David Wishart - In at the Death

‘Yeah. Yeah, I realise all that.’ I took a morose swig of the Setinian. Perilla might be right, sure, but I’d seen what I’d seen: those ladies had had something cooking together besides a common interest in lyric poetry, I’d bet my sandals on that. And although the Sejanus link was probably completely incidental I still couldn’t get it out of my head. ‘Still — ’

‘What did Crispus have to say about Carsidius?’

‘Hmm? The bastard’s pure as the driven snow. Any more perfect and they’d deify him.’

‘That doesn’t sound very promising.’

‘Too right it isn’t.’ I took another pull at my wine-cup. ‘One thing, though. You can forget the bribery aspect. When I suggested it Crispus laughed in my face, and Crispus can scent a crook like a dog scents vomit.’

‘Marcus, please — ’

‘So Carsidius lied. Why did he lie? Someone put him up to it, but who?’

‘Balbus, perhaps.’

‘Or Ahenobarbus. He’s part of the equation now, remember, and he’s Balbus’s — and Papinius’s — ultimate boss. It all comes down to the fire commission. There’s a cover-up involved there, and it’s a top-level one; for Balbus and Carsidius to be involved at the least it has to be.’ I poured myself more wine from the jug. ‘Jupiter and all the ever-loving gods!’

‘Don’t get annoyed, dear.’

‘I’m not annoyed, I’m frustrated. There’s something we’re missing, something big. Until we know that nothing makes sense.’

‘All right. Say there is a connection with the commission. What could it be?’

‘Peculation on a major scale. Creaming the top off the Treasury allocation. That much is obvious.’

‘How would it work?’

‘How should I know? It wouldn’t be easy, that’s for sure. The Wart set the commission up himself, and the Wart’s no fool. Four men at the top — four —, all on a level, all imperials by marriage. Domitius Ahenobarbus, sure, he’s as crooked and ruthless and self-serving as they come, but he’s got colleagues that’ll be watching him like hawks. Watching each other, too, because they’re no saints either, and you can bet that each of them would just love to see one of the others step out of line so they could yank the rug from under. Come down a step and it’s the same: checks and double-checks all the way down the line, the Wart’s seen to that. And to round things off, we’ve got to believe that someone like Lucius bloody Carsidius, who never bent a rule in his life, will tie himself in knots and lie like hell to cover for whoever is milking the scheme and is a murderer into the bargain. Fuck!’ I banged the table and the wine-jug jumped. ‘The whole thing’s impossible!’

‘Marcus, dear, don’t lose your temper.’

‘Yeah, well. It is.’

‘So assume that it isn’t. How would Papinius fit in?’

I took a deep breath. The lady was right: losing my temper didn’t help. We had to look at this thing dispassionately. ‘Not as a major player,’ I said. ‘Maybe he saw something he shouldn’t’ve seen, heard something, read something…Perilla, this is sheer fantasising!’

‘He was Ahenobarbus’s son. You know that now. If you think Ahenobarbus is the most likely villain — and I’d agree — then that fact might be relevant to his involvement. At least it puts it within the bounds of possibility.’

‘Sweet immortal gods, lady! He was a nineteen-year-old kid on the bottom rung of the ladder! What chance would he have to be privy to any sort of secret?’

‘I don’t know. Of course I don’t. But he was murdered, after all, and his death disguised as suicide. Surely that counts for something?’

That stopped me. Yeah, right; that was the absolute bottom line, and there was no escaping it. Someone had decided that the kid was too dangerous to live, and had enough clout to cover his tracks by putting pressure on some of Rome’s top men. We weren’t playing games here.

I would definitely have to talk to Domitius Ahenobarbus.

At the end of the garden, the side gate opened: Alexis back with Placida. She looked up and saw me…

Ow-ooo! Ow-ooo-ooo-ooo!

Oh, hell.

Now I knew what a Gallic boar felt like when it saw a hundred and twenty pounds of boarhound racing towards it. I just had time to get up and put both my hands out before she hit.

‘You have to forgive her really,’ Perilla said as I picked myself out of the flower bed and fended the brute off. ‘With all her faults she is very affectionate. And she’s definitely beginning to take to you.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, right.’

Problem was, she still smelled of fish

Arranging an interview with Domitius Ahenobarbus was easier said than done.

You don’t just drop in uninvited on someone who’s nephew to the Wart and the husband of Augustus’s granddaughter, and who knows exactly where that puts him on the social ladder. I’d never met the guy personally, which suited me just fine because in addition to being a four-star imperial he was a five-star bastard: short-tempered as a rhino with a migraine, arrogant as hell and with a streak of malicious cruelty a yard wide. The story went, he’d once driven over a kid on Appian Road just for the fun of hearing him scream. He’d’ve had the mother, too — so he told his pals later over dinner — but she moved at the last minute and he had to choose between them.

Not a nice man, Domitius Ahenobarbus.

So I did things properly. I had Bathyllus put on his best tunic and hernia support and sent the little bald-head over to the Palatine with strict instructions to impress. I’d wondered what to use as an excuse for the meeting and decided in the end not to bother: if the bastard was as aware of who I was and what I wanted to talk about as I thought he’d be then I’d be wasting my time wrapping things up in fancy language. Besides, whether he was a four-star imperial or not, in terms of family history the Valerii Messallae were as good as the Domitii Ahenobarbi any day of the month, so bugger him sideways and twice on the kalends.

All of which was why, next day, I found myself outside the main gate of the emperor’s palace. The Wart hadn’t lived there for years, mind, let alone stuck his boil-encrusted face inside the city’s sacred boundary-line, but Ahenobarbus and young Agrippina — there were no kids, yet — had taken over one of the wings and were doing a pretty good job of acting as stand-ins. Rumour was, the two were well-matched. By all accounts Germanicus’s daughter was as cold and calculating as her mother, with all the qualities of a first-class bitch in the making.

‘Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus to see Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus,’ I said to the door-slave.

The guy looked at me like I’d turned up selling brooms. ‘Do you have an appointment, sir?’

‘Of course I’ve got a fucking — ’ I caught myself. Steady, Corvinus! Gravitas, gravitas! ‘Ah…yeah. Yes, of course I have.’

He checked a wax tablet and made a tick with his stylus. ‘Ah. There you are. Very well, that seems to be in order. If you’ll come this way.’

I followed him, hitching up my formal mantle. Gods, I hate these things! Yeah, sure, they’re impressive, especially out in provinces where most of the locals make do with a loincloth or animal skins turned inside-out, depending on climate, but they impress because they’re totally impractical. Anyone who’s had to move any distance wound up in twelve feet of carefully-choreographed woollen blanket, and who isn’t a complete mental cheesecake, will agree with me. Still, you had to make sacrifices.

We went through what seemed miles of rooms and out into a central garden loud with peacocks and the sound of water from the ornamental fountain. Ahenobarbus was sitting under a trellised vine dictating to a secretary. No mantle for that guy: he was wearing a simple lounging-tunic. He looked up and frowned. He was big, red-haired — the family hadn’t got the surname Bronzebeard for nothing — and built like a bull.