David Wishart - Solid Citizens

‘Oh, sure, but the chances are that no one else’ll run. With Caesius gone Manlius has the senate in his pocket. Or he and Canidius have between them. Their two families have been the top ones in Bovillae for the past three hundred years. Caesius, sure, he was old-Bovillae too, but his family’s only notched up one magistracy to every ten of theirs. And they’re rich as Croesus into the bargain. If Caesius hadn’t been so highly thought of, Manlius could’ve bought his way into the censorship easily. When he lost it really put his nose out of joint.’

‘He can buy my vote any time,’ a punter — not Battus this time — growled. ‘And he gives decent games; you have to say that for him.’

‘Come on, now, Thermus,’ Scaptius said wearily. ‘You’re the sort of materialistic bastard that keeps these sods in office!’

‘Yeah, that’s me. Materialist to the core. Wouldn’t be anything else. Proud of it.’

I pushed the plate of suspect nibbles away to where it wouldn’t do any more damage and took a throat-clearing swallow of wine. ‘So,’ I said. ‘This fire. No one knows how it started?’

‘Sure they do,’ Scaptius said. ‘That was just Battus sounding off. The night watchman was drunk; he tipped over a lamp and set some straw alight. Or that’s the official version, anyway.’

‘Fucking right it’s the official version.’ Battus again. ‘And it’s a lie from start to finish, because old Garganius never touched a drop in his life when he was on duty. If you want to hear the true story you talk to him, pal. Sextus Garganius. Lives over by the fucking meat market.’

‘Battus, I warned you! Out!’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ The punter set his cup down. ‘It’s OK. Keep your hair on, Scaptius, I was just going anyway. See you later, guys. Enjoy the festival.’ There was a chorus of grunts, whistles and cat-calls. He lurched towards the door, and — finally — through it.

‘Prat!’ Scaptius muttered and reached for a cloth to wipe the counter.

‘Just out of interest,’ I said to him, ‘do you happen to know where I can find Caesius’s brother?’

‘Lucius?’ He gave me a sharp look and put the cloth down. ‘What do you want with him?’

‘I just need a quick word, that’s all. For the sake of completeness.’

‘To do with the death?’ I said nothing. ‘Well, it’s no business of mine, sir, and no skin off my nose. Sure I know. Far as I remember, he rents a room in the first street to the right of the square, above Cammius’s bakery.’ He turned to the other punters. ‘That so, lads?’ There were a few affirmative grunts. ‘You might see him at the funeral, but I wouldn’t count on it. He and his brother weren’t exactly on friendly terms.’

‘So I’m told,’ I said. Rents a room , right? So the guy was obviously seriously strapped for cash. Something that was probably just going to change, and pretty drastically, from what I’d seen of the Caesius ménage ; if he was the dead man’s only heir, he’d be worth quite a bit, shortly. I sank the remaining wine in my cup and stood up. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Catch you later.’

‘Have a good festival if we don’t see you before,’ Scaptius said.

‘You too, pal.’

Right. Back to the job in hand. Or at least to the victim’s funeral.

The market square was beginning to fill up, with crowds starting to form in the porticoes which surrounded it. They’d erected a temporary dais in the centre, wreathed along its edges with cypress, and there were a few curule stools on top for the dignitaries and the actors that’d be playing the dead man’s magistrate ancestors. I found a place with a good view, next to a pillar, and leaned my back against it to wait.

‘Down from Rome, are you, sir?’ the guy beside me said. He was chewing on a sausage.

‘Yeah. Just through for the festival.’

‘That’s it,’ he said smugly. ‘I could tell straight away from the haircut. Me, I’m a barber by trade. That’s a Big City haircut you’ve got there, right?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It is.’

‘Thought so. Easy to spot, when you know the trick of it.’ He nodded in the direction of the dais and took another bite of his takeaway lunch. ‘They’re giving him a good send-off, at any rate, the randy old devil. Visiting brothels at his time of life, eh? Who would’ve thought it, a respectable man like Caesius, too. You live and learn, don’t you, sir?’

‘Yeah. You certainly do.’

‘Still, good on him, whatever anyone else says. Showed he was human after all, with a bit of red blood in his veins. That’s what a lot of these cold bastards need, a bit of good red blood. Too much thinking — well, it isn’t good for you, is it?’

I grunted vague agreement and looked away. The facts of the case had got around fast enough, that was for sure. Not that it was surprising, mind: Bovillae’s a small place, and nothing spreads quicker than scandal. Plus the guy was a barber, after all. Gossip — particularly salacious gossip — is part of a barber’s stock in trade. Forget the Daily Register: if you want to keep up with the breaking news anywhere in the empire the way to do it is to go down to the local market square every morning for a shave and trim.

We were about ready for the off: I could hear the wailing of flutes and the clashing of cymbals from the direction of the Arician Gate, and a couple of minutes later the funeral procession itself appeared. They were giving him a good send-off, right enough; the Bovillan Senate, bless their little cotton socks, had pulled out all the stops. The musicians and professional mourners came first, then the bier with the dead man on it. Behind were his magistrate ‘ancestors’ in mourning mantles, the actors wearing the original death-masks. Scaptius the barman had been right; there were only half a dozen of them, quite a poor showing. Finally, the senate themselves, the town’s greatest and best, led by the two current aediles with their attendant rod men. Among the follow-ons, I recognized Nerva and the fugitive from an Egyptian tomb that was old Publius Novius, Bovillae’s sharp-as-a-knife lawyer.

The procession filled the centre of the square. The death-couch was set down, and the ‘ancestors’ plus the chief magistrates and top town officials took their places on the dais. One of the aediles raised his hand for silence. The music stopped. He took a scroll out of his mantle-pouch and unrolled it. So. They hadn’t asked Brother Lucius as next-of-kin to read the eulogy, which would’ve been the normal way of doing things. Or — and I guessed it was the more likely explanation — he hadn’t offered. Interesting.

‘Who’s giving the speech?’ I said to my barber pal.

He spat a piece of gristle from the sausage into his palm and threw it away. ‘Marcus Manlius,’ he said.

The guy involved in the wool-store scam. If it was a scam. Yeah, Scaptius had said he was one of the aediles. I took a more careful look. A bit younger than Caesius had been, mid-fifties, maybe, with that sleek, plump, self-satisfied look you often get with rich political types: the fat-cat who’s swallowed the canary and then gone on to lick up whatever cream’s going before complaining that they’ve been short-changed, and besides, who had been responsible for providing the cream in the first place?

Manlius was definitely someone else I had to talk to.

‘How about Canidius?’ I said to the informative barber. ‘He here?’

‘The quaestor?’ He pointed. ‘That’s him, behind Manlius’s shoulder. The long drink of water.’

I followed the pointing finger with my eye, and grinned: ‘long drink of water’ summed the guy up perfectly. Tall, thin as a rake, early- to mid-forties, pasty-faced, looked like his nose had a permanent drip, and that there was something nasty under it. A prime candidate, obviously, for a pint or two of my barber pal’s good red blood.