David Wishart - Solid Citizens

Gods! Well, one of us had to spell it out, and from the looks of things it wasn’t going to be mealy mouthed Nerva here.

‘You mean there’s been another murder,’ I said.

He winced like a dowager confronted by a dirty picture. ‘Ah … not to put too fine a point on it,’ he said. ‘Yes. Yes, there has. That is indeed the case.’

Hell. Oh, I knew it had to be something like that — Libanius wouldn’t have sent the guy to me if he’d only wanted a recommendation for a good wine to serve with duck — but just before the Winter Festival, for the gods’ sake! Like he’d said, I was on holiday here. Perilla would definitely be unchuffed, for a start. The lady gets really, really serious about murders at holiday times.

Even so, I was still slightly puzzled. Murders aren’t nice, but they can happen even in the most well-regulated families. It still really didn’t account for the guy’s embarrassment.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Who was the victim?’

‘Our censor-elect. Quintus Caesius.’

Well, that explained the high-powered emissary, anyway. A single provincial censor is appointed every five years in place of the town’s normal two chief magistrates, taking up office on the first of January. Like his Roman equivalent, his prime job is to revise the list of senators and citizens, cutting out the dead wood. But it doesn’t stop there: he’s also responsible for the settlement of the community’s finances for the next five-year period, which means he has the power to choose new contractors to handle the sources of that finance, such as publicly owned land, commercial businesses and the like, and to terminate any existing contracts, as he sees fit. The operative phrase being that last one. Oh, sure, technically any decisions he makes are only recommendations and so subject to full senatorial approval, but human nature being what it is they usually go through on the nod. Plus, because for that particular year he’s on his own at the top, with no equally empowered colleague to queer his pitch if he has a mind to, given that said senate has a hundred members who are generally more interested in getting through the day’s agenda and home for a cup of wine and an early dinner than actually thinking of the implications of what they’re voting for, so long as he’s careful and a good talker he can do whatever he likes.

All of which means that a censor is a pretty big cheese. Ipso facto, he also has to be a pillar of honesty, morality, sobriety and rectitude, the best exponent the community can show of traditional provincial family values. At least, that’s the theory. Don’t laugh. It could technically happen, although the chances of these qualities coinciding with an interest in politics is well within the flying-pigs category.

‘So how did he die?’ I said.

Nerva cleared his throat yet again and swallowed before he answered. His expression had gone wooden. ‘He was, ah, found with his head beaten in at the back entrance to the local brothel.’

I stared at him. The silence lengthened. Finally, I said: ‘Ah.’

I could see now why he’d had difficulty getting down to the nitty-gritty: now the dreadful truth was out, the guy was literally glowing with embarrassment, so brightly you could’ve used his face to roast Winter Festival chestnuts.

‘“Ah” is right!’ he said. ‘It’s appalling!’

It had its funny side, too, mind, but Nerva wouldn’t’ve seen that, so I kept my face straight.

‘So was he actually on his way in or out when it happened?’ I said.

He pursed his lips primly. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh, come on, pal! You must know that, at least!’

He gave me a look that would’ve curdled milk. ‘I don’t know, Corvinus,’ he said slowly, ‘because I haven’t asked. Nor do I intend to. My task — with the full approval of the Bovillan Senate, naturally — is simply to put the matter completely into your capable hands, if you’ll accept the charge. As an outsider …’ He stopped.

Yeah, well, I could see where he was heading. If there was dirt to be dug — and there undoubtedly would be — then the solid citizens of Bovillae would rather not know the details; while if a visitor from Rome were to do the digging none of them need be personally, embarrassingly, involved in the investigation. Nevertheless, the guy wasn’t getting off that easily.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let’s get some facts at least, things that you do know. First of all: when did this happen?’

‘Two nights ago. At least, the body was found yesterday morning, as I said in the alleyway behind the brothel.’

‘He couldn’t’ve just been passing the door?’

‘No. The alley is a dead end. And all the other buildings are shops and storehouses. They would have been — in fact, were — locked and shuttered for the night.’

‘The brothel owner tell you anything useful? About exact timing, for example?’ He just looked at me. Yeah. Right. Got it. ‘OK, forget that. I can find it out for myself. Next. Who do you think might’ve done it?’

‘How should I know?’ he snapped. ‘That’s your job to find out, surely.’

I sighed. ‘Come on, pal! I’m not asking you to make an accusation, but I need somewhere to start. What about a straightforward mugging? That’s the most likely solution.’

Nerva shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, it isn’t — in fact it’s most improbable. A mugging might well happen in Rome, yes, but not in Bovillae. We have our share of crime, certainly, but not that sort. Besides, his purse was still on his belt.’

‘So it was deliberate. He was targeted.’ No answer, but the guy was looking more and more uncomfortable. ‘Fine. So what about enemies? Who did he know locally who might want him dead?’

Nerva bridled. ‘Really, Corvinus! I already said Bovillae isn’t Rome. Quintus Caesius was a highly respected and respectable member of the community, and a major public figure. He didn’t mix with people of that stamp. And our prominent citizens do not go around committing murder!’

Jupiter. Not a flicker to show he was aware of a contradiction here. Still, that was par for the course where good old-fashioned Romans like Silius Nerva were concerned. I closed my eyes briefly. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘No problem. I’ll put it another way. Had he had any recent quarrels that you know about? Any violent disagreements?’ He hesitated. ‘Come on! You’re not helping here!’

‘There was the incident with Quintus Roscius, naturally. It was a disagreement, yes, if you care to use that word. But it wasn’t violent.’

‘Suppose you tell me about it.’

‘It happened two days before the murder, in the main street. Roscius came up to Caesius and they … had words.’

‘About what? And who’s this Roscius?’

‘One of the local small farmers.’ Nerva was looking embarrassed again. ‘Caesius is — was — in property. Buying and selling. As I understand it he and Roscius had a business arrangement and there had been some disagreement over the interpretation of the terms.’

‘More specifically?’

‘I’m sorry, Corvinus, I can’t help you there. You’d have to ask the fellow yourself. He’s quite easy to find — in fact, you’d pass the end of the track up to his farm on the way into Bovillae from here, just before the town limits.’

Can’t help you or won’t help you? Me, I was inclined to the latter. I’d the distinct feeling that this case was showing all the signs of closing ranks and dragging feet. Caesius had been very much one of the local Great and Good, and these guys have Principles, very much with the capital attached: they don’t peach on their own, particularly where a bit of sharp practice or a slightly dubious business deal is concerned. You never knew when it might get reciprocated and you’d find yourself shopped down the river.