David Wishart: Germanicus

'Like yourself, I suppose, Valerius Cotta,' she said sweetly. 'You didn't have to run for consul, did you?'

I knew that tone. It meant that whoever she was talking to had about ten seconds to find a deep hole somewhere, pile the dirt on top of them and stay put till spring. It didn't faze Cotta, though. Maybe the guy was going deaf in his old age. Or maybe he was just drunk and didn't care. No prizes for guessing which.

'No. I didn't have to run for consul.' He beamed at her. 'But then rank has its rewards, my dear. You'd be amazed how many prim and proper matrons want to be screwed by one of Rome's serving senior magistrates. To coin a phrase. Isn't that right, Marcus?'

I had to laugh. Even if I knew, from the expression on Perilla's face, that I'd pay for it later. Uncle Cotta may've been no great shakes as a politician or a criminologist, but he could certainly handle himself. Even against Perilla.

We finished the flask cup for cup, while Perilla looked on in resigned disapproval. Ah, well. I had an excuse, apart from the simple fact that the wine deserved it. Starting from tomorrow, whether I liked it or not, I'd be up to my eyes in the political trash-heap again. And that wasn't a thought I wanted to face sober.

My Falernian is pretty smooth stuff, mind, unlike the Special that after a few cups will suddenly sneak up from behind and give you a belt like a blackjack. Besides, I was a good half flask shy of Cotta, which didn't happen all that often. The result was that when we finally got rid of the guy long after the lamps were lit I was still this side of capable, while Rome's current consul was pissed as a newt and repeating every second word. Backwards.

We left Bathyllus and his minions clearing away. Perilla offered me her shoulder to lean on with a disapproving little sniff. I played along as far as the bedroom door. Then I stopped pretending and grabbed her in earnest.

'Corvinus, don't swallow my earring, please,' she said. 'You'll give yourself indigestion.'

'Mmm.' I pushed the door open with my foot. Why the hell did I have the architect build me such a big bedroom? The bed was miles away.

'Marcus, please. Give me a chance to…'

I didn't. It's more fun that way. Perilla enjoys it too, although she'd never admit it. We made it to the bed, just. After which any matronly protests were academic and not taken seriously by either party.

'We should've had Meton lay us on a few oysters,' I said after the first time around.

'They're out of season,' Perilla said. At least that's what I think she said. The words got a bit muffled because her face was pressed to the hollow between my shoulder and throat.

'Onions, then. Or is that for wind?'

'Corvinus…'

'Mmm?'

'Just be quiet.'

So I lay there listening to the carts outside and being very grateful to have Perilla wrapped round me until she started nuzzling my earlobe again and we moved on to the main course. That took some time, luckily. With Perilla slow is definitely best.

'Marcus,' she said when we'd finished and cooled down far enough to talk.

'Yeah?'

'Could I possibly let down my hair now? I mean, if you don't mind, of course.'

I grinned down at her. 'I imagined you already had, lady.'

'Oh, ha ha.' She threw me off and slipped out of bed. I watched while she took off her earrings, pulled the pins out of her hair and let the beautiful tawny mane do what it felt like…

Hold on. Something was wrong here. No self-respecting Roman matron pulls out her own pins. Pulling pins is the maid's job.

'Hey!' I said. 'Where's Phryne?'

Phryne was the cross-eyed niece of old Harpale's that she'd taken on when we'd got married. A sort of peace offering to the dead Davus.

'I gave her the evening off.' Perilla shrugged herself out of her tunic; the mantle, of course, hadn't made it the length of the bed.

Jupiter! Legs like that shouldn't be allowed short of an original Praxiteles bronze. 'Yeah?’ I said. ‘Why?'

'No reason.'

I smiled to myself. Sure there wasn't. If Perilla would insist on keeping up this ice maiden pose even when we both knew it was phoney as a woollen toupé then it was fine with me. Without the ice and prickles she just wouldn't be the same girl.

'You tired yet? I said.'

'That depends what you have in mind.' What could've been Praxiteles's best had disappeared under a baggy linen sleeping tunic. Ah, well.

'Just a talk this time.' I patted the mattress beside me. 'Unless you've got a dozen bootleg oysters and an onion or two squirrelled away for emergencies.

She came back over and slipped under the blanket on her side of the bed. Or almost on her side.

'You want to discuss Piso and Plancina, I suppose,' she said.

A marvellous body, bagged at present though it was, and intuition as well. Who says you can't have everything?

'Yeah. You mind?'

'Of course I mind. But I'd prefer it to having you mumbling away to yourself into my back half the night.'

'Would I do that to you, lady?'

'You would. You have.' She kissed me. 'So I'd like the mumbling now, please. While I'm not trying to sleep. That way I don't miss breakfast.'

'Yeah. Well. Okay.' I sat up with my back to the headboard while she snuggled against me under the blanket. 'First thing. The laundry lady with the evil eye and the penchant for poisons.'

'Martina. You think the empress had her killed.' A statement, not a question.

'Don't you?'

'It would seem logical. Somebody certainly did. Suicides don't usually hide empty poison bottles in their hair when they've finished with them.'

'You noticed that?'

'I'm not stupid, Corvinus. Stop acting like your Uncle Cotta. Whoever tied that bottle into the woman's bun wanted to make sure people assumed she'd smuggled it in that way in the first place. In other words, that it was straight suicide. And Livia and poison are practically synonyms.'

'Livia swore she wasn't involved in Germanicus's murder.'

'Not directly involved. Do you believe her?'

I considered. 'Yeah, I believe her, though I wouldn't go to the wall over it because that old fraud's more devious than an Ostian landlord. Still, she didn't have to send for me, she didn't have to do the business with the altar, and she sure as hell didn't have to ask me to dig the dirt.'

'But the empress doesn't have to be responsible for Germanicus's death to have murdered Martina. She'd only be protecting her friend.'

'Yeah, right.' I eased my arm out from under her and rested it along the back of the headboard. 'That's something else that worried me. You think they really knew each other?'

'Plancina and the empress?' She grinned. 'Of course they did.'

'Cut it out. You know who I mean. Martina and Plancina. Cotta said they were thick as eels in a stewpot.'

'So?'

I sighed. 'Plancina was the wife of the governor. Also she was a bigger snob than our Bathyllus, which is putting her straight at the top of the tree. You think she'd trade pickle recipes with a Syrian laundress?'

'If the laundress also happened to be a professional poisoner and she needed her services, yes.'

'Okay. So Plancina invites this well-known local poisoner round to Government House for a spot of honeyed wine, introduces her to her friends and generally lets everyone know they're bosom pals. Then she takes her aside one day and says, "Oh, by the way, Martina, while you're washing the crown prince's smalls tomorrow the governor and I would like you to poison him. Only when you've done it don't say we were involved, will you? There's a dear."'

Perilla was frowning. 'Put like that it does sound fishy.'

'Damn right it sounds fishy! If Plancina were using the woman she wouldn't go within a mile of her. And I'll tell you another thing that's queer as a five legged cat and that's whatever game the Wart's playing.'