David Wishart - Solid Citizens

‘Then there’s no problem, is there?’ I carried on smiling, and waited.

Novius frowned and cleared his throat. ‘Very well, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘But this is under protest, and only to prevent you from thinking that I’m concealing something from you. I should point out, however — and Silius Nerva would agree with me here — that you are greatly exceeding your mandate.’

‘Fine,’ I said equably. ‘I can go with that.’

‘Theft, then, is not quite the correct term for Aulus Mettius’s crime. What he was guilty of was embezzlement. He had been with me as clerk-apprentice for just under five years, initially on Quintus’s recommendation. I discovered that he was, and had been for much of that time, helping himself from the clients’ fees, of which he had administrative charge. Under the circumstances, prosecution was my only option.’

‘You didn’t think that maybe just a smack over the knuckles and a warning would be enough? Considering that he was your friend Caesius’s nephew?’

‘No. The man was a crook. And Quintus agreed with me. He’d already washed his hands of him.’ He picked up the stylus. ‘And now, unless you have any other questions more germane to the issue, I’m an extremely busy man. No doubt there are already clients waiting outside. I’ll bid you good day.’

I stood up. ‘Yeah, right,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your time, pal. If I do have any more germane questions — which I probably will, when things get going — I know where to find you.’

I left him glaring after me.

So, onwards and upwards. Time to talk to the brother and — as far as the cui bono aspect of things went — prime contender for wishing Caesius dead and burned. If I could get a hold of him …

My barman friend Scaptius had said that Lucius rented a room in the street to the right of the market square, above a bakery. That should be easy to find, although at this time of day he probably wouldn’t be at home, unless he was sleeping things off. Which, I supposed, was possible.

I came back down the steps. Before turning left and heading towards the centre of town, I happened to glance the other way, up the road in the direction of the baths at the end of it. And I noticed something odd.

It was a quiet street, virtually a backwater. When I’d first arrived, there’d been only one other punter in evidence, on the far side of the road but walking parallel at the same pace: a big guy in a freedman’s cap. When I’d gone into Novius’s office he’d kept on going, presumably bound for the baths. But now there he was again, leaning against the wall and communing with nature a few yards up from me.

Uh-huh.

I set off slowly down the road, gave it a couple of minutes, then turned round as casually as I could manage. Chummie was tagging along, a few dozen yards behind, moving at the same unnaturally slow speed. So. Unless my paranoia was getting worse in my old age the bugger was tailing me sure enough. The big questions, of course, were why and who for?

OK. The first thing was to rule paranoia and coincidence out of the equation. I crossed the next street, stopped on the far side and turned round. Chummie, a dozen yards behind, slowed almost to a halt and became very interested in the sandals on display outside the shop just shy of the corner itself. I ignored him, but instead of retracing my steps, or carrying on past the street, I turned down it: by my reckoning, it would run parallel to the top end of the square, so it’d bring me out more or less where I wanted to go in any case.

It was much busier than the street I’d been on. A couple of dozen yards further along it was a guy selling poppy-seed bread rings from a hand cart. I stopped and bought one, glancing behind me as I took the copper coin from my belt pouch. There was no sign of the freedman. OK; so maybe it had been straightforward paranoia, after all. Or maybe — which was just as likely, if not more so — the bastard had realized he’d been sussed and decided to cut his losses for the present. Whatever the reason, I’d lost him.

The strange thing was that, when I’d turned round at the corner and got a proper look, something about him had rung a bell. Not his face, which I’d seen clearly; I’d be ready to swear that to my knowledge I’d never clapped eyes on the guy before in my life. It was just the way he moved and held himself …

Memory tugged.

Ah, bugger. Leave it. No doubt if I wasn’t actually on the brink of wearing my underpants on my head and he had been tailing me for some reason it wouldn’t be the last time he did it. Next time, I’d be ready.

I carried on along the street and took a right at the corner. Yeah, this was the street the barman had meant, all right: I could see the bakery a few yards down. On the other hand, there was a wine shop a bit further along, on the opposite side, just after the entrance to an alleyway. Maybe a better place to try, at least in the first instance: the chances were that one so close to home would be Lucius’s local. I crossed the road and walked towards it, glancing down the alleyway as I passed.

It was a cul-de-sac, with two small shops in it: a general merchant’s and a bootmaker’s. Check. Yeah, I’d thought there was something familiar about the street I was on. I’d come down it, or the bottom half of it, rather, the day before, heading for the main drag and Caesius’s house, after I’d left the brothel by its back door. The alley was the same one, the one behind the brothel, seen from the other direction.

I carried on to the wine shop, pushed open the door and went in.

The place was pretty basic, cheap and not particularly cheerful, not much more than a stone counter beside which stood two or three barflies who looked like they’d come as a package with the furniture and fittings. There wasn’t a lot of choice on the board, either. Still, I wasn’t there for the wine list or the ambience. I waited until the barman had served the punter on my immediate left with his cup of wine and then caught his eye.

‘What can I get you, sir?’ he said.

‘Actually, I was looking for a Lucius Caesius,’ I said. ‘He come in here at all?’

The guy grinned. ‘He does. In fact …’ He turned towards the punter at the end of the row to my right and raised his voice. ‘Hey, Lucius. You’ve got company.’

The punter was half-slumped over the counter on his forearms, a jug and a cup in front of him. He raised his head. I recognized the resemblance straight off, but where Quintus Caesius’s silvery hair had been carefully trimmed his brother’s grey equivalent looked like he’d cut it himself. Sawn at it, rather, and with a blunt knife at that. Younger brother or not, he wouldn’t’ve passed for seventy, let alone ten years short of it. His tunic hadn’t seen the inside of a fuller’s for quite some time, either, and from its condition probably wouldn’t survive the experience if it did.

The phrase ‘human wreckage’ came to mind. Well-preserved, bursting with self-respect and in good shape for his age he was not.

‘Who wants me?’ he said.

I made another quick inspection of the wines on offer; none of them looked very promising this time round, either. ‘Make it a half jug of your best, pal,’ I said to the barman. ‘Whichever that is.’

‘That’d be the Arician, then.’

‘Arician it is.’ I moved over to join what was left of Lucius Caesius and pulled up the stool next to him. ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘The name’s Marcus Corvinus.’

‘Corvinus?’ He gave me an uncomprehending poached-egg-eyes stare. ‘Is that so?’ Then he nodded. ‘Oh. Right. I’ve got you now. You’re the Roman those bastards in the senate have got to look into my brother’s death. Doing the rounds of the suspects, are you?’