David Wishart: In at the Death

Shakeshakeshake. Splattersplattersplatter.

Grin.

Oh, fuck. I stared at the thing in horror. Well, it certainly explained Bathyllus: when you’re the sort of guy who tuts over a muddy footprint in the lobby or a smudged mirror anything that can cover the furniture to a mean depth of two inches in spit and make the place smell like a barnful of incontinent goats all inside ten seconds flat is the stuff of nightmare. What amazed me was that he hadn’t gone over the wall already with his buffing rags and polish packed in a carpet-bag.

We’d have to go careful here. Tact, Corvinus, tact. I unpeeled myself from the pillar. ‘Ah…I’m not criticising, lady,’ I said. ‘Perish the thought. But if we are really stuck with the thing then wouldn’t it be better to keep it outside? In the fresh air, as it were?’ Preferably on a barge off Ostia, at the end of a fucking hawser half a mile offshore.

‘Oh, no. Calvina was most particular about that. And Placida’s not an it, Marcus, she’s a she.’ She fondled the beast’s long, drooping ears. ‘Aren’t you, precious?’

Slobberslobberslobber. Grin.

‘Uh…Perilla,’ I said. ‘Let’s just think about this a minute, shall we? Maybe — ’

Which was when Bathyllus came in with the wine-cup I’d left.

‘Ow-oo-oo-oo!’

‘Placida!’ Perilla snapped. ‘That’s enough!’

I had to admire the little bald-head’s sang-froid. Not an eyelid did he bat; in fact, the brute could’ve been invisible.

‘Your wine, sir,’ he said. ‘Lunch will be about ten minutes. Cold pork and vegetable rissoles.’

Shakeshakeshake. Splattersplattersplatter.

Fart.

Oh, hell.

Long, pregnant pause. I’d never actually seen human nostrils flare, but Bathyllus’s made a pretty good attempt, although at that point sniffing wasn’t a sensible option. He hadn’t missed the effects of the multiple spittle fallout, either. You could tell by the way he blanched.

And then it happened. Without any warning Placida ambled across to the square of smooth tiling by the corner of the pool just under our best bronze of Diana tying her hair, spread her back legs and squatted…

‘Placida! No!’ Perilla shouted, but the damage was already being done, and spreading. I glanced at Bathyllus…

There’s a bit in one of these old Greek plays where Atreus king of Mycenae invites his brother Thyestes to a banquet, serves him up a stew made from Thyestes’s chopped-up kids and then at the end of the meal has the severed heads, hands and feet brought in on a platter. The actor playing Thyestes is masked, sure, but if he wasn’t the expression on his face at that point would’ve been a dead ringer for Bathyllus’s.

‘Oh, Placida!’ Perilla said.

Grin.

A few days, eh? Life was going to be fun, fun, fun.

We escaped to the dining room while a tight-lipped Bathyllus organised clean-up operations and Placida was dragged off in ignominy.

‘It was an accident,’ Perilla said as she lay down on her couch. ‘She is housetrained really.’ She paused. ‘At least, Calvina told me she was.’

Yeah, right; I’d just bet she had. I’d never met Sestia Calvina — she was one of Perilla’s poetry set — but she was evidently a smart cookie. ‘Listen, lady,’ I said. ‘Tell someone your canine horror-on-legs is liable to piss on the Carrara and your chances of taking the deal further are zilch. You’ve been conned.’ I threw myself down on the other couch and took an irritated slug of Setinian. ‘In any case, what the hell prompted you to take the brute in at all? If Calvina was going off to Veii why couldn’t she just have left it at home with her slaves? Why pick on us?’

Perilla straightened a fold in her mantle. ‘Marcus, I told you. Placida’s a she, not an it. And she’s got a lovely nature.’

Right, and I was Queen Semiramis. Nothing that howled, spat, farted and pissed all at complete random and simultaneously could possibly be described as having a lovely nature. Also, I knew prevarication when I heard it. ‘Don’t faff,’ I said. ‘Just answer the question.’

‘She likes company.’

‘Slaves are fucking company. And handling the seamier side of the domestic grind’s their job.’

‘She needs a family atmosphere. A proper family atmosphere, not just — ’

‘Perilla, that thing creates its own atmosphere, and I don’t know about you but I found it fucking unbreathable. If we have to — ’

‘Stop swearing, dear, it isn’t necessary. She hasn’t exactly made a good first impression, I admit — ’

‘Hah!’

‘- but once she’s settled in — ’

‘Settled in?’ I put the cup down. ‘Jupiter bloody God Almighty! Just how long is Sestia Calvina planning to stay in Veii?’

‘About a month. But — ’

‘A month? You said a few days!’

‘Ah. Yes. Well, actually, it’s a month.’ She paused and tugged again at the fold in her mantle. ‘Or maybe two. Calvina was…well, to be honest she was a little vague on that point.’

I groaned. Oh, hell: smart cookie was right. If I ever got within grabbing distance I’d kill the woman with my bare hands. ‘Look. Perilla,’ I said. ‘Two months of that and we’ll all be gibbering. Plus being short one major-domo through stroke, seizure, heart failure or desertion. Although the little guy may flip before then and poison the brute. And if so I for one won’t blame him.’

‘Don’t be silly, Marcus.’ At least she had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘Bathyllus will come round. Placida’s a lovely dog really, very gentle and affectionate. She just happens to have some…well, some unfortunate habits.’

‘Yeah. Right.’ Gods! Thank Jupiter for open-plan architecture and a through draught. ‘Why the fuck couldn’t Sestia Calvina have a sparrow for a pet like everyone else?’

‘Her brother brought Placida back from Gaul. And Calvina always has been rather eccentric.’

‘Eccentric? Lady, if that’s eccentric then I’m a fucking — ’

‘Marcus! Stop it!’

I subsided. Bathyllus was tooling in with his minions and the lunch trays. If he’d looked any more put-upon he’d’ve had bow legs and a crouch, and the serving was pointed. Which meant plates were put down with a snap like sling-bolts.

‘Uh…very nice, Bathyllus,’ I said. ‘The pork looks good. Very…ah…porky.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Sniff. Snap. ‘Meton will be gratified. Reheating leftovers can be so tricky.’

Ouch. Apropos of which… ‘Has he, ah, met our guest himself yet, little guy? Meton, I mean?’

Snap.

‘Oh, yes. They get on very well together.’ Snap. ‘There is, I think, a great similarity of character.’

I swallowed. Hell. One of life’s little constants is that Bathyllus and Meton hate each other’s guts because where Bathyllus is the complete control freak Meton is the anarchist’s anarchist. If Bathyllus had decided that Placida was our friendly chef’s canine soul-mate — and from what I’d seen of her I wouldn’t be surprised — then we’d got an uphill struggle on our hands. I’d bet that bastard in the kitchen would play it for all it was worth, too.

Trouble was right.

With a final sniff Bathyllus buggered off.

‘Now.’ Perilla helped herself to the rissoles. ‘Change the subject. You haven’t told me how your meeting with Natalis went.’

Shit; in all of this I’d completely forgotten about Natalis and young Papinius’s suicide. I filled my wine-cup and told her.

When I got to the bit about how much he was prepared to pay she blinked at me.

‘But that’s ridiculous!’ she said. ‘Fifty thousand sesterces is a fortune!’

‘Natalis can afford it. With Prince Gaius showering his precious bounty on the team and all set to step into the Wart’s clogs when he hangs them up he’s seriously rolling.’