David Wishart - In at the Death

‘Any time, sir.’ He grounded his own sword. ‘Like I said, not bad. But watch your point and be a lot faster on the return.’

I gave him the usual salute at the end of a bout, sword to chin, nose and forehead, then handed the blade over and walked back towards the admin buildings. Time for the massage part of the proceedings, if the new masseur wasn’t occupied, before I stiffened up completely. I wasn’t totally displeased by the way the workout had gone. Even on my best day I’d never been able to give Publius a real match, but like I say there wasn’t a swordsman in Rome to touch him. If you can last half an hour with Publius Avillius and walk away with only half a dozen bruises you’re doing pretty well.

There was no sound from the massage room. Yeah, well, that was all to the good, anyway: when Scylax had done the slapping and rolling you could hear the screams half way to the Racetrack. I pushed open the door and went in. It took a moment for my eyes to accustom themselves to the dimness, and in that moment, at the back of the room beyond the massage table, something loomed.

‘Afternoon, sir,’ it growled.

My eyes had adjusted now. They went up…and up…

Oh, bugger.

Daphnis hadn’t been kidding. The guy was the size of a small house, and he had to hold his arms out at an angle to give the muscles room to fit in. His hands, knuckle to knuckle, must’ve been nine inches across, at least. This was not going to be fun. Still, it was too late to back out now, and after my bout with Publius I could do with loosening up if I didn’t want to crawl home to the Caelian.

Mind you, that might be preferable to doing the trip on a stretcher.

‘Uh…What’s your name, pal?’ I said.

‘Orestes.’

‘That so?’ I started removing my tunic. ‘I’m Valerius Corvinus.’

‘The owner?’

‘Yeah, that’s right.’

He grinned and reached for a towel. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir. Mister Daphnis has told me a lot about you. A very nice guy, Mister Daphnis.’

Oh, shit.

‘Just lie flat on the table and we’ll have these muscles purring in no time at all.’

He cracked his knuckles and picked up the oil jar.

It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.

It was worse.

I staggered out of the massage room half an hour later feeling like I’d been mugged by a sadistic gorilla. Constructively mugged, though, if you know what I mean: Big Orestes might be a complete sadist — ninety-nine out of a hundred masseurs are — but he knew his job, and like he’d said my muscles were purring. Taken together with the workout, I reckoned I couldn’t’ve spent a more profitable hour and a half.

In more ways than one. In between the screams, and to take my mind off the bastard’s knuckles forcing their sadistic way between the plates of muscle in my back, I’d been running over certain aspects of the case. And I’d had an idea. It was an outside chance, of course, but not one to pass up on just for that reason. They’re a close family, the military.

‘Hey, Publius!’ I shouted. The ex-centurion was busy with a middle-aged purple-striper with a gut like an amphora. He turned round, said something to the guy and then limped over.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said

‘Just a thought. You ever come across a couple of ex-army men by the names of Aponius and Pettius?’

‘Sextus Aponius?’

I blinked. Shit. ‘Uh…yeah. Yeah, that’s him.’

‘Yes, sir. Knew him well. He was a centurion in the First Germanica, time I got this leg of mine. He’s no ex, though, or he wasn’t last I heard.’

‘But if he’s still with the First he’d be on the Rhine, right?’

‘No, sir. At least, what I mean to say is he’s not with the First any more. After the Frisian business he got transferred to the Praetorians.’ He grinned. ‘Lucky bugger. Those sods have it cushy, pardon my Greek, sir.’

My brain was whirling. ‘The guy’s a Praetorian?’

‘Far as I know, sir, unless you know different or it’s a different man altogether. I haven’t seen him in quite a while. I can’t help you with the second name, mind.’ He looked over his shoulder at the fat purple-striper. ‘Was that all, sir? Because Tattius Geminus can be a bit stroppy if he doesn’t get his full time.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s all.’ Jupiter bloody Best and Greatest! ‘Thanks, Publius.’

‘You’re very welcome, sir. I’ll see you again soon, I hope.’

‘Ah…yeah. Yeah, right.’

He gave me a funny look — I must’ve looked as out of things as I felt — and went back to his pupil.

I shook my head to clear it. Shit. Okay: collect the dog, go home, talk to Perilla. I walked across to the office and opened the door…

Placida was sitting just inside the threshold. Daphnis was on his feet, back pressed hard against the far wall. He couldn’t’ve got any closer if he’d been a coat of paint.

‘Having fun, pal?’ I said.

‘You bastard, Corvinus!’

Placida growled a warning, and Daphnis tried to squirm his way up the wall.

‘She’s been there practically since you left,’ he whispered. ‘She wouldn’t let me near the door and I didn’t even dare fucking scream.’

‘Must be your breath-freshener. She’s never done that with anyone else.’

‘And she’s eaten the abacus!’

I looked down. Sure enough, there it was, reduced to a tangle of wires and vulgar fractions. ‘Placida’s very, uh, tactile. If that’s the word. Or do I mean oral? Can you say that?’

‘Just get her out of here, okay?’

‘You sure?’

‘Corvinus!’

I grinned. ‘Yeah, okay, pal. Come on, Placida. Home.’

I set off back to the Caelian, brain buzzing. So. At least one of my fake stonemasons was a Praetorian, eh? Oh, sure: it made finding the guy easy-peasie, because the Praetorian camp was slap-bang next to the city boundaries, just beyond the Viminal Gate; but at the same time it left me with two major questions and a bigger-than-major worry. First question was what the hell was a serving Praetorian — possibly two — doing mixed up in this business? Second, if they were moonlighting or doing a favour for a pal then what had made them confident enough to give me their real names?

The worry was that slice it how you would Praetorians were Praetorians, and some of these pals were very important men. A couple even had names ending with ‘Caesar’.

I didn’t like the smell this case was beginning to give off; I didn’t like it at all.

Perilla wasn’t back when I got in, but then I hadn’t really expected her to be: we weren’t half way through the afternoon yet, and unless Sergia Plauta had had a prior early engagement they’d probably have a fair amount of character assassination to get through. I’d thought about dumping Placida and going straight up to the Praetorian camp, but I’d decided against it. First of all, it was quite a hike, and I’d had my whack of exercise for one day; second, I wanted to see Perilla first.You didn’t just walk into the camp of the emperor’s personal guard and accuse two of the city’s best and finest — assuming Pettius was a guardsman too — of murdering a Roman noble and using the corpse as a messenger-boy. Not if you wanted to walk out again. Sertorius Macro, the Praetorian commander and — in Tiberius’s and Prince Gaius’s absence — the de facto most powerful man in Rome, would get pretty intense about having two of his men accused of murder. And Macro was someone I definitely didn’t want to cross.

Oh, and yeah, sure, it had also occurred to me — I’m not stupid — that he might be involved directly himself, either off his own bat or in his official capacity. How or why that might be I hadn’t the slightest idea, but I really, really hoped that he wasn’t because it was a nightmare scenario. I’d had enough grief and heartache bucking his predecessor Sejanus, and I’d seen enough of the guy five years back on the journey from Capri to know that he was a seriously mean bastard in his own right. Certainly not the kind to welcome me with open arms and split a jug while we swapped jolly reminiscences about pulling Sejanus’s plug for him.