David Wishart - Solid Citizens

‘Is that so, now?’ Like I said, Gabba spent most of his day perched on one of Pontius’s bar stools, so he couldn’t’ve seen much of his wife under normal circumstances in any case. Me, I was surprised that they’d had the time and opportunity to have kids in the first place.

‘Indeed it is.’ He took a swig of his wine and smacked his lips. ‘Best and sweetest time of the year, this. So. How’s things up at the big house? You bring that fancy chef of yours with you?’

‘Meton? No. He’s back in Rome.’ Pontius put the wine and nibbles down on the counter in front of me. ‘Staying there, too,’ I added pointedly.

‘Pity. He’s got talent, that boy, and it needs proper handling. Since them talks on cooking he gave last year I’ve had quite a few of the local ladies at me asking about a follow-up.’ He winked. ‘He could do pretty well for himself there, particularly this time of year when the little darlings’re looking for something a bit special to put on the table.’

‘Gabba, I’ve got enough trouble keeping Meton’s ego within manageable proportions without you agenting for the bastard, right? Trust me. As far as celebrity cheffing goes, the world just isn’t ready.’ I took a large swig of my wine; not the best name that the Alban Hills could offer, Castrimoenian, by any means, but it had its merits, and Pontius’s was top of the range.

Gabba shrugged. ‘Suit yourself, Corvinus. Your loss. But it’s a crying shame.’ He reached over and took an olive from my saucer. ‘Oh, by the way, I hear you’re mixed up with another murder, over in Bovillae.’

‘Where did you get that from?’ I said sharply.

‘Word gets around. No particular secret, is it?’

‘No, but …’

‘There you are, then.’

‘One of the nobs, wasn’t he?’ Like he often did when it was quiet, Pontius filled a wine cup of his own, came round to the front of the counter, pulled up a stool and sat down. ‘Senator, magistrate or some such?’

I sighed. Well, I supposed it was fair enough, and out here in the sticks you had to make your own amusement, which included milking any gobbet of current scandal for what it was worth. And a murder was scandal in spades.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘An old guy by the name of Quintus Caesius. The censor-elect. He was-’

The door opened, and we turned round.

‘Oh, bugger!’ The newcomer was staring at me like Perseus must’ve stared at Medusa, but without the benefit of the polished shield. ‘ Corvinus? What the hell are you doing here?’

After the initial shock of recognition, I was grinning. ‘Hi, Crispus,’ I said. ‘I could say the same. Lovely to see you again, pal. Small world, isn’t it?’

‘Bloody microscopic, seemingly. And none the better for that, either.’ Caelius Crispus, upwardly mobile foreign judges’ rep and Rome’s foremost authority on the top five hundred’s communal dirty linen basket, closed the door carefully behind him like it was made of glass. ‘I asked first. Just answer the question, OK?’

‘I’m practically one of the locals,’ I said. ‘Been coming here for years.’

‘Oh, fuck.’ Crispus hadn’t taken his eyes off me. ‘You’re kidding, right? Please say you’re kidding.’

‘Why should I do that? Cross my heart, hope to die. Perilla’s Aunt Marcia had the villa just up the road, and our adopted daughter and her husband have it now. You can ask Pontius here, or Gabba, if you don’t believe me.’

‘He’s right, squire,’ Gabba said. ‘Back and forward all the time. I hate to say it, myself, because I’m no fan of purple-stripers, but there you are.’

‘She here as well? That wife of yours?’

‘Perilla? Of course she is. Wouldn’t go anywhere without her.’

‘Shit.’ Crispus moved across to the counter like he was a ghost walking on eggs and sat down. ‘Double shit.’

‘What can I get you, sir?’ Pontius said.

‘A carriage back to Rome would be favourite. Failing that, slip some arsenic into this bastard’s drink.’

‘He doesn’t mean it.’ I was still grinning. ‘Me and Crispus, we go way back. Been friends for years.’ An overstatement, if you like: if I died I suspected he’d quite cheerfully piss in my urn. Even so, our paths had crossed professionally quite a few times since I’d saved him a couple of years pre-Perilla from a boyfriend’s irate daddy with a very sharp knife hell-bent on cutting his bollocks off, and we’d developed a cautious respect for each other based — on his side, at least — on scrupulous avoidance. He was OK at root, was Crispus, and, like I say, where the dubious alleyways of upper-class Roman society were concerned, the expert’s expert. ‘Give him a cup of your best Alban, Pontius. My tab. Come on, Crispus! It’s not as bad as that.’

‘Yes it is. Worse. If I’d known that you and that hellcat’d be staying anywhere near me I’d never’ve bought the sodding place.’

Aha! The penny dropped. ‘So,’ I said. ‘You’re the civil service bigwig who’s bought the Satellius estate, right? My son-in-law was talking about that a day or so back. Pushing the boat out a bit, aren’t you?’

‘Certainly not.’ He glared at me. ‘I have a position to keep up, remember. These days, a small country pied-à-terre close to Rome where one can entertain friends and professional acquaintances in proper civilized comfort is practically de rigueur for a public figure.’

Yeah, right; I’d forgotten that our erstwhile sleazy scumbag of a gossip trader had been working seriously at his social transformation from plebeian duckling on the make into upper-class swan. Even so. ‘“Small” isn’t what I heard, pal,’ I said. ‘We’re talking major renovations here, on top of the original purchase price. And that wouldn’t’ve been peanuts, either. Where did you get the cash?’

He sniffed. ‘That is none of your business.’

True. And I probably wouldn’t want to know, either: Crispus’s private sources of income were murky at best, and if the guy hadn’t made sure that he was triple-ring-fenced life insurance-wise he would’ve been drifting down the Tiber with a knife in his back years ago. Several knives, all with aristocratic crests on them. The Satellian villa with all the improvements to it that Clarus had mentioned probably represented the profits from a whole warehouseful of family skeletons prised from their cupboards and kept under wraps for a consideration mutually agreed on between Crispus and their owners.

Pontius set the cup of Alban down on the counter, and Crispus sank it in a oner. Yeah, well, seeing me away from the context of the praetors’ offices in Rome where he usually hung out must’ve come as a shock, at that, but at least he was looking a bit brighter now. Or a bit less grey, at least. I motioned to Pontius to give him a refill: his best Alban wasn’t cheap, but Crispus was a guest, in a way, and he needed it. Besides, it was the festival.

‘So, pal,’ I said. ‘How’s the department? Keeping you busy, are they?’

‘Busy enough, thank you,’ he said stiffly.

‘Work for the government, do you, sir?’ Pontius hefted the jar of Alban. ‘There’s nice. Finance, would it be?’

‘Crispus here’s attached to the foreign praetors’ office,’ I explained. ‘Travelling rep.’

‘It’s good to have friends,’ Gabba said. He pushed over his cup. ‘Especially if they’re buying.’

‘Nice try, Gabba.’ I reached for my own cup and took a swallow. ‘Bugger off.’

‘You’ll be involved with the murder case, then,’ Pontius said, sipping his own drink. ‘When they catch whoever’s responsible.’

‘What murder case?’ Crispus said suspiciously.

‘Over in Bovillae. They’ve got Corvinus here looking into it for them. That’s right, isn’t it, Corvinus?’