David Wishart - Illegally Dead

‘You remember his wife? His first wife?’

‘Nah, I never met her, can’t even remember the name, and the family wasn’t from around here. Father was in the perfume trade in a small way down in Capua. She didn’t keep well, died having their first.’

‘He was fond of her?’

Veturinus shrugged. ‘She was his wife, that’s all I know, sir, and like I said I never met the girl. I never heard nothing to the contrary, certainly.’

‘How about the second wife? Seia Lucinda?’

‘Oh, now.’ He chuckled. ‘She was a different kettle of fish altogether. Big family around here, the Seii. Poultry breeders, supply most of the local butchers and send out as far as Rome. She was a catch, right enough, although word at the time was she’d done the chasing. A wild girl, young Seia was. They made a proper pair, those two.’

Yeah, that checked with what Gabba had told me. Interesting. ‘Did — ?’

— but that was as far as I got before the door opened and we got the Invasion of the Slaughterers, Part Two. Things got rapidly hectic, and I turned back with a sigh to my wine and sausage. Ah, well; I couldn’t complain, certainly not. I’d got a name for the dead woman, cast-iron proof that Acceius had known her, and possibly — possibly — the scent of a reason why he’d want her dead and burned. There were still some googlies in there, though, by the gods there were, especially with old Veturinus’s description of the younger Acceius. Even if the guy was a liar to his boots — which he was — and guilty of something — which he also was — a lot of that just didn’t square. We’d just have to see what the chat with Publius Novius produced.

I spent a leisurely half hour finishing off the wine and sausage and pushed the cup and plate across the counter. Veturinus Junior looked up from his conversation with one of the slaughterers.

‘You want a refill, sir?’ he said.

‘No, that’ll do me for the present, pal.’ I stood up. ‘You have a latrine I can use?’

‘Out the front door and round the side to the back. Thanks for your custom, Valerius Corvinus. Give our regards to my sister when you see her.’

‘I’ll do that.’ I left.

The latrine was a lean-to affair on the far side of a small yard full of the sort of junk you get in nine back yards out of ten; stuff that’s either waiting to be thrown out properly and never will be or that someone thought might come in handy at some future date but wouldn’t get round to using until the Greek kalends: empty wine jars, the remains of a cart that looked like it’d sat there providing a home for beetles and wood-lice for the past thirty years, a bedstead frame that was more rust than honest iron and a pile of nameless rubbish forming the remains of a half-hearted bonfire. The latrine itself, though, was relatively up-market, with cement flooring, a hole-in-the-floor toilet and a urinal slab with the guttering leading into a collecting bucket. I used the slab, adjusted my tunic and turned round…

‘Hey, Roman.’

There were two of them, big guys, filling the space between the dead cart and the wall of the yard, blocking the entrance to the alleyway that connected it with the street. The one on the left was red-headed, and although I couldn’t quite place him he looked vaguely familiar. On the other hand, I’d no problem recognising the two as a pair because I’d seen them both earlier that morning, propping up the wall outside the draper’s near Mundus’s house waiting for someone who obviously hadn’t been their mistress to come out. Mind you, on that occasion they hadn’t been swinging blackjacks and looking like they were just dying to try them out on me. Little details like that tend to fix your attention.

Bugger; so much for premature senility clouding the judgment. When the hairs on the back of my neck had prickled, I should’ve listened.

The guy on the left took a step forward. ‘Broken arms or broken ribs, friend?’ he said. ‘Which is it to be? Your choice.’

Something clicked in my brain. Finally. ‘You’re one of the slaves from the Hostilius place,’ I said. ‘I saw you when I was over there last, three days ago. Who sent you? Castor or the widow?’

‘Oh, now, then.’ He paused, glanced at his pal, then back to me. ‘Okay, so maybe you don’t have a choice after all.’

Slowly, deliberately, he tucked the blackjack into the belt of his tunic, reached behind his back, drew out a knife and grinned.

Oh, shit. Nice one, Corvinus. I looked around for a weapon. Zilch. Whatever junk the Veturini, senior and junior, had thrown out over the past thirty years or so hadn’t included lengths of two-by-four or useful sections of lead piping. Or not within grabbing distance, anyway. Of course, there was the collecting bucket…

They were moving as I turned, but I got a grip on the thing and swung it just as Blackjack was closing in on my right side. Stale urine might not figure all that prominently in the military manual as an offensive weapon — not offensive in the army sense of the word, anyway — but a gallon of it in the face at point-blank range ain’t something you can ignore, and Blackjack reeled back spluttering and cursing. The wooden bucket itself caught Red-head on the shoulder: not enough to do any real damage, but it threw him off-line. I moved in and made a grab for his wrist, driving my own shoulder into his chest.

He ducked under my left armpit and shoved hard. My heels met the concrete ledge of the latrine floor and I went arse over tip backwards, pinning the guy’s head between the inside of my elbow and my chest, my right hand pushing down against his neck, forcing it lower. There was a dull thud as his skull hit the floor. He grunted and went limp.

One down and out, or hopefully so, anyway. I rolled sideways, letting go and trying to ignore the stab of pain as my elbow met the concrete; just as Blackjack came at me for a second shot. There was a flash of metal in his right hand: another knife. Fuck; we weren’t out of the woods yet, not by a long way. I lashed out desperately with my foot, felt it connect against his shin and saw him stagger. Good, but not good enough; and I was still on my back.

The bucket was where I’d dropped it, just within reach. I grabbed it and swung it round, bottom up, as the knife came down straight for my chest. There was a thunk! as the point bit deep into the wood. I held the bucket steady for a split second, then heaved upwards and to the side, wrenching the knife from his hand, and tossed the whole boiling away from us as hard as I could. Blackjack swore and grabbed at my throat, thumbs pressing against my windpipe. I brought my knee up into his groin, and he gasped; his grip relaxed and I rolled again, forcing myself out from under him into clear space, scrabbling onto my hands and knees, then to my feet.

I was just in time. I’d scarcely got upright before he hit me again with a roundhouse punch that caught my shoulder, knocking me sideways. I managed a straight left that rattled his teeth but didn’t stop him, and he came at me with both fists swinging…

‘Hey!’

He turned his head; not by much, but the break in concentration was enough. I planted another left, then swung a punch of my own that met square with the side of his jaw and sent him sprawling against the latrine wall.

‘What the hell’s happening here?’

One of the slaughterhouse lads, latrine-bound himself; no quick thinker, obviously, because he was just standing at the exit to the yard like a bovine third actor in a play, but it was enough for Blackjack. The guy staggered to his feet, broke into a stumbling run, pushed him out of the way and hared off down the alley fast as a professional sprinter.

I moved over to the nearest wall and leaned against it, gasping my lungs out.