David Wishart - Germanicus

'Ah, yes.' Regulus was looking a lot less sweaty now. He almost smiled. Somewhere, somehow, I'd missed something. 'You mean the one addressed to the emperor. The suicide note. He — Tiberius, that is — read it out in court the next day.'

'Cotta didn't mention that.'

'Valerius Cotta was against my client from the first, Corvinus.' So the bastard did know who I was! I promised myself a quiet word with Crispus down some dark alleyway before we were much older. 'It's unlikely that he would mention it, I'm afraid. The letter revealed a more — ah — sympathetic side to the man's character than the consul would perhaps like to admit existed.'

'So what did this note say?'

'It was a protestation of innocence.' Regulus gave a deprecating smile; my fist itched to smash his even, pearly teeth in. 'Not that personally I believe that its contents were true in every detail, but by that stage it made no odds because Piso was already dead.'

'I thought you were defending the guy, friend.'

Regulus shrugged. 'Someone had to. I did the best I could. My personal feelings didn't come in to the matter.'

'Yeah. Sure.'

'Wait a moment.' He opened a drawer in the desk and took out a sheet of paper. 'I made a record of the text. Not an exact version, of course, since the letter was sealed and addressed to the emperor. But as I say Tiberius read it out and I noted down the gist.'

Hey! 'Oh how frightfully efficient of you.'

He smiled again, and handed the paper over eagerly. I scanned it. Gist or not, eagerness or not, it read real:

'My enemies' plots and the hatred aroused by a false accusation have destroyed me. Since there is no help in my own honesty and innocence, I call on the gods to witness, Caesar, that I have always been faithful to you and your mother, and I beg you both to protect my children. The younger has been in Rome all this time, and has not shared in my actions, whatever they may have been. The elder, Marcus, begged me not to go back to Syria, and I wish now that I had taken his advice, not he mine. I pray therefore even more earnestly that he, being innocent, should not pay the penalty for a crime that is my own. By my forty-five years of faithful service, by our shared consulship, I, whom once your father the Divine Augustus once trusted and whose friend you yourself once were, beg you, Caesar — as the last favour I will ever ask — to spare my unfortunate son.'

Tear jerking stuff, right? Well written though, even if it did sound stiff as hell.

'Can I keep this?' I asked.

'If you like. It isn't the only copy.'

I tucked it into a fold in my mantle. Something didn't add up. Uncle Cotta had said the letter might not exist at all. Now this smarmy bastard was handing me a notarised copy and telling me the Wart had read it out to the entire Senate. Including the consuls. Who included Uncle Cotta. An omission was one thing. Total misrepresentation of the facts was another. Cotta might've been against Piso, but he was no liar and he'd had no reason to lie. So what was going on?

'This was passed on to you by Carus?' I asked.

'Who?' Regulus looked puzzled.

'Piso's freedman.'

'Oh, you mean Carillus? Yes. Yes, that's right.'

'You know where I can find him?'

'No. No, I'm afraid I can't help you there.' The smile had gone glassy. I'd touched a nerve, obviously, but what nerve? And how and why? 'I don't think Carillus is in Rome any longer.'

'Yeah? So where is he?'

'I really can't say.' Regulus was on his feet now and moving towards the door. 'Well, Valerius Corvinus, it has been a real pleasure talking with you but I have a considerable amount of work to get through today and I must be getting on with it. Please feel free to…ah…I mean, if you have any more questions don't hesitate to…'

Etcetera. Mumble mumble. I didn't listen to the rest because I recognised the bum's rush when I heard it, but I'd got all I wanted from him for the moment. Not all he could give, I knew, but Regulus wasn't going anywhere and I didn't want to raise any more dust than I had to. He'd been co-operative enough, suspiciously so, in fact. Nevertheless…

'So you know Caelius Crispus?' I said.

Regulus's hand, with its polished and neatly manicured fingernails, had been resting on my arm. Now he pulled it away like he'd been stung.

'We know each other, yes,' he said.

'Colleagues?'

The barest hesitation. Crispus may've known his way about the Treasury, but he wasn't an employee. Dirt and scandal, those were Crispus's business. His connections with the Treasury officials, or one especially pretty near the top, were more personal. Much more personal.

'No. Not colleagues. Just friends.'

'Yeah.' I grinned at him. 'Yeah. That makes sense. Give him my regards next time he drops by, will you? Thanks a lot, Regulus. I'll see you around.'

And on that cheap note I left.

After leaving Regulus I cut right across town to the Racetrack district and Scylax's gym. Not that I wanted a workout: I was getting enough exercise that morning without that dwarfish sadistic bastard beating the hell out of me as well. What I needed was information.

Scylax has lived in Rome most of his life. What he did before, where he came from, what his real name is — Scylax is only a nickname — Jupiter knows, though I doubt if even he'd've had the guts to ask straight out. He started as a gladiator trainer before going freelance, and taking him on as a client five or six years back and buying him his own place had been the best investment I'd ever made. Not just financially. The guy was a genius in teaching the kind of fighting that'd have you blackballed on any self-respecting training ground in Rome but made sure you walked out of an alley fight with all your appurtenances still attached. He also had a net of contacts among the city's underlife that would make the Imperial Secret Service hand in their cloaks and daggers and take up embroidery. That sort of return you don't get with trading.

When I reached the gym Scylax's slave and right hand freak Daphnis was shifting the sand around the exercise yard with a rake: his normal occupation, except on slow days when you had to be watching closely to see the bugger move at all.

'Hey, Daphnis! The boss in?' I gave him the big smile. It's just as well to keep in with the staff, and the big Spaniard was no bonehead, whatever front he put on.

'Yeah.' The rake paused, not that you'd've noticed, and Daphnis shifted his head towards the bath buildings. 'He's got a guy on the table, though. Help yourself, Corvinus.'

I nodded and picked my way between the wannabe bladesmen. The gym was getting popular. Even at this time, when most self-respecting Romans were out at work, there were three or four pairs slogging away with wooden foils. And I could hear the screams from the massage room up ahead already.

Scylax had the lucky punter face down and was rearranging the muscles of his back according to some arcane principle of his own. The guy's neck was the colour of raw liver and from the noise he was making he wasn't exactly enjoying the experience.

Scylax looked up, saw me and grunted. 'Hey. Be with you in a minute, Corvinus.'

'No hurry.' I sat down on the bench next the door and watched while the little bald-head prised two plates of muscle apart and inserted a knuckle. The punter's feet drummed the table and he chewed on the towel Scylax had thoughtfully provided. The knuckle slowly worked its way in and down and I found my balls contracting in sympathy. Scylax might be the best masseur in Rome, but he was also an evil minded bastard who liked his job far more than was decent. Finally, when he'd rearranged the guy's anatomy to his own satisfaction and rubbed the oil in, he let him up.

'That's all, sir,' he said. Polite as hell.