David Wishart - Finished Business

‘OK, Cilix,’ I said. ‘Remember, I talk, you just look, OK? Whether it’s him or not, you wait until we’re outside again. Clear?’

‘Yeah. No problem.’

I crossed my fingers and went in, with Cilix following.

It was like any copyist’s shop you’d find anywhere in Rome. Most of them, of course, are in the more salubrious districts, especially near the Palatine with its Pollio Library, but there are a few properties in both the Subura and on the Sacred Way that’ve kept to their original purpose through a dozen generations of owners while the buildings around them have slid steadily downmarket. This one looked like it’d been built in with the Suburan bricks; no doubt when the Gauls had occupied the city four hundred years back, Brennus or one of his more bibliophilic mates had dropped by to pick up Plato’s latest before getting down to a hard day’s pillage, arson and rape.

The two copyists sitting at the tables under the window, making use of what daylight had made it between the tenements, ignored us completely, without even a cursory glance. In the body of the shop behind a counter laden with book-rolls was a guy in a freedman’s cap. Definitely not Sosibius, I could see that for myself, even though his left cheek wasn’t in full sight: he was eighty if he was a day, and he looked like he’d have serious problems crossing the room, let alone climbing up several builder’s ladders and along a dodgy parapet.

Fuck; things did not look good!

‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’

He sounded nervous as hell; strange. Unless of course the quaver in his voice and the slight twitch were just age and infirmity. Which, given that he looked less than a fingernail’s breadth from an urn, was pretty possible.

‘Uh … I’m sorry, pal,’ I said. ‘Maybe I’ve come to the wrong place. I was looking for a Valerius Sosibius.’

‘Oh, no. He’s here, sir. If you’ll wait I’ll get him for you.’

He shuffled off through a curtain at the far end of the shop, and I could hear a murmur of voices. I turned round and rested my backside against the counter. The copyists were still bent over their work, and did not give so much as a sideways glance. That was strange, too: me, if I’d been stuck in a place like this, scribbling away in semi-darkness day in day out, I’d’ve been grateful for any break in the routine …

Something smelled, and it wasn’t Cilix. Things were definitely wrong here. Very, very wrong.

‘I think we’ll leave,’ I said to the big guy. ‘Quickly and quietly.’

Which was when the curtain parted again and the three Praetorians emerged. I made a move towards the door, but one of the buggers was there first. He was about the size of the blunt side of the Capitol, and he had a drawn sword in his hand. Not much mileage there, then. And his mates who’d taken up position either side of me were even bigger.

Shit.

The curtain moved and Lucius Papinius came out. He was holding a sword as well. I swallowed. Shit, shit, shit! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

‘You.’ With his free hand he pointed at Cilix, then jerked the thumb sideways. ‘Out.’

The Praetorian by the door stepped aside. Cilix gave me a single apologetic look, ducked under the lintel, and disappeared into the street. The copyists hunched down even lower and scribbled away like their lives depended on it. Which maybe they did.

Speaking of which …

‘You were warned, Corvinus,’ Papinius said. ‘I am really going to enjoy this. Hold him, lads.’

Fuck.

The two Praetorians either side of me grabbed my arms, pinning them to my sides and lifting me slightly off the ground. Papinius moved towards me and I lashed out with my right foot, but he stepped back and the kick never landed.

Bugger, bugger, bugger !

He drew back the sword for a thrust, hesitated, then turned it sideways. The pommel and guard, together with his fist holding it, slammed into my face and the world exploded in a burst of pain as I heard and felt my nose break. Then I was down on the ground, hugging myself for protection as three pairs of hobnailed military boots began kicking the hell out of me. I felt one of my ribs go, then one of the boots connected with the side of my head and everything went mercifully black.

I woke up in bed at home, with Perilla looking down at me. At first I was just relieved not to be dead after all. Then the pain started, and I changed my mind: the first and second joints of the little finger on my left hand felt OK, but everything else was bloody agony.

‘Marcus? You’re awake?’ Perilla asked anxiously. She’d been crying, I could see that.

‘Yeah. More or less.’ I must’ve whispered it, because she bent down and put her ear a couple of inches from my mouth. Speaking wasn’t easy; my mouth felt like it was full of rocks, and my nose kept getting in the way. If that makes sense. ‘Unfortunately.’

‘Thank Juno! Don’t try to move.’

I grinned, or tried to; my facial muscles weren’t up to grinning at present. ‘You kidding, lady?’

She stood up and glanced behind her. ‘Sarpedon?’ she said. ‘He’s woken up at last.’

Turning my head wasn’t an option at present, particularly turning it to the right, because that side of it felt like one of those big medicine balls the more sedate punters chuck around when they’re exercising after a bath. Sarpedon. Right. My father’s old freedman, the family doctor, and had been ever since I’d come down with my first dose of nappy-rash.

His face replaced Perilla’s. Not an improvement, because the guy had the features of a well-bred octogenarian camel.

‘How are you feeling, Valerius Corvinus?’ he said.

Bloody stupid question; and with the amount the bastard charged for home visits, even to family, I’d’ve expected something just a little more searching and clinical.

‘I’ve been better,’ I said, then repeated it when he put his ear where Perilla’s had been. He grunted, took my pulse and pushed up one of my eyelids.

‘Any double vision?’ he said.

‘You mean there aren’t two of you?’

‘Very droll, sir.’ Not a smile, but then Valerius Sarpedon never had been much of a lad for jokes. ‘The good news is that you’ll almost certainly live.’

‘Ah … only almost certainly?’

‘I would say so, yes. I can’t be absolutely sure at this point, of course, but it seems very likely.’

Joy in the morning. Nothing like a bit of positive encouragement from your doctor, is there? I did a bit of subjective body analysis on my own account: head and face, as I’ve said, pretty much a disaster area, ditto for the chest and ribs — from the tight feel of things there, I was bandaged neck to waist — various assorted aches, pains and bruises on my arms and legs. Short of killing me, Papinius and his heavy-footed pals had done a pretty thorough job. Apart from my nose and ribs, nothing broken, though. At least, that was what it felt like.

So why hadn’t they killed me? I wasn’t complaining, mind — or I wouldn’t be, when everything settled down to a dull ache — but still; it was a puzzle.

Apropos of which …

‘How did I get here?’ I said; at least my mouth was working a bit better now, and I could manage a bit more than a geriatric mumble. Plus I seemed, miraculously, to have kept all my teeth intact, although my lips were split to hell.

‘The slave — Cilix, wasn’t it? — brought you back in a hired litter. Once the, ah, perpetrators had safely gone.’ Sarpedon frowned. ‘It’s none of my business, of course, but … Praetorians?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘And you’re right, pal. It is none of your business. Believe me, it’s better that way.’ I frowned; my brain had just caught up with something. ‘“At last”?’