David Wishart - In at the Death

I slipped out of bed, got dressed, then went downstairs and through the peristyle into the garden. Placida was tied to one of the pillars, flat out as well and snoring. I sneaked past, carried on to the shed at the bottom and knocked.

‘Yes?’

Great; he was in. I opened the door.

Okay, we were rolling. Dogless for sure this time. Let’s hear it for subterfuge.

While I was eating breakfast I thought about the day ahead. I’d have to revisit the Aventine tenement, for a start, talk to the tenants, because if Papinius had been murdered there was an outside chance that whoever did it had been spotted. Not much of one, because tenements are usually empty in daylight hours, but a chance nonetheless. Of course, our murderer could’ve been the factor, Caepio. Take Papinius up to the top floor on some pretext or other, knock him senseless while his back’s turned, push him out the window and the job’s done. As far as motive was concerned — well, turn the bribery business around, have Papinius discover that Caepio was fiddling the damage claims and threaten to report it, and you’d be talking a valid scenario, especially if the order to kill him came from someone who really had a vested interest. Someone like Caepio’s boss, the tenement owner. Carsidius was another possibility I’d have to look into.

So pencil the tenement into the day’s programme. It’d mean an after-sunset visit, but I could cut a deal with Meton re missing dinner and have lunch in a cookshop somewhere instead.

Second was the Apollo Library on the Palatine, to see if they could give me an address for Lucia Albucilla. Papinius taking up with her could be sheer coincidence, sure, but it was worth checking. Albucilla was a friend of Soranus’s, after all, and if that bastard wasn’t involved somewhere along the line I’d eat my sandals.

Third…

Third was Papinius’s father, the consular. It wasn’t all that likely, given their relationship, or lack of one, that he’d paid the kid’s debt for him, but -

‘Everything all right, sir?’

‘Hmm?’ I looked up. ‘Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Bathyllus.Oh, by the way. Papinius Allenius. Any idea where he lives?’

‘On the Pincian, sir. But the senate’s in session today. If you wanted to talk to him you might catch him after the meeting.’

Good thinking. And if I was going over to the Palatine in any case Market Square wouldn’t be much out of my way. Things were shaping up nicely. There was only one potential glitch. ‘Uh, how’s Meton this morning?’ I said.

‘Still not quite himself, I’m afraid.’

Bad news; bad, bad news. Well, it couldn’t be helped. If I missed dinner without giving him prior warning we’d be eating turnip for the next month. Not a thing you’d like to risk. ‘Ask him if he’d care to have a word, would you?’ I said.

‘You want to talk to him in person, sir? Meton?’ Bathyllus doesn’t blanch easy, but he came pretty close. The Elder Cato might’ve looked the same way if someone had suggested inviting Hannibal and the Carthaginian senate round for drinks and nibbles.

‘Yeah. Yeah, that was the general idea.’

‘Now?’

‘As ever is.’

He swallowed. ‘Very well. If you’re sure.’

‘Just do it, Bathyllus.’

‘Yes, sir.’ He exited.

The breakfast wine was well watered. Even so, I swallowed two full cups of it while I was waiting. When you’re interviewing Meton, total sobriety is a complete bummer.

‘What is it, Corvinus? Only I’ve got stock on the boil and it wants skimming.’

I looked up. Hell. Being belted in the eye with a tunny by an enraged fishmonger hadn’t improved the guy’s physiognomy any. ‘Meton!’ I said. ‘How’s it going, pal?’ He didn’t answer, just glared at me with one good eye and the other looking like it’d collided with a paintbox. Fuck. ‘I was wondering about the menu for tonight. You got anything special planned?’

‘Hare stuffed with liver and sausage. Flavoured with oregano and cumin.’

‘Great. Great. That sounds marvellous. The sort of thing that you could, er, easily reheat, right?’

He gave me a look. ‘Baleful’ comes to mind: Meton has bale by the bucket-load, even without a black eye. ‘You kidding?’ he said. ‘No one reheats hare with liver and sausage!’

‘Is that so, now?’ No answer. Not that I expected one, of course: it’d been the equivalent of saying ‘Pardon?’ to the Delphic Pythoness. ‘It’s, ah, just that I’d kind of planned to give dinner the go-by tonight. As such. In effect, as it were.’

Meton scowled. ‘You’re eating out?’ He made it sound like I was intending to screw a sheep coram populo on the Speakers’ Platform.

‘No. No! But…’

He was flexing his fingers, the way he did when he got agitated. Hell. ‘Listen, Corvinus. Ariston, down the game market, you know how often he gets a really good hare? We’re talking quality free-range here, none of your hutch-bred tat. Same goes for the liver. Prime milk-fed calf’s, marinated for two days in wine must. And I made the sausage myself. Old Patavinian recipe, beats Lucanian into a cocked hat. With the hare and liver, it’ll be a dream. And you are asking me to fucking reheat? ’

He hawked and spat on the tiles.

Gods! This could get nasty. ‘Meton, pal,’ I said. ‘Look. Let’s be reasonable about this, okay? It’s no big thing. All I’m trying to tell you is that I’ve got to go down to the Aventine tonight. Unavoidable business. So I’ll miss dinner.’ I paused for this to register. Nothing; not a flicker. I might as well’ve been talking Babylonian. Ah, well; press on. ‘There’s, uh, there’s this thing called a compromise. It means that if you — ’

‘The Aventine? You’re going over to the Aventine?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay. Cardoons.’

I blinked. ‘What?’

‘Cardoons.’

‘What’s “cardoons”? Some sort of recherche swear-word?’

‘What’s “recherche”?’

We stared at each other. Impasse. Or whatever. I cracked first. ‘Ah… recherche means that I don’t know what “cardoons” means.’

Pause. Then: ‘It’s, like, your compromise.’

He’d lost me. Not that that was difficult in Meton’s case, mind. His way of thinking wasn’t just lateral, Archimedes could’ve used it for lifting water. ‘Uh…“cardoons” means “compromise”?’ I said. ‘Like “pax” or “feins” or “barleys” or whatever the hell kids say when they want time out in a game?’

‘Nah. A cardoon is a kind of fucking artichoke. Everyone knows that.’

‘But artichokes don’t — ’ I stopped. Bugger; I was losing the plot completely here. Start again. ‘Meton. Pal. Hold it there, okay? Just pretend I’m stupid, right? For purposes of argument.’

He grinned, revealing a set of teeth like the tombs on the Appian Road. ‘Easy. Done it.’

‘Great. Now, could you maybe just extrapolate a little?’ Then, when the scowl came back: ‘Explain, sort of?’

‘If you’re going to the Aventine you’ll pass the vegetable market.’

‘Uh…yeah. Yeah, I suppose so. If I went out of my way a bit.’ Like straight past it and right down all the way to the Tiber. Hell!

‘There’s a stall there, south-west corner. Belongs to a woman called Flavilla Nepia. She sells the best cardoons in Rome.’

Click. Finally. ‘Got it,’ I said.

‘Buy the small ones, okay? As many as you can get. The big ones can be stringy.’

‘And that’s your compromise? A bag of this Flavilla Nepia’s cardoons?’

‘Yeah. I’d go over there myself, but I’m pretty busy at the moment so you can do it for me.’

‘Right.You’ve got a deal. Now — ’

‘You soak them in water and vinegar before you cook them, you know. Otherwise they go dark.’