David Wishart - Finished Business

His tone was polite interest, no more. Uh-huh. Well, if that was how he wanted to play it, it was absolutely fine with me.

‘Actually, I am,’ I said. I sipped the wine and blinked as the taste registered. Shit, that was Caecuban! Real imperial Caecuban, from Gaius’s own cellar. By tagging along with Vinicius we’d obviously moved up a considerable notch on the drinks scale. ‘A guy by the name of Naevius Surdinus, murdered on his estate a couple of months back. You know him?’

‘I’d have recognized the face, yes, and I’ve certainly heard his name. But no, I didn’t know him, not personally.’ On the open side of the table, the slaves were laying out the starters. ‘How dreadful. Do you have any idea who killed him?’

‘I’m getting there,’ I said easily. ‘The actual perp, yes, because he was seen. A freedman with a distinctive scar or a birthmark on his left cheek.’ I took another swallow of wine. Beautiful! ‘You don’t happen to know who or whose that might be, do you?’

‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. Why on earth should I?’

I shrugged. ‘No reason. I’ve just got into the habit of asking people, that’s all.’ Interesting; very interesting. I’d been watching closely, and his eyelids had definitely flickered. The bastard was lying.

‘I had a freedman once,’ Messalina said, reaching for an olive. ‘Or rather Daddy did. He’d always been a bit strange as a slave. Talked to himself, you know? Muttered. Anyway, when he freed him Daddy set him up in a hardware shop. One day for no reason at all he picked up a vine-pruner’s knife from the bench and killed a customer with it. Slit his throat from ear to ear. The man had only come in for a set of door hinges.’ She smiled. ‘You can’t trust the poor dears — slaves and freedmen, I mean. They’re quite unreliable. Something to do with the breeding, I expect. Oh, lovely, we’ve got these little cheese and fig things again.’

‘I had a curious slave myself, actually.’ Vinicianus took a stuffed vine leaf from the dish next to him, put it on his plate and dissected it with his knife, frowning as he inspected the contents. ‘Curious in both senses of the word. The man was always poking, couldn’t leave anything alone. We had a stork’s nest on the roof one year, and he decided he’d go up and have a look at the eggs. Only he stepped on a loose tile, lost his balance, fell off the roof and broke his neck.’

He raised his eyes and looked straight at me.

Messalina laughed. ‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ she said. ‘Sometimes they are so silly, and then they’re their own worst enemies. Don’t you agree, Corvinus?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I do.’ I reached for the pickled cheese balls.

No doubt about it. I’d been warned.

There was a movement to my left, behind Messalina. I looked over. A Praetorian tribune in dress uniform, helmet under his arm, was approaching Gaius’s table. He stopped and saluted.

‘Oh, hell,’ Vinicianus muttered.

I glanced back at him. ‘What’s going on?’ I said. ‘Trouble?’

‘No. Nothing like that. Just the evening watchword.’

‘Watchword?’

His face was set. ‘For the palace guard. It changes every night, and the emperor gives it. Nothing to do with us. Eat your dinner, Corvinus.’

And he turned back to his plate. I’d noticed, though, that a lot of the other guests seemed to be taking a great interest in what was happening. There were a few suppressed giggles.

Gaius was in deep conversation with the man next to him; a pantomime artist, by the look of him, with hair frizzed out in golden spangles. The Praetorian didn’t move. He stood at the salute, ramrod straight, waiting: not a young guy like Sextus Papinius or his brother Lucius had been, but a balding veteran, fifty if he was a day.

Finally, Gaius looked up.

‘Ah, Chaerea, it’s you,’ he said. ‘You’ll be wanting tonight’s word, will you?’

‘Yes, Caesar.’ Although the words were barked out in strict military fashion, the voice didn’t match; it was high, almost feminine in pitch.

‘Right. Right. Let’s see now.’ Gaius frowned. ‘What was it yesterday? Not a single word; a phrase. On the tip of my tongue. Come on, man! Remind me!’

There was a perceptible pause. Then the tribune said stiffly: ‘“Give us a hug”, Caesar.’

The spangly haired guy next to Gaius choked on his wine and had to have his back pounded. All of the people occupying the nearby couches had been watching what was going on, and most of them, men and women, were laughing openly now, as if it were part of the evening’s entertainment. Which, in a way, I supposed it was. Certainly Gaius was showing all the signs of playing to the gallery here, and his sycophantic dinner pals were obviously eager to show their appreciation.

‘Tribune, now really !’ he said. ‘ Not in front of all these people, please! Control yourself!’ The man still didn’t move, or answer; his arm was still up at the salute. Finally, Gaius tutted, rose from his couch and pulled the arm down. ‘Chaerea, darling, you are absolutely no fun whatsoever!’ he snapped. ‘Do you know that, you bum-face?’ He waited, but there was no answer. ‘All right, have it your own way. You’ll like this. The watchword for tonight is “Chubby-chops”. Oh, and you have to do this as well.’ He leaned forwards and planted a smacker of a kiss on each cheek. The room — at least the part of it where people were close enough to see — erupted. ‘Now bugger off, sunshine, I’m busy.’

The tribune saluted smartly, turned and marched off. I had a good view of the man’s face as he left, and it radiated pure frustrated hatred.

Gods!

I turned back to Vinicianus, who had been arranging a selection of nibbles on his plate with deliberate care. ‘That happen every night?’ I said.

‘So I believe. With that particular tribune, at least.’ His voice and face were expressionless. ‘Caesar does like his little joke.’

‘Who was the tribune?’

‘A Cassius Chaerea.’

‘ Cassius Chaerea?’

That got me a slow look. ‘That’s what I said, yes.’

‘He any relation to Cassius Longinus? The Asian governor?’

‘Not that I know of. A distant cousin, perhaps, but nothing direct.’

‘He is a bit of a bum-face, isn’t he?’ Messalina giggled, and looked up from her own selection of starters. ‘And that voice! I’m not surprised the emperor makes fun of him.’

Vinicianus ignored her. ‘He was wounded in the groin, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘While he was serving with Germanicus on his Rhine campaign.’ Shit. Veteran was right. And Germanicus … just mention his name to any soldier any time in the twenty-odd years since the overrated bastard’s death — Praetorian or legionary, officer or grunt, it didn’t matter who — and he’d go all dewy-eyed; having served on the Rhine with Germanicus was equivalent to deputizing for Ganymede in bringing Jupiter his morning cup of nectar. Military street-cred just didn’t get any higher.

No wonder being given a watchword like ‘Chubby-chops’ had had the guy spitting nails. And if the emperor’s treatment of Cassius Chaerea was at all typical, then the chances of a strong Praetorian involvement in a possible assassination plot had just taken a substantial hike.

The ‘Cassius’ was interesting, too, right?

‘Marcus, petal! You came! How delightful!’

Hell; I looked over my shoulder. Gaius was standing behind the couch, although ‘standing’ was a bit of an exaggeration: the emperor was pissed as a newt and swaying. Handling it well, on the whole, though, apart from the goggle-eyed stare and the slight slur.

‘Ah … yeah. Yes, Caesar,’ I said.

‘And lying beside the most beautiful woman in the room, too. My Caesonia excepted, of course. How on earth did you manage to wangle that, you crafty bugger?’ He reached down and patted Messalina’s bottom. She smiled up at him and arched her back like a cat. ‘Look at her! Couldn’t you just eat her up, the little minx? Wasted on a poor old stick like Claudius. Isn’t she, Uncle?’