David Wishart - Finished Business

‘Claudius is not a mental defective. He limps and stammers badly; he twitches, yes, of course he does, but those are physical disabilities, not mental ones. There’s nothing wrong with his brain, quite the contrary.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes. I’ve met him, at Vinicius’s, several times, and if you have the patience to wait until he gets the words out and ignore the twitching, you realize that he is a very intelligent man indeed. If he’s been kept under wraps all his life then it’s not through any fault of his own but because he offends the imperial family’s sensibilities.’

Well, I wasn’t going to argue. Still, if Claudius was our conspirators’ emperor of choice — and remember we were talking altruism and the good of Rome here — then I’d eat my sandals.

Bathyllus buttled in. ‘Excuse me, sir. Madam,’ he said. ‘I’ve given instructions for the furnace to be stoked. I thought that having been out in today’s inclement weather you might like a hot bath before dinner. Meton says that will be a little earlier than usual.’

‘Good idea, little guy,’ I said. ‘Very thoughtful of you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

He left, and I cocked an eye at Perilla. ‘You noticed our new hyper-conscientious major-domo, lady?’ I said.

She was grinning. ‘Don’t complain, dear,’ she said. ‘Make the most of it while it lasts. It has something to do with the emperor’s dinner invitation, I think.’

Yeah. Which was for the next day as ever was. Whoopee, I could barely contain my excitement. Still, it mightn’t be too deadly; we’d probably just be two out of at least fifty or so, and we could leave as soon as it was polite.

I took a last swallow of wine and got up to change for our pre-dinner steam.

Next day, we turned up prompt at the palace in our best bib and tucker — by litter, of course, despite the fact that it was a dry evening, since if I’d even hinted about thinking of walking and meeting her there, Perilla would’ve handed me my head. As it was, she’d made sure our litter slobs were given a decent scrub-up and polish before they started, and they pulled up at the gate gleaming like thoroughbreds. I nodded to the two very large Praetorians on guard, gave my name and the invitation to the door slave on duty, and we were escorted through.

I’d been inside the palace before, naturally, more often than I’d’ve liked, but this bit was new to me, obviously one of the function suites and decorated to impress. Which it did, in spades: top-grade mosaic flooring with tesserae so small you could practically have used them for signet-ring inlays, cedar wall panelling, bronzes that could’ve belonged to Postuma’s pal Alexander — and probably had. And above was a ceiling featuring every god and goddess in the pantheon, scattering their benevolence down on the favoured mortals beneath. All lit by more gilt candelabra than you could shake a considerable stick at. Gaius’s oil bill alone must’ve been eye-watering.

How the other half live, right enough.

‘Close your mouth, lady,’ I murmured as we cleared the threshold and went into the room itself. ‘You’re gaping.’

‘Nonsense, dear.’

I’d been right about the numbers; the place was crowded. So; not a cosy, intimate, snuggle-up-to-your-couch-partner dinner party, then. Even though I’d neither expected nor wanted that, my heart sank: me, I hate these stand-up affairs, where you have to make polite conversation stuck with a plate in one hand and a wine cup in the other. Although to be fair this’d be just the drinks-and-nibbles stage, and we’d be eating elsewhere, probably in the room beyond the set of folding doors in the far wall.

‘Drink, sir?’ said a slave with a wine tray. I took a cup of wine.

‘You got anything soft for the lady, pal?’ I said.

‘Of course, sir. Barley water and honey?’

I shuddered. ‘Yeah, that’ll do fine.’

‘I’ll have one of the other boys bring it over.’

‘Great.’ I took a sip of the wine. Not Caecuban, which was fair enough. It was a reasonable Falernian, though; not as good as Lentulus’s, but getting there. I couldn’t complain that Gaius was saving a few of his precious pennies by serving his guests mass-produced Spanish plonk.

Perilla had drifted over to a sort of lectern.

‘There’s a seating plan here with names,’ she said. ‘How very well organized.’

‘Yeah, well, it was hardly likely to be a free-for-all scrimmage, was it?’ I said, joining her. ‘So where are we?’

She pointed. ‘On the right at the back. Not with anyone I know, unfortunately, but-’

‘Rufia Perilla! Now this is a pleasant surprise!’

A dapper, middle-aged guy in the group to our immediate left had turned round, smiling, and I recognized Marcus Vinicius.

Perilla smiled back. ‘Good evening, Vinicius,’ she said. ‘I was just wondering if there was anyone we knew here. Lovely to see you.’

‘Completely mutual, my dear, I assure you. You’re a life-saver. Join us, please.’ He stepped aside, opening a space in the group. ‘Oh, and, ah, Corvinus, isn’t it? Valerius Corvinus?’

‘That’s right, sir,’ I said.

‘Oh, tush, tush! No sirs , if you don’t mind, I doubt if I could give you ten years. You’re in a better state than you were the last time we met, aren’t you?’ He chuckled and turned to the other two men in the group; one of them I didn’t recognize, but the second, I realized with a shock, was Gaius’s Uncle Claudius. ‘The last time I saw Corvinus he’d just had an argument with a runaway cart and turned up at my door looking like an arena cat’s leavings. Not completely an accident, Perilla told me later. Quite the sleuth, our Valerius Corvinus. Mind you, thinking back on that evening, I might’ve gone for the cart myself in preference to … who was it doing the reading again, Perilla?’

‘Annaeus Seneca.’

‘Ah, yes, rot his guts. The would-be poet. Livilla’s protégé. Frightful tick, currently, I think, living on beets in Lusitania or wherever the hell Caesar exiled him to, and serve him right. Oh, but I’m sorry, Corvinus, I should make the introductions. Tiberius Claudius you probably know already, him being a relative of yours now.’

I nodded at the guy. Despite the fact that I’d been at his wedding, it’d been along with a couple of hundred other people, so this was the first time I’d really seen him close up. He didn’t look all that bad, certainly not the disaster I’d been half-expecting: well turned out, neatly shaved and barbered, longish, thinish face with regular features that reminded me of old Tiberius’s. Which, I suppose, was fair enough, since his father Drusus had been the Wart’s brother.

‘C–C-Corvinus,’ he said. ‘P-pleased to meet you.’

Pleasant-enough voice, too, if you ignored the stutter.

‘Likewise,’ I said.

‘And my nephew, Annius Vinicianus.’

Hey! I turned to face the other man. Not all that younger than Vinicius himself, for all he was a nephew; I’d put him at about my age. Clean-cut, impeccably dressed in a snow-white broad-striper mantle, fit looking, radiating confidence. And with cold grey eyes that were looking at me in not exactly a hostile way but the next thing to it. Speculative, certainly.

‘Corvinus.’ He put out his hand, and we shook.

A slave came up with a tray. ‘The barley water, sir,’ he said.

‘Oh, that’ll be for me,’ Perilla said. She took the cup. ‘Thank you. The emperor hasn’t arrived yet?’

‘No. He likes to make an entrance,’ Vinicius said. ‘Imperial prerogative. So, Rufia Perilla, what are you doing slumming it here with us poor devils?’

‘Hardly slumming it.’ A waiter with a tray of candied nuts came up. I noticed that Claudius took a handful. Liked his food, obviously, did Gaius’s uncle. ‘Why should you say that?’