David Wishart - Solid Citizens

‘No, sir. He behaved much as usual.’

‘No mention of an enemy, or a quarrel, or even a recent disagreement with anyone?’

‘There was an unpleasant incident in the main street with one of the local farmers. A Quintus Roscius, as I recall.’

‘Yeah, I know about that. Something to do with business, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir. I’m afraid I don’t know the details. It was connected with the repayment of a loan, I think.’

‘Caesius was in the loans business?’

‘No, not as such. He dealt in property. Buying and selling. Particularly with clients in Rome who were interested in acquiring land in the area for building purposes. He travelled to Rome quite frequently, at least once a month.’

‘So you can’t think of anyone he was on bad terms with? Apart from this Roscius.’

‘No, I’m afraid not. Certainly not recently. Oh, I’m not saying that he got on perfectly with everyone he had dealings with. The master was very much a man of business, and he would drive the best bargain he could. But he never acted in a way that anyone could honestly complain about.’

Well, I couldn’t really expect more than that. Men like Caesius — and I knew plenty of them in Rome — were pretty tough nuts. They had to be, to pay the bills at the end of the month, and in the world of business softness and a readiness to allow the other guy the best of the deal weren’t survival traits. Besides, I wasn’t too dissatisfied: I’d got quite a lot from Anthus, all I could for the time being, anyway. Certainly the background was filling in as well as I could’ve hoped.

I stood up.

‘OK, pal,’ I said. ‘Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.’

‘Don’t mention it, sir. If it helps to find the master’s killer then it’s my pleasure. I’ll see you out.’

So. An estranged brother who’d inherit and a nephew with form who’d just moved back into the area, right?

Things were complicating nicely.

After leaving Caesius’s house I headed back along the Hinge towards the centre of town.

So. The funeral was at the seventh hour, was it? I glanced up at the sun. Just shy of noon: I’d just over an hour to kill. So who did I have to talk to? There was Novius, of course, the dodgy lawyer; where the matter of a will and so the question of cui bono went, he was the logical next interviewee, plus he might be able to point me in the direction of Caesius’s brother Lucius. His office, if I remembered rightly from before, was in the top part of town near the baths, only a couple of blocks up from the market square where as far as I was concerned the ceremony would start from. Close enough, in other words, for a there-and-back where available time went. Chances were, though, that he wouldn’t be there at present: as one of Bovillae’s Great and Good, and a close friend and associate of the dead man’s, he was probably at home changing into his mourning mantle for the funeral. Novius could wait for another day. Besides, when you’re digging the dirt on a local celebrity there ain’t no better place to start than a bar, and I reckoned I’d earned a break.

When I came down to Bovillae I had a favourite one, where the owner knew his way around the Second Growth local wines and stocked the best his customers could afford. It was pretty close, too, down one of the streets directly across from the market square itself. So I made for that.

There was a small antiques shop a few yards before it that was either new or one that I hadn’t noticed before: a chi-chi rarity that you’re beginning to see more of these days in the towns of the Alban Hills, now the big money’s arrived in the form of well-heeled second-home owners from Rome. I slowed as I passed; like I said, we were expecting Mother and Priscus to join us for the festival, and the old guy’s birthday — which particular one it was exactly I wasn’t absolutely certain, probably, by the look of him, his hundred and forty-seventh — was in four days’ time. Oh, sure, Perilla had probably already bought him something — she was the shopper in the family — but it wouldn’t hurt to take a look. And these places out in the sticks are still a lot cheaper than Rome. With some of the prices they charge in the Saepta, if you want something decent you have to pawn your grandmother.

I went in.

It was well-stocked; some pretty nice stuff, too. The shopkeeper, an old guy in a freedman’s cap, was arthritically polishing up the bronze of a horseman that looked like it was way outside my price bracket.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ he said.

‘No, that’s OK, pal, you just carry on.’ I closed the door behind me. ‘I’ll just browse, if you don’t mind.’

‘Certainly. Feel free.’ He went back to his polishing. Good sign. Me, I’m no fan of pressure salesmanship, and in some places in Rome the guy behind the desk would have been up and starting his personal guided tour of the priciest items before you could say ‘hustler’.

It was good stuff, right enough, and to be fair the prices weren’t exorbitant. Which meant the numbers didn’t completely fill the tags. Still, I kept to the shallow end of the range: miniatures, rings, clay figurines, that sort of thing. On one of the tables there was a collection of nice little ivory plaques, like you see inlaid in trinket boxes. I drifted over, picked one up, and examined it.

The plaque showed a philosopher, or a rhetoric-teacher, or something, finger raised and frozen in the act of making an abstruse point to a bored-looking student standing beside him. I grinned: the philosopher was the spitting image of Priscus sounding off about the optative mood in Ancient Sabine.

Perfect; absolutely perfect. The thing wasn’t all that expensive, either: even if Perilla had got him something already, we could add it to the pot.

I took it over to the guy on the desk.

‘I’ll have this one, friend,’ I said.

‘Ah, yes.’ He peered at it myopically. ‘Syracusan. A good choice, sir.’

‘How old is it, do you know?’

‘A century and a half, it would be. Give or take a decade.’

Yeah, well, that’d fit with Priscus, then. Like I said, perfect.

‘You’ve got some nice pieces here.’ I took out my purse. ‘How long have you had the shop?’

‘Oh, it isn’t mine, sir. I just run it for the owner. Quintus Baebius, that is. A very knowledgeable gentleman, and a keen collector himself.’

A collector, right? ‘Like Quintus Caesius,’ I said, handing over the money and putting the plaque into the purse for safe keeping. ‘They, uh, friends or associates at all?’

‘The magistrate?’ The old man laughed. ‘Oh, bless you, no, sir! He’s got no time for Caesius, has the master.’

‘Is that so, now?’

‘He won’t hear his name mentioned, not this long time. You’re a friend of his yourself?’

I shot him a look, but there was nothing in his rather simple expression other than polite curiosity. ‘I, uh