David Wishart - Food for the Fishes

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said. ‘Did you have a pleasant morning?’

‘It was interesting.’ I climbed the steps. ‘Any chance of a cup of wine?’

‘Certainly, sir. I’ll bring it out at once.’ He laid the brush and jar down. The jar was half-full of a thick honey-coloured gunk that even at that range was playing hell with my sinuses. Not normal brass polish, that was sure. And you didn’t paint doorknockers.

‘Just out of curiosity, Bathyllus,’ I said. ‘What’re you doing here, exactly?’

‘Painting the doorknocker, sir.’

‘Ah…right. Right.’

‘It’s in the nature of an experiment. A mixture for preserving the shine on outside brasswork involving naphtha, pine resin, gum arabic and various other substances.’

‘That so, now?’

‘Indeed. Did you realise that brass exposed to the elements will only retain its full shine for seven or eight hours after polishing?’

‘No, I can’t say that I did.’

‘Most unsatisfactory. And that’s not taking actual physical contact into consideration. On the other hand, applying a protective coating of this mixture once a month will extend that to a whole day, probably more. In theory, at least.’

‘Really?’ Jupiter on a bloody tea-tray! I wished I hadn’t asked now. Meton’s obsession was food, which was bad enough but understandable. Cleaning substances were something else. Only Bathyllus could get orgasmic over metal polish. ‘That’s…that’s pretty good, Bathyllus.’

‘Mind you, there are problems. I’m not completely sure about the proportions of terebinth oil to resin, and the drying rate is not all that I’d wish. Perhaps — ’

‘Fine, fine,’ I said. Bathyllus doesn’t go on these jags often, but when he does encouraging him is not a good idea. ‘I’ll take your word for it, little guy. Just go and fetch that cup of wine, okay?’

‘Very well, sir.’ He was looking definitely unchuffed.

‘Is Perilla around?’

‘She’s in the garden, sir. With your mother.’

‘Great.’ I reached past him for the doorhandle. ‘In that case I’ll — .’

— at which point my brain caught up with the rest of me.

Slowly, I relaxed my grip. Nothing happened; I was still holding the knob like my fingers were glued to it. Which, in fact, they were.

‘This is, uh, one you prepared earlier, right?’ I said.

Bathyllus cleared his throat. ‘I did just tell you, sir. About the drying rate.’

Bastard. I unprised my fingers, which wasn’t easy. ‘Bathyllus…’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Read my lips. Experiment over. The rest of that gunk goes out now.’

‘Very well, sir. If that’s how you feel.’ He sniffed. ‘I’ll fetch a cloth and some hot water.’

‘You do that. And if I don’t have my right hand back as was within the next ten minutes then you, sunshine, are hamburger. Clear?’

That got me another sniff as he exited. Bugger; a threat like that from any other slave-owner would’ve had the bought help pissing in their sandals. Maybe I should re-read the manual.

The garden was quite a feature of the villa: Lucia D, who owned the place, was a sucker for flowers and greenery in general, and there must’ve been a dozen big beds, easy, laid out in a diamond shape round a central pergola with a trellised vine growing up it.

‘So, Marcus, how did your meeting go?’ Perilla asked.

‘Like a refight of Cannae. The house slaves’re probably still mopping the blood off the floor.’ I kissed her, pulled up the third of the pergola’s wicker chairs and set the wine-cup Bathyllus had filled for me on the ground. ‘Afternoon, Mother. Where’s Priscus?’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’ Mother twitched a fold of her impeccable mantle irritably into place. ‘He said he was off to visit that oil-lamp friend of his, but that was hours ago. He’s been acting very strangely of late; “shifty”is the word I’d use. Personally I wouldn’t put too much credence in the statement.’

‘Ah…right. Right.’ Hell; what was the mad old buffer playing at? Still, it wasn’t my concern. Or I hoped it wasn’t. I’d got enough problems of my own at present.

‘How do you mean, “a refight of Cannae”?’ Perilla said.

‘They were at each other’s throats from the moment I walked in. Serious stuff, too. They all think it was murder and they were all trying like hell to persuade me that one of the others had done it. Me, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them wasn’t right. If we want suspects apart from Trebbio we’ve got them by the bucketful. With relatives like that the poor bugger was lucky to last as long as he did, and the eels’re pussy-cats in comparison.’

‘But that’s terrible!’

‘Yeah.’ I took a swig of the wine. ‘Look, Mother, I’m going to need your help, okay?’

‘With what, dear?’

‘Background information. I’ve got four names.’ I ticked them off on my fingers. ‘The widow, Gellia. Elder son Titus Chlorus. Younger, Aulus Nerva. Plus the daughter. She goes by the name of Penelope. They’ll do for starters. You know anything about them? In the dirty linen way, I mean.’

Mother drew herself up. ‘Marcus, dear, I do not listen to gossip! And I certainly do not repeat it.’

I grinned; sure, and I was Tiberius Julius Caesar Augustus. Mother might be a very sharp lady, but she’d been holidaying in Baiae on and off for years and she’d taken to the town like a fish to water. Baian society is all about gossip. After all, if you can’t amuse yourself by tearing a friend’s reputation to shreds over the canapes and honey wine then what’s the point in coming to the place?

‘Steel yourself,’ I said.

‘Well, if you think it really will help.’ She ducked her head to hide a smile. Like I say, my mother’s a smart cookie. Token protests are one thing, but hypocrisy’s another, and she’s a natural Baian through and through. ‘The daughter I know nothing whatsoever about; she obviously doesn’t mix in society. Chlorus is some sort of financial lawyer.’ Yeah, that made sense: he’d told me himself that he was the farm’s accountant, and he’d got ‘lawyer’ written all over him. ‘Rather a dry stick, I understand. Unlike his wife, who is’ — she hesitated — ‘completely the opposite.’

Uhuh. ‘Yeah? Who’s she?’

‘Her name’s Catia. I’ve met her several times. Not the world’s greatest brain, but with her looks and interests she doesn’t have to be.’ Miaow. ‘I gather their daughter is marrying young Manlius Torquatus in the autumn. Quite a coup, although the Manlii Torquati aren’t what they were these days, financially speaking.’

I sipped my wine. Right; that fitted in with what I knew, too. Although the Licinii were a good family, as far as pedigree went they weren’t by any means in the Manlii Torquati bracket; at least, Chlorus’s branch wasn’t. Gellia had mentioned (mentioned, hell: she’d thrown it in my face!) that he was strapped for cash. He would be: an engagement like that would mean a heavy dowry, and I’d bet under the circumstances the Torquati, being short of a copper piece or two themselves, would drive a hard bargain.

‘Go on,’ I said.

‘The second brother, Aulus Nerva, has quite a reputation locally.’ Mother was frowning; she was enjoying this, I could tell, despite the protest. When she and my father were married he might’ve been the career politician of the family, but where marshalling facts and arguing from them was concerned Mother could run rings round him any day of the month. Nowadays she rarely got the chance to practise. ‘Or two reputations, rather. He thinks of himself as a shrewd businessman, and he’s partly right. Certainly, where business is concerned he’s no fool. On the other hand, he is a compulsive risk-taker, and not particularly concerned with the moral aspects of a deal, either. “Flashy” is a good term.’ She paused. ‘He’s also very much the society playboy, especially where gambling and women go. And — which may interest you, Marcus, with your fascination for soiled laundry — he’s rumoured to have more than a brother-in-law’s fondness for Catia, which she reciprocates.’