David Wishart - Illegally Dead

Hell’s teeth; yeah, I could understand it easily, and what was more Perilla had a valid point about the Ovid business. Maybe I was just getting middle-aged and crotchety. Besides, like I said, I’d a lot of time for Clarus, more time than I’d’ve had for myself at his age. He might even be a steadying influence…

Ah, well. When you’re beat, you’re beat, and with Marcia and Perilla both slugging for the opposition I didn’t have a hope in Hades anyway. All I could do was cut my losses.

‘Invitation only?’ I said.

He grinned. ‘Invitation only.’

I held out my hand and we shook. ‘In that case you’ve a deal, pal. Starting this afternoon, if and when Marcia fixes things with Libanius, and at points as and when I say thereafter. No beefing, no arguments and no comeback, especially from Penthesilea here. Agreed?’

‘Agreed.’ He gently removed the roll she’d just picked up from between Marilla’s fingers and put it back in the basket. ‘Okay, Marilla, plan B.’

‘Plan B?’ Marilla said.

‘We keep out of Corvinus’s hair pro tem. Go and fetch Corydon and we’ll ride up to Caba.’

Perilla and I watched them go off in the direction of the stables. Perilla was smiling.

‘We really will have to put our minds to a dowry,’ she said.

‘Yeah.’ I’d just been thinking that myself. I picked up a roll, tore it in two and dunked it in the honey. ‘Marcia’ll miss her when she goes, mind.’

‘Oh, I think Aunt Marcia’s thought of that already. Marilla’s always been far more hers than ours, she hasn’t any living relatives now, and this villa’s easily big enough for two households. I doubt if either Marilla or Clarus would think of moving from Castrimoenium. Besides…well, Hyperion’s had a word with me. He’s Aunt Marcia’s doctor too, remember.’ I glanced at her, but said nothing. ‘She’s eighty-four, Marcus. That’s older than anyone expects to live to. And despite appearances she isn’t well. Not well at all.’

Oh, hell. ‘Does she know?’ I said.

‘Of course she does. She isn’t a fool, and she’s never been one to settle for half-truths. It isn’t obvious yet, but it will be, soon.’

‘How long?’

‘Hyperion says six months. A year, at most, all told. So’ — she took a sip of her fruit juice — ‘we’d best get them married quickly. Aunt Marcia would like that.’

‘Yeah.’ Shit. Well, it came to us all, I supposed. And like Perilla said, the old girl had had a good innings. Still, she’d been one of life’s fixtures, and I’d miss her when she went.

‘She doesn’t mind, if that’s what you’re thinking. And she doesn’t want anyone else to, either.’ Perilla was turning the cup in her fingers. ‘Oh — Marilla doesn’t know, though. Marcia’s been very careful she shouldn’t, and she’d like to keep it that way as long as possible. So please watch what you say.’

‘Right. Right.’

‘Now.’ Perilla set the cup down. ‘That’s enough gloom and despondency for one morning. What are your plans?’

‘I thought I might go into town, drop in at Pontius’s, catch up on the local gossip. Maybe put out a few feelers in advance of meeting Libanius. That suit you, lady?’

‘Fine. I wanted to have a quiet chat with Aunt Marcia in any case, and she won’t be up and around for a few hours yet. Take your time, Marcus.’

Bathyllus reappeared with Perilla’s omelette and my cup of wine — well watered, which was fair enough since there’d be more in the offing at Pontius’s, especially if he’d got the local gang in. Like Perilla said, there was no hurry: the town was an easy half-hour’s walk away, Libanius wasn’t due until afternoon, and if Marcia wanted the time and space to soften the guy up without me breathing down her neck — which she did — then the longer I stayed away the better. Besides, the first-morning-of-the-holiday visit to Pontius’s had become a tradition at Aunt Marcia’s. Not, from what Perilla had just told me, mind, that that was going to continue much longer…

Well, there was no point in dwelling on it. Like the lady had said, eighty-four was a good age, better than I could expect to notch up, anyway, and there was no sense in grieving over something that hadn’t happened yet. I finished my honeyed roll, took the last swallow from the cup and set off towards town.

Pontius’s wineshop is in Castrimoenium’s main square. Normally on a day like this I’d’ve sat on the terrace outside and watched the world go by, or as much of the world as you get in a town where a dogfight’s an event, but there were no punters in evidence so I pushed the door open and went inside.

‘Hey, Corvinus!’ Gabba lifted his winecup. Life has few near-certainties, but one of them is that whatever time of the day you push open Pontius’s wineshop’s door chances are you’ll find Castrimoenium’s most dedicated bar-fly on the other side of it. ‘How’s the boy? Holidays again?’

‘Yeah, more or less.’ I nodded to Pontius behind the bar. ‘Can’t keep me away. How’s it going, Gabba?’

Pontius hefted a wine jar from the shelf. ‘Nice to see you back, Corvinus. The usual?’

‘Fine.’ I put the money on the counter while he poured a half jug of the local wine and set it down with a cup in front of me. Not Latium’s best, Castrimoenian, not by a long chalk, but it’s not bad stuff for everyday drinking on its home ground, and Pontius’s is as good as you’ll get anywhere.

‘More or less?’ Gabba pushed his cup over for Pontius to refill. ‘Not another murder, is it?’

‘Uh-uh.’ I poured and swallowed. ‘No murders.’

‘That chancer of a chef of yours trained any more sheep?’

‘Not that he’s mentioned.’

‘He wouldn’t, would he?’ Gabba sniggered and took a sip of his fresh cupful. ‘Not to you, pal. You bring him up here with you?’

‘Yeah, Meton’s here.’

‘Well, you tell him from me he did a good job and it’s stuck. Last winetasting you couldn’t get odds on Dassa for love nor money, and quite right too because she scooped the pot again hooves down. Even “Lucky” Maecilius was impressed, rest his bones, and that old bugger hadn’t a good word to say about sheep.’ Another sip. ‘Especially ones that’d just crapped on his boots.’

‘Maecilius is dead?’ I said. Not that I was surprised, mind, because the last and only time I’d seen him was two years ago, and he’d looked like a pickled mummy even then.

‘Sure. Hit by a lightning bolt just after the Winter Festival.’ Gabba took a proper swallow. ‘Right in the middle of a call of nature, too.’

‘Lightning in December?’

‘As ever was. From a clear blue sky, smack through the latrine roof. He had style, did old “Lucky”. One of nature’s true incompetents to the end.’

‘Left a tidy bit, too,’ Pontius said. ‘Fifty thousand, so they say. Plus the farm, and that’s worth four times as much again.’

‘Could be,’ Gabba said. ‘Could be, Pontius, boy. In the right quarter.’

I took another swig of the Castrimoenian and topped up my cup from the jug. ‘So what else has been happening?’

‘Not a lot, consul.’ Gabba emptied his own cup. ‘Just the usual. Carrinatia’s billygoat slipped his tether and ate his way through Titus Memmius’s cabbage patch. Paetinius’s youngest is pregnant again, father unknown — that’s her third. Oh, and of course there was that killing in the street ten days back, but you wouldn’t be interested in that.’

‘What?’

‘Tell a lie, it was twelve days. Or am I mixing it up with the day the wheel fell off Petrusius’s cart and killed the chicken?’

‘Gabba, you bastard —!’