David Wishart - Finished Business

Eight days it was, then. Bugger. I took another swallow.

Right. Plan of action. When in doubt, dig and see what turns up that you can use. I needed to find out more about Julius Asiaticus. Also, of course, about the two guys whose names had cropped up in Herennius Capito’s evidence, the Praetorian prefect Arrecinus Clemens and the top-notch civil servant Julius Callistus: Gaius could dismiss them if he liked, but me, I couldn’t take the risk, and besides, my gut feeling told me they came into this business somewhere along the line.

So a visit to Cornelius Lentulus was definitely in order, because if my pal Caelius Crispus was the expert where the private, seamy side of Rome’s Great and Good went, then old Lentulus balanced him where their public and not-so-public roles as political animals were concerned. Balanced, that is, in its purely metaphorical sense: physically Lentulus would’ve made three of Crispus with a large helping of blubber still to spare, and he wouldn’t have balanced anything lighter than a hippo. As a brain, though, and a mine of information, eighty years old or not the guy was in peak condition. Also, he lived just up the hill from us, which, given the current filthy weather was an added bonus. Not even I enjoyed slogging my way through streets with mud and worse up to the ankles, in the teeth of a freezing rainstorm, and in general early January wasn’t the time to be out and about in Rome.

Lentulus it was, then, and there was no time like the present. I downed the rest of the wine in my cup and went to change into my outdoor things.

Onwards and upwards.

Like I said, Lentulus lived only a few hundred yards upslope from us, not far from Mother’s and Priscus’s place, in a rambling old property that predated most of the ones on the hill. It was fortunate that it was close, since I’d been right about the weather, and the road was a muddy river overflowing its central guttering. I wondered how Perilla was getting on; not a wet-weather fan, either, that lady, and although she’d be snug and dry in the litter, I knew there’d be hell to pay when she got back. Especially if she hadn’t found anything to suit.

Ah, well, it wasn’t every day we got invited to an imperial dinner party. Luckily. Not that I was looking forward to it, mind.

I gave my name to the door slave and he took me through. Not to the atrium: Lentulus was holed up in his study, on a couch big and hefty enough to take half a squad of Praetorians, and the room was heated like an oven.

‘Ah, Marcus,’ he said when the slave had closed the door behind me and left me cooking. ‘Come to visit the invalid on his bed of pain, have you? Good of you, my boy!’

Yeah, well, whatever was wrong with him didn’t look too serious: the table beside the couch was laden with goodies, and his ancient major-domo was in the process of topping up his wine cup.

‘Hi, Lentulus,’ I said, pulling up a stool. ‘You’re ill?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing much. Just a cold. A complete stinker, mind; I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.’ He sneezed. ‘Bugger! Desmus, get Valerius Corvinus a drink. Not this muck, Marcus, it’s hot honey wine. Poisonous stuff, but my doctor says it’s the best thing for me. Hot and dry to counter cold and wet, or some such Greek nonsense. The Falernian, Desmus, if you will.’ Another sneeze; he reached for a napkin, blew his nose and tossed the napkin aside. ‘Excuse me. What’s it doing outside, weather wise? Still pissing down hard?’

‘Yeah, more or less.’

‘Good. No fun being snug as a bug in a rug in here if the poor bastards outside aren’t suffering. How’s Perilla?’

‘Blooming. And we’re grandparents now. As of the Winter Festival.’

‘Clarus done his duty and young Marilla’s popped, then, has she?’ It always amazed me that Lentulus had people’s names at his finger-ends: the last time I’d seen him had been two years before, when Marilla and Clarus were first engaged, and I’d only mentioned our son-in-law’s name to him once. Still, among his erstwhile senatorial cronies, Lentulus’s nickname was ‘the Elephant’, and it wasn’t just because of his size, either. ‘What is it? Boy or girl?’

‘Boy. Marcus Cornelius Clarus.’

‘That’s good. Girls’re too much trouble, in my admittedly limited experience. Give them my congratulations and best wishes.’ Desmus was at my elbow, handing me a cupful of Falernian. I sipped: beautiful. Lentulus knew his wines; he ought to, he’d swallowed enough of them in his time. ‘Help yourself to nibbles.’

‘No, I’m OK, thanks.’ I looked at the table: the ‘nibbles’ included quails’ eggs, marinated chicken legs, bean rissoles and a selection of dried fruits and nuts. ‘I’m sorry, Lentulus, I’m disturbing you. Early lunch, is it?’

‘Nothing of the kind, as you well know, you sarcastic young bugger. Just a mid-morning snack. Feed a cold, starve a fever. Didn’t your old grandmother teach you anything?’

From what I remembered of Grandma Calpurnia, she’d’ve told the slaves to remove the whole boiling and replace it with a bowl of nourishing barley gruel. Still, maybe medical theory had moved on in the past thirty years. ‘Obviously not,’ I said.

‘Clearly.’ He grinned, coughed, and selected a chicken leg. ‘Right, boy. Social civilities dispensed with, we can get down to business. You’re here to pick my brains again, yes? So what’s it about this time? Another conspiracy?’

Straight to the point as usual. Another thing I liked about Lentulus. ‘Ah …’

‘Hmm. That bad, eh? Well, in that case don’t bother telling me because I don’t want to know. At my time of life, the less anxiety I have the better. Or so the doctor says, and this time I’d agree with the po-faced old bugger.’ He bit into the chicken leg and chewed. ‘Fire away, then.’

‘Just some background information on a few names. Starting with Valerius Asiaticus.’

‘Asiaticus?’ The eyebrows went up. ‘Not a star performer, that one, young Marcus. Fella’s one of the Johnny-come-lately Gallic crowd. Allobrogian, from Vienne. Good local family, had their citizenship originally from one of your lot about a hundred years back. Valerius Flaccus, that would be, the Transalpine governor. Consul suffect in the old emperor’s last year, resigned before his six-month stint was up. Rich as Croesus, owns a house and gardens the other side of the river that used to belong to Lucullus. Wife Lollia Saturnina, our Gaius’s ex-wife’s sister. Silly woman, too fond of jewellery, thinks that it and good looks make up for brains, and she’s possessed of conversational skills that would disgrace a parrot. He’s technically a senator, but lazy as hell. Doesn’t turn up for meetings very often and steers clear of committee work. Not that I blame him there; it’s the bane of existence and boring as hell. That do you?’

‘No, I knew all that. Barring the bit about the jewellery.’

‘You’re hard to please today, you young sod. What, then?’

‘His reasons for resigning his consulship, for a start. The emperor told me it was because he couldn’t take the pressure.’

That got me a straight look. ‘Been talking to Gaius, have you? This must be important, right enough.’ I said nothing. ‘Well, it’s none of my business. Or rather, I don’t want it to be.’ He downed some more of the wine, tore off another mouthful of chicken and took his time chewing it, not taking his eyes off me all the while. Finally, he swallowed and shrugged. ‘Very well, young Marcus Corvinus,’ he said. ‘ Pressure isn’t exactly the word I’d use, although I can see why Gaius chose it.’

‘What, then?’

‘See if you can get there yourself. What was happening, politically, that last year of Tiberius’s life?’