David Wishart - Finished Business

Leonidas wasn’t alone. There was a big guy with him, a good head and shoulders taller than him and built to match, dressed in a tunic two sizes too small for him that looked like it’d doubled as a bag for carting earth in. Or more likely (I caught his scent, and wished I hadn’t) carting manure. He was looking anxious as hell, too.

‘All right, Cilix,’ Leonidas said to him. ‘Tell the gentleman what you’ve just told me.’ Then, turning to me: ‘This is Cilix, sir.’

Twice Leonidas’s size or not, the big guy was shooting him worried sideways looks like Leonidas was some sort of ogre that might any minute leap on him and gobble him up. Leonidas, on the other hand, was puffed up like a bantam with self-importance.

‘Go ahead, Cilix,’ I said. ‘You’re one of the garden slaves, right?’

Not a difficult guess to make, that one, given the tunic and the smell.

He swallowed. ‘Yes, sir. It’s about the day the master died, sir.’

Long pause.

‘Go on, boy.’ Leonidas sounded dangerous. ‘Better out than in.’

‘I … saw someone, sir. A stranger.’

My interest sharpened. ‘Here? At the tower?’

He shook his head. ‘No, sir. Level with the house, he was, more or less, moving through the bushes close in to the wall. Stealthy, like. There’s a bit of the wall collapsed just shy of the north-east corner, that hasn’t been fixed yet, and I think he was heading for that. But he was coming from this direction, right enough. And it was about the time when the master … when he …’ He stopped and swallowed again.

Shit! ‘Can you describe him at all?’

‘Oh, yes, sir. He passed quite close. He was a freedman, sir; at least he was wearing the cap. A bit bigger than Master Leonidas here, but not much, and not so … not so …’ He reddened and glanced down at Leonidas’s stomach.

I grinned again. ‘Not so fat,’ I said. Leonidas gave a soft growl, and the guy winced and nodded. ‘Age?’

‘Not all that young, sir, but not old, neither.’

‘Thirtyish? Forties, maybe?’

‘The second, yeah. Yes, sir. Least, that’s what I’d guess. An’ he had a big mark here.’ He touched his finger to his left cheek. ‘Black. A sort of blotch, like a stain.’

‘Dirt?’

‘Could of been, sir. I didn’t see it clearly. But it dint look like dirt; it looked like one of them what’s-their-names.’

‘Birthmarks?’

‘Yeah. Or maybe a scab or a scar of some kind from a disease he’d had. I’d a mate of mine, once, sir, he got this manky disease when he was-’

‘Stick to the point, boy!’ Leonidas snapped.

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

‘And he just walked right past you?’ I said. ‘Just like that? Close enough for you to see the mark on his cheek? He didn’t say anything to you, and you didn’t say anything to him? You just ignored each other.’

The guy had reddened again. ‘S’right, sir. More or less. He dint see me, you see.’

‘Didn’t see you?’

‘No, sir.’ If he’d been any redder he could’ve doubled as a six-foot-six beetroot.

‘Tell the gentleman why not,’ Leonidas said through gritted teeth.

‘’Cos I was crouched down in the bushes at the time, sir,’ Cilix mumbled. ‘Havin’ a … you know.’ He swallowed again. ‘Havin’ a crap, like.’

Jupiter! ‘Ah … right. Right.’ I glanced at Leonidas, who was quietly fizzing. ‘That would explain it.’

‘I’d of got up and said something to him, sir, all the same, because I thought he might be a poacher, like, but things’d got a bit messy just then and-’

‘Cilix, the gentleman doesn’t want to know!’ Leonidas snapped.

Spot on the button: the precise details were things, in this case, that I could do without. ‘So why haven’t you told anyone about this before?’ I said.

Cilix glanced anxiously at Leonidas, but said nothing. Leonidas cleared his throat.

‘That’d be because the garden slaves aren’t allowed to ease themselves in the grounds, sir,’ he said stiffly. ‘Master’s orders.’

Cilix nodded violently. ‘Yeah, right,’ he said. ‘I thought I might get into trouble, sir. Over the crap side of things, like. I’d never of done it, honest, unless I was desperate. Which I was — you know how it is when you’re caught short on the job, you’ve got to go, whatever. Pissing’s OK, you’re allowed to piss, all right, no problem, so long as there’s no one from the house around and you do it well off the paths and out of sight, like, but crapping’s-’

‘ Cilix! ’

I was grinning. ‘That’s OK, pal,’ I said. ‘I get the general idea.’

‘Only I thought now you being here, an’ the master’s death maybe not being an accident after all, I’d best say.’

Joy in the morning! Me, I’ve given up trying to work out why slaves know everything that goes on practically instantaneously by osmosis, but they do. Even the Cilixes of this world. I took out my purse, reached for his hand, turned it grimy palm up and slapped a half-gold piece into it. He stared down at the coin, then up at me, mouth open in astonishment.

‘Thanks for the information, sunshine,’ I said. ‘Enjoy. It’s cheap at the price, believe me.’ It was: six got you ten our loose-bowelled friend had just described Naevius Surdinus’s killer, and that doesn’t happen too often, particularly within what was, in effect, only five minutes of the start of an investigation. We were miles ahead of the game for once, and a half-gold piece in exchange wasn’t OTT, by any means.

All we had to do now was find out who the guy was, and why he’d done it. Oh, and of course break the glad news to Surdinus Junior.

‘Well, at least we don’t have to worry about chasing alibis,’ I said to Perilla at dinner as Bathyllus served the dessert. ‘The big question is, who was the guy working for? And if he’s a freedman, is he a home-grown one or was he specially hired for the job?’

‘Of course, he might also have done it as a favour. For a friend,’ Perilla said.

‘How do you mean, lady?’ I picked up my spoon and looked down at the bowl Bathyllus had put in front of me. In it was a sort of yellowish-grey paste mixed with what looked like thick flower petals. ‘Gods, Bathyllus, what the hell’s this?’

‘Rose hip and calf’s brain custard, sir. With a sprinkling of cinnamon.’

‘For dessert ?’

‘It would seem so, yes. A new recipe Meton is trying out.’

‘Hmm.’ I tasted it. Not bad. Not bad at all. Slightly nutty, with a perfumed aftertaste. I could’ve done without the cinnamon, though. ‘How do you mean?’ I asked Perilla again.

‘I was thinking of his mistress. Tarquinia?’

‘Tarquitia.’

‘A freedman friend would fit with her social background. And as far as motive goes, she’s the only obvious suspect at present.’

‘Come on, Perilla!’ I spooned up a bit more of the custard. Yeah, definitely one of Meton’s winners. ‘Tarquitia’s no murderess.’

‘She now owns what is essentially a substantial part of the Naevius villa, which she can either sell for a large sum to a third party or, far more likely, given the circumstances and the awkwardness that would cause him, do a deal with Surdinus Junior for a similar or probably even larger amount. And on top of that there’s the fifty thousand sesterces legacy. Not bad going, in her position, for what was in effect a year’s work. I’d say that was an excellent motive.’

‘Perilla, she already owned the property when Surdinus died. Plus, she didn’t know she was a beneficiary in the will.’

‘So she told you. And as far as the Old Villa is concerned, Surdinus’s death simplifies things enormously. She’s free now to turn it into ready cash, which she couldn’t creditably have done while he was alive, and furthermore — again given the circumstances — it would be the natural thing to do. Obviously, she can’t live there herself, can she?’ She poked at her own plate of custard with her spoon, pushed it aside and reached for an apple. Not a calf’s brains person, Perilla.