David Wishart - Solid Citizens

‘It wasn’t murder,’ he said quietly. ‘Not the first death. You were wrong about that. Caesius’s death was an accident.’

Joy in the morning!

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘You want to tell me?’

‘Why not? You have most of it. You may as well get your facts right. And I’m no killer, not by nature. Mettius and the woman — well, they were necessary. Besides, as you say, one was a crook and the other was a whore.’

Delivery cold as hell. If I’d had any sympathy for him — which I didn’t, really — that’s when it would’ve vanished.

Baebius picked up the statuette and turned it over in his hands. He didn’t look at me.

‘I was in Rome halfway through last month,’ he said. ‘There was a new club I’d heard of which had recently opened, and I wanted to look it over. A gentleman’s club, very private, very expensive.’

‘The Crimson Lotus. In Pallacina Road.’

His eyes came up, and for the first time they showed genuine surprise. ‘Now how the hell did you know that?’ he said.

‘You were there a few days ago. I saw you myself.’

There was a long silence. Baebius’s eyes were still locked with mine. Then he shrugged and dropped his gaze.

‘Evidently you’re a darker horse than I took you for, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Interesting. But it’s of no great matter. As you’ll no doubt know, then, if you’ve been there, the Lotus … specializes. Young slaves like Clitus, who let you in. Anyway, as I say I was there about a month ago and I happened to bump into Quintus Caesius. He was with a little Ethiopian boy of no more than nine or ten. With being the operative word. I was shocked.’ He smiled. ‘I didn’t know, you see. Up to then, I’d never even considered the possibility. No one had, no one did. Like me, he’d been very careful to keep that side of his life a secret, by indulging his inclinations only in Rome, and with slaves whose job it was to cater for him. Unlike me, though, to him the secrecy mattered. I hide things only out of politeness. Bovillans are very provincial, in all the senses of the word. If they discovered that I consorted with young men — rather than, as at present, simply suspected it — my friends and acquaintances would find the fact at the very least embarrassing, and although I’m not at all ashamed of what I am I have no wish to cause them pain. However, to me, personally, it would not be of great importance.’

‘But to Caesius it would,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘Very much so. Particularly since his penchant was for the pre-adolescent variety. He was a highly respected public figure who had just been elected censor. A position in which he would be exercising moral judgement over the citizen body. Even the rumour that he was a practising paedophile would have ruined him completely.’

‘So you decided to blackmail him.’

He was still holding the bronze. He set it down carefully before answering.

‘I’d put it differently,’ he said. ‘For all he was no friend of mine, I had the utmost respect for Quintus Caesius. He may have played rough at times as a rival collector, but we were both self-confessed fanatics in that field; you must expect these things and exercise a certain give-and-take. Also, he was an extremely hard-headed businessman, one possibly not too averse to cutting corners, so long as he was acting within the law. However, as far as I know, in his public dealings he was scrupulously honest. Uniquely so, in fact. I’d no wish to damage him there.’

‘So asking for the Runner in exchange for your silence was a one-off?’

Baebius nodded. ‘There was a certain element of pique involved, I admit: when he’d stolen a march on me and bought it in advance of the auction it had been going a little too far, and I resented it out of all proportion to the thing’s worth, both monetary and aesthetic. But that would’ve been the end of it; there would have been no later demands, I give you my word on that, as I gave it to him. As I saw it, he had cheated me and I was rectifying the situation. I even offered to give him back the money he had paid for it.’

‘So what went wrong?’

‘I’m not sure. I suspect that my continued silence was so important to him that he simply didn’t believe me, or couldn’t take the risk of trusting me. After all, we were long-standing enemies. In the event, at the meeting in the wool store while the transfer was being made he suddenly attacked me with a knife. There was a struggle, I got the upper hand, and he fell backwards, hitting his head on a lump of masonry. When I looked, he was obviously either dead or very seriously injured. I panicked and ran, stupidly forgetting to pick up the statuette. Then I went home. And that’s all I know.’ He looked at me. ‘I didn’t see your witness — Dossenus, was it? I didn’t even know of his existence, until you told me just now. If I had, then I’m afraid I would have had to kill him too.’

Yeah, well, it all added up, I’d give him that. And whether he was actually telling the truth about Caesius attacking him was academic now. Me, I could see it happening: like he said, the guy must’ve been desperate, and perhaps it wasn’t too much out of character, given the circumstances. The knife might still be there to find, or Dossenus might’ve taken it, which would prove things one way or the other, but that was no concern of mine. Let Silius Nerva and his oh-so-respectable cronies in the senate deal with their own dirty linen from here on in.

‘One more thing,’ I said. ‘Not for me, but my son-in-law will be curious. The murder weapon. What did you use to kill Mettius and Andromeda? Presumably you took something with you.’

‘Ah.’ He went over to a stand of walking sticks in the corner. My two rod men shifted uneasily, and he glanced at me and smiled. ‘May I?’

‘Go ahead.’

He pulled out one of the sticks: ebony, with a silver head. ‘I take it with me on my outings in Rome,’ he said. ‘For obvious reasons, I prefer to be accompanied only by a single torch slave on the nocturnal parts of these, and I find this very useful. The top six inches are filled with lead, and I’m quite proficient in its use.’ He put the stick back, and I could hear the rod men relax. ‘So. What happens now?’

‘That’s up to the authorities,’ I said. ‘These gentlemen — ’ I glanced over my shoulder at the two rod men — ‘will take you to Nerva. Or whoever. Me, I’m out of it.’

‘Job done?’ There was just a trace of sarcasm in his voice. I ignored it.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Job done.’ I turned to go. ‘Oh, by the way. That ivory plaque you sold me. Or your freedman did, rather. It was a fake.’

‘Was it really?’ He didn’t sound too surprised, or interested, which, given the events of the last ten minutes or so, was understandable. For someone who was looking at either exile or the strangler’s noose, a little minor fraud wasn’t going to weigh much. ‘I’m sorry. Call in at the shop and tell Nausiphanes from me he’s to refund the cost. You needn’t return the plaque. Consider it a Festival gift.’

I nodded. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re very welcome. Happy Winter Festival.’

I didn’t answer.

Like he’d said, job done. Not that the fact had left a very pleasant taste in my mouth, but then it seldom did. I left the rod men to it, and went home.

Winter Festival morning.

Like I said right at the start, the Winter Festival’s really for the bought help, which is fair enough: the poor buggers have a pretty rotten time of it for most of the year, and it won’t do the empire much lasting harm if they’re allowed to let their hair down — within reason, of course — for three or four days in mid-December. Then, naturally, there’s the tradition aspect, and that’s for everyone to enjoy. Some things like the roast pork dinner, the gambling games, dressing up in party gear and being sick from overeating are pretty standard, but each family has its own traditions. We like to start the day with the presents, and Clarus and Marilla have followed suit.