David Wishart - Solid Citizens

Bugger! Already? ‘That’s … good news, little guy,’ I said.

‘And that they have brought their chef with them.’

I stopped. ‘They have what ?’

‘Phormio, sir, is one of the party. Dinner will be in an hour, should you wish to change.’

Oh, hell! Hell and bloody damnation! I carried on into the atrium. The bought help had brought in a couple of high-backed chairs, which Mother and Priscus were occupying. As usual, she looked stunning, even after the thirty-odd-mile coach trip, perfectly made-up and coiffured, and a good twenty years short of her actual age, while Priscus was doing his normal wrinkled-prune older-than-God impression. Perilla was on one of the room’s three couches, and Marilla and Clarus were sharing another. I set my wine cup on the small table beside the unoccupied third and gave Perilla the usual kiss.

‘Successful day, dear?’ she said.

‘Later,’ I said, teeth gritted. I turned to Mother. ‘Hi, Mother. Priscus. You’re early.’

‘The traffic was very light,’ Mother said, putting her cheek up to be kissed. ‘And it is Titus’s birthday today, after all.’

Bugger! I’d thought it was tomorrow. But then I always get birthdays wrong. ‘Happy birthday, Priscus,’ I said.

‘ Mmmaa! Thank you, Marcus.’

I settled down on the couch and tried to keep my voice neutral. ‘Ah … Bathyllus says you’ve brought Phormio with you.’

Mother gave me her best dazzling smile. ‘Yes. Oh, I know what we agreed, dear, but I didn’t have the heart to leave him behind. And he has such marvellous plans for the Winter Festival dinner! You’ll be amazed!’

I glanced at Clarus and Marilla. Obviously, from the looks on their faces, this was news to them, too. Not good news, either, to put it mildly, which came as no surprise. No one wants to spend the Winter Festival spewing their guts out, and with Phormio doing the cooking it’d be practically a dead cert.

Stopping Mother in her tracks, however, was a task about as easy as all twelve of Hercules’ labours rolled into one and doubled.

Fuck. Double fuck.

‘Vipsania, we do have a perfectly good chef of our own, you know,’ Marilla said.

‘Of course you do, darling!’ The smile shifted to her and Clarus. ‘And I’m sure Euclidus is simply marvellous, for the everyday stuff, at least. But Phormio has just got this frankly unbelievable book of recipes from a correspondent of his in Palmyra, who had it from a friend at the other end of the spice route.’ She turned to Perilla. ‘So terribly exciting for him! He really does take his cooking seriously , the lamb, and he’s always on the lookout for anything just that little bit outré .’

‘Yes,’ Perilla said through tight lips. ‘I know.’

‘It’s quite fortuitous, really. He’s been waiting for the book to be copied and sent for almost two years now. And the special ingredients the recipes call for, of course, because most of these you can’t find here. Those were even more difficult. We had to arrange for them to be imported on an almost individual basis, and you would not believe how much time and trouble that involves. Not to mention the expense.’

‘Ah … just exactly what would these ingredients be, Mother?’ I said.

‘Oh, really, I don’t know, dear. Lots of things. You’d have to ask Phormio, although I doubt if even he could help. I don’t actually think the majority have names in Latin at all. Or even in Greek, for that matter, which was why Phormio’s Palmyran friend took so long to send the book in the first place. Seemingly, finding a capable translator who knew both Greek and whatever language the poor dears beyond Parthia speak was such a trial you wouldn’t credit. As I said, it’s all very exciting.’

Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit! This sounded bad. Being poisoned was one thing, but being poisoned by something that didn’t even have a proper civilized name west of the Indus would be nothing short of fucking embarrassing.

‘Uh … maybe we should talk about this, Mother,’ I said cautiously. ‘I mean, the Winter Festival meal’s no time for experiments, is it?’ Not sodding Phormio’s kind of experiments, anyway, even if we did have a doctor on hand. Which wouldn’t be much help if Clarus was down in the latrine or bent over a bucket along with the rest of us.

