David Wishart - Solid Citizens

‘Corvinus?’

Oh, bugger. The joys of life are fleeting, and quickly sped; evidently, the skivvy had tattled. Well, it had to happen sometime, I supposed. I opened my eyes again.

‘Uh … hi, Meton,’ I said cheerfully. ‘How’s the lad?’

‘You’re supposed to be in fucking Castrimoenium.’

‘True. True.’

‘So what’re you doing back in Rome?’

Direct and to the point: not a sunny bunny, our Meton, at the best of times, and currently the guy could’ve posed for an artist’s sketch of Polyphemus coming home to his cave and finding Ulysses in residence. He was glaring at me under his shaggy eyebrows, his huge hairy paws flexing spasmodically.

‘Ah … slight change of plan, pal,’ I said. ‘Nothing to worry about, it’s only temporary. I’ll be heading back tomorrow.’

‘Sod that. What about dinner? Got nothing in, have I?’

‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘No problem. I’ll make do with something from the store cupboard. Or I could eat out.’ The glaring and flexing went up a notch: to a simple soul like Meton, patronizing cookshops was only a small step up from rooting through the garbage heaps. And even then it’d have to be a pretty good cookshop, one with named meat, for a start. ‘There again-’

‘Fuck that. Only it means I have to go all the way over to the market, doesn’t it? And all the best stuff’ll’ve disappeared by this time. Some people really have no fucking consideration.’

‘Uh … right. Right.’ I was beginning to sweat. ‘Well, I’m sure you can manage to whip something up. I’m not fussy, pal, keep it simple. In any case it’ll have to be something quick because I’ll be going out this evening.’

‘You’ll be what ?’

‘Ah … yeah. Just before sunset, in actual fact. So I won’t have much time for …’

But I was already talking to his back.

Hell. That had gone down like a fart at a funeral. Still, I hadn’t expected anything else. Maybe I should just’ve camped out under Tiber Bridge and saved myself the hassle.

Domestics.

Dinner, when it came, was lavish: a wide range of starters, broiled pork liver with bacon slices and a reduced wine sauce, truffles with lovage, and a honey omelette to finish; evidently we were talking coals of fire here. Still, I wasn’t complaining: with Meton in seriously-put-upon mode, I’d been expecting bread and cheese — yesterday’s bread, and cheese liberated from the mousetrap, at that — while after several days of Euclidus’s adequate but pedestrian cooking I reckoned I could overlook the display of artistic temperament. Surly, foul-mouthed bastard the guy might be, but Meton was a professional to his badly pared fingernails.

It was past sunset when I set out for the Lotus. I took a couple of skivvies with torches along with me, plus one of the heavier well-muscled bought help. Pallacina Road’s a good neighbourhood, sure, but the stretch between it and the Caelian can get pretty hairy after dark, particularly when the weather’s bad and there aren’t too many punters on the go barring opportunist muggers, and I’d stocked up my belt pouch from the strongbox in the study in case — as was very probable, because anywhere Crispus patronized was bound to be exclusive — the admission charge cost me an arm and a leg. Upmarket clubs aren’t cheap.

In the end, it wasn’t all that easy to find, which may’ve been deliberate: these exclusive places don’t encourage passing trade. I finally tracked it down to a quiet cul-de-sac off the Road itself, so clean that the flagstones that paved it must’ve been scrubbed. Even so, the only indication that this was the place was a small marble plaque showing the eponymous flower next to an expensively panelled and metal-grilled door whose brass fittings gleamed in the light of the two torches burning in equally highly polished brackets.

I knocked, and a hatch behind the metal grille slid back.

‘Good evening, sir.’ The plummy voice could’ve belonged to a top-notch private major-domo, or maybe a professor of rhetoric. ‘Are you a member?’

‘Uh … no. No, I’m afraid not,’ I said. ‘But I’m a friend of Caelius Crispus. He gave me the address.’

I had the uncomfortable feeling that whoever was on the other side of the grille was vetting me, and I was glad I’d put on a fresh cloak and brought a respectable retinue of skivvies.

‘That’s quite satisfactory, sir,’ he said at last. ‘If you’ll just wait a moment?’ The door opened with a rattle of bolts, revealing a big Nubian in a flowing embroidered kaftan. Not so much major-domo or professor of rhetoric as moonlighting Parthian ambassador with all the trimmings. ‘Do come in.’

I left the bought help to twiddle their communal thumbs — luckily for them the rain had stopped — and went inside.

‘Your cloak, sir?’

I undid the pin, handed it over and looked around. Upmarket was right: large, open lobby with coloured marble panelling and flooring, a pool with an ornamental fountain made up of stone dolphins, and dominating it all on one of the walls a large fresco showing the appropriate scene from the Odyssey of a tastefully manicured garden with figures lolling about on the flower-studded grass, lotuses in their hands, attended by scantily-clad nymphs and satyrs. There were some very nice bronzes, too. I sniffed: the air was perfumed, but there were overtones of what I recognized from past experience as the scent of burning qef . Unusual, sure, but maybe not too unexpected, given the name of the place name and the doorman’s eastern get-up. We were definitely talking Parthian decadence here, and Parthia and qef went together like fish sauce on tunny steaks. Evidently not just an upmarket club, the Lotus, but a themed upmarket club: they were getting more common these days, together with the themed upmarket wine shops. Ah, well, decadent times, right enough.

‘I’m Rhadames, sir.’ The guy had folded my cloak over his arm like it belonged to royalty. ‘The prospective members’ fee is five gold pieces set against the final amount, payable in advance and extra to the cost of any services or beverages enjoyed during your visit. I trust that is in order?’

I swallowed, opened my belt purse, and handed over the coins. Shit! Prices had certainly gone up since I was last in a place like this. Not that that had been too often, mind, even in my wilder pre-Perilla days: you didn’t get many clubs in Rome of the standard of the Lotus. I was glad I’d raided the strongbox before I’d left. This could’ve been embarrassing.

‘Thank you.’ My ambassador pal pocketed the cash. ‘Now. If you’d care to follow me into the common room you can make your wishes known to the house staff at your leisure. Have a pleasant evening.’

‘Ah — just a moment, friend,’ I said.

That got me a poached-egg, jaundiced look.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Actually, I only wanted to ask a few questions about one of your members. A Quintus Caesius?’

Make that a freezing stare. Well, it was only to be expected. Still …

‘Could I enquire where you got the gentleman’s name from, sir?’

‘What?’

‘Who told you, sir, that Quintus Caesius was a member?’

‘Uh … that was Caelius Crispus. The friend I mentioned before I came in? He’s a member too.’

‘Indeed, sir,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid in any case your request cannot be complied with. House rules. We do not discuss any given member with another, let alone with prospective ones.’

Spoken like a King’s Eye from Persepolis itself. Even so …

‘The guy’s dead,’ I said. ‘Murdered down in Bovillae. I’m looking into things on behalf of the senate there.’

‘ Murdered , sir?’ A smidgeon of distaste; habitués of the Lotus evidently didn’t get themselves murdered. Or if they did they kept it politely to themselves.