into power you can't go much higher unless your last name's Caesar. And it's a good place for making money.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah.' He held up his cup and watched Bathyllus pour in the Falernian. 'It needs to be. The Syrian governorship's the end of the line. After that you're out to grass and all you have to look forward to is having your arse licked in the Senate. Any governor who doesn't use Syria to put aside for his old age needs his head examined. Piso was no fool. He was salting it away like there was no tomorrow.'

'He'd already been accused of peculation in Spain, hadn't he?' That was Perilla. She was doing her Roman matron act, sitting in a chair with her eyes demurely cast down.