David Wishart: Germanicus

So there I was, joy of joys unlooked for, back at the palace for another private talk with the empress. Hermes, the messenger-ape who led me through the maze of corridors to her office, hadn't changed in the eighteen months since I'd seen him last; not even his underwear, judging by the mouldy cheese smell that drifted back and up my nostrils. I didn't make any smartass comments, mind; there're some things even I won't risk, and sassing palace slaves is one of them. Besides, you don't cross gorillas. Not when they can lead you up dark dead ends where they can work their evil will in peace and shove your head where you won't find it until the next census.

The secretary in the lemon tunic behind the desk hadn't changed either. He gave me a look like I'd stepped in dog puke somewhere along the way and the fact was still painfully obvious, then carried on tidying his already immaculate nails with a slip of pumice, waiting for an introduction.

The gorilla spoke. 'Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus, to see Her Excellency the Empress.'

Amazing what you can teach these things, with patience and a bit of fruit. The secretary never batted an elegant eyelash. He consulted his appointments list and made a firm tick.

'You're late, Corvinus,' he said.

'Yeah, well, I — '

'Never mind. We're here now, and that's all that matters, isn't it?' He stood up with a flash of insincere teeth and a whiff of hair oil. 'Her Excellency will see you immediately. That's all, Hermes.'

The ape nodded and loped off without a backward glance. Feeding time at the canteen, no doubt.

'This way, sir.' The secretary knocked gently on the double doors, pushed them open and stepped aside.

I recognised the smell at once. Camphor. It brought me out in a sweat. After the last time I'd been in this room I'd sworn never to let Bathyllus buy another mothball again. Old age, old crimes. Livia.

She was sitting behind her desk, as if she'd never moved. The same lifeless cosmetic mask, the same dead eyes. I wiped my sweaty hands on my mantle.

'Come in, Corvinus,' she said. 'How nice to see you again. Do have a seat.'

I pulled up the ancient Egyptian chair. That was familiar, too.

'Your Excellency,' I said.

Her dead eyes focused behind my left shoulder.

'Make absolutely sure that we're not disturbed, Phormio,' she said.

'Yes, Excellency,' the secretary murmured. I heard the doors close with a solid thunk and tried not to think of tombs. Shit. She might at least have told the guy to bring us some wine. I could've murdered a cup of Setinian.

The eyes swung back to me.

'And how is the lovely Rufia Perilla?' The mask cracked and I realised that Livia was smiling. Or trying to. 'Well, I hope?'

'She's okay. Excellency.'

'No problems with the divorce or the wedding?'

'No.' My palms were sweating again. I wiped them surreptitiously.

'That's good. I'm glad I was able to help there. Her ex-husband Suillius Rufus really was quite unsuitable. He's still serving in Syria, as I understand.'

'Yeah. He commands the Third Gallic.' I crossed my legs, leaned back and tried to look calm. The chair creaked dangerously.

'He wasn't too upset, then? About losing his wife?'

'I wouldn't know, Excellency.' Like hell I didn't. Rufus, by all accounts, had been fit to be tied when he got the news that Perilla was divorcing him and marrying me. Getting his Eagle had been no compensation. I swallowed and wiped my palms a third time. At that precise moment given the choice between a fist-fight with an arena leopard and swapping social chit-chat with Livia I'd've gladly picked the cat, no contest. 'Uh, I'm sorry, but might I ask why you sent for me? Please?'

She held up a hand. 'Corvinus, you really must have patience. It's a most valuable virtue and one well worth cultivating.' Not from where I'm sitting, lady, I thought. The sooner I was out of here and on the lee side of a wine jug getting quietly smashed the better. 'I promise you we'll come round to my reasons in due course. Meanwhile let me assure you that I bear you no ill will with regard to our past meeting. None at all. Quite the reverse, in fact.'

Oh, sure! The last time I'd sat in this chair Livia had made it clear she'd dance on my grave wearing her best clogs, and I doubted that she'd sweetened up any since. I trusted her just as much as I would a snake with a migraine.

'The Third Gallic, you say.' Her eyes were on the desk, and she was toying with the writing-tablet in front of her. 'They're based in Antioch, are they not?'

'Yeah. Yeah, that's right. So far as I know.' I cleared my throat.

'Then that would make sense. Rufus was a protégé of my grandson Germanicus, of course. No doubt the appointment was made before he died.' Her eyes came up and looked directly into mine, and I felt my balls freeze. 'So unfortunate, my grandson's death, was it not? Such a loss to Rome. And to our family.'

The silence lengthened. Jupiter Best and Greatest! I still didn't know what the empress wanted from me, but I did know I wanted nothing to do with it. There was complicity in those eyes, and knowing what I did about Livia and her involvement with past 'unfortunate' deaths the last thing I needed was a shared secret. And of course there'd been the rumours. She'd know about these. Sure she would.

'If you think so, Excellency,' I said at last.

Livia laughed suddenly. The sound was like an ungreased gate swinging.

'Oh, Corvinus, I like you,' she said. 'I like you very much. You're so terribly transparent.'

'Uh, yeah.' I was sweating worse than ever. Baiae must be nice this time of year. Or maybe somewhere further off. Like Alexandria. 'Yeah, well…'

The empress stood up and groped for her stick. I'd forgotten how old she was. And how tiny. Seated, I was almost her standing height.

'I know exactly what you're thinking,' she said. 'You think I arranged Germanicus's death myself.'

I gaped. She'd hit it smack on the button, of course. Sure I thought that, along with half of Rome; but I wasn't going to admit it, not to her face, despite the candid invitation. Not with less than a five hundred mile start on a racing yacht and a Parthian passport in my fist. Instead I said nothing, which was an answer in itself. I must've looked shifty as hell, and I knew it.

She was still smiling at me. I've seen cats at the Games smile like that just before they overtake their lunch.

'You see?' she said. 'Transparent as glass. Of course that's what you think. I could argue the case myself. First of all, Germanicus was married to Agrippina who is a Julian and whom, as you know, I cannot stand. Their children, although part Claudian, naturally carry the Julian blood. Secondly, Germanicus was poisoned; and again as you know I'm no stranger to poisons. Thirdly, his death is popularly attributed to the Syrian governor Calpurnius Piso and his wife Plancina, and Plancina is one of my oldest and closest friends. I thus have motive, means and — through Plancina — opportunity. I am therefore guilty. A simple solution. QED.'

'Lady, please! I really don't…' I swallowed and clammed up: I was sweating buckets now. What the hell did the woman want from me? Blood? Sympathy? A round of applause?

Her smile faded.

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I'm teasing you, and I really shouldn't do that, especially since I want to ask a favour. Forgive me. Now watch what happens next and listen very carefully, because I don't want you leaving here with the feeling that I've somehow cheated.' Leaning on her stick she hobbled over to the portable altar in the corner of the room and laid her hand on the top. 'Are you ready?'

Ready for what? 'Ah, yeah. Yeah, go ahead.'

'I swear,' she said slowly, 'by all the gods above and below, by my hope of escaping torment in the next world for the murders I have committed in this and by my hope for my own eventual deification, that I was neither directly nor indirectly responsible for the death of my grandson Germanicus Caesar.' I was staring at her. She took her hand away. 'There. Close your mouth, now, you look ridiculous. Does that satisfy you, or would you like to dictate the words yourself?'