‘Oh, don’t be so boring, Marcus! You’re such a fuddy-duddy traditionalist! It’ll be an experience, I promise you.’

Right. Well, I was ready to go along with her on that score, certainly. And personally I’d rather spend the festival as a fuddy-duddy traditionalist with all his digestive organs still intact and functioning than an avant-garde gourmet who had to wear his running shoes to bed. Still, we’d a few days’ grace before Phormio had his evil way with us. Maybe a solution would present itself.

Time for tact, and a change of subject.

‘Incidentally, Priscus,’ I said. ‘I’ve a present for you.’ The ivory plaque was still in my belt pouch. I took it out and handed it to him. ‘Look and marvel.’

‘ Mmaa! ’ He held the thing up to the light and examined it. ‘Oh, how very nice! Thank you, Marcus. You really shouldn’t have. What an interesting design.’

‘Yeah. It’s Sicilian. About a century and a half old, the guy in the shop said.’

‘Oh, no. The original may have been Sicilian — the design certainly is, Archimedes lecturing, I think — but this is a copy.’

‘ What? ’

‘ Mmaaa! You didn’t know? Well, it really doesn’t matter; it’s the thought that counts. Representations of Archimedes are quite common in Sicilian minor art of the period, particularly, naturally, that of Syracuse. Possibly as a covert expression of contemporary anti-Roman feeling, since of course he was quite the local hero and his death at the hands of the — in Greek eyes — philistine Roman captors of the city was viewed by its citizens as-’

‘Hang on a minute, Priscus,’ I said. ‘Are you saying the thing’s a fake?’

‘But of course it is.’

Jupiter! ‘You sure?’

‘ Mwahahaha! ’ He chuckled; not a pretty sight or sound. ‘Oh, come now, really, my dear boy! You only have to look at the patina! It’s obvious!’

Yeah, well, maybe it was, to your average antiquarian nut who could deliver an impromptu lecture on hundred-and-fifty-year-old Sicilian minor art at the drop of a hat. Me, I’d just have said that the thing was yellow.

‘So, mwahahaha , you bought it as genuine, then?’

‘Yeah, I did. From a shop in Bovillae.’

‘Oh, dear, oh dear! Mwahahaha! In that case, Marcus, I shouldn’t patronize it again, if I were you. The owner obviously doesn’t know a thing about what he’s selling. Or, of course, you’ve been sold a pup.’

‘Guy by the name of Baebius. Ring any bells?’

‘Quintus Baebius?’ He blinked at me. ‘Indeed it does, my boy, indeed it does! Quite a loud one. We’ve met on occasion, in the Saepta and at auctions.’

‘He know his stuff?’

‘Certainly! Mmmaaa! Oh, he’s an expert, all right, quite the aficionado. Alexandrian period, if I remember, specialising in the Asian cities. But from what I’ve heard he’s — mmmaa — not quite pukka, shall we say. Hairy in the hoof and too ready to take the main chance when it’s offered, that’s about the fellow’s measure. What today’s youngsters would no doubt call — mmmaa — a bit of a wide boy.’

Would they, indeed? ‘Is that so, now?’ I said. ‘Thanks, Priscus.’

‘ Mmmaaaa . A nice enough piece in itself, though. Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’ I was thinking hard. Passing off a fake antique as genuine didn’t exactly rank as the crime of the century; not when it could only have brought in a couple of extra gold pieces, max. And, if I believed his door slave, which I did, Baebius couldn’t have committed at least the first of the two murders. However, the guy evidently wasn’t the honest, solid citizen he pretended to be, and we still had a quite genuinely valuable figurine to account for, which the chances were that Caesius had had on him the evening that he died. Me, I wouldn’t trust the bastard’s word that he hadn’t got it now if he swore blind by every god in the pantheon. Plus the fact that we had the coincidence of him and the murdered man being members of the same club in Rome to consider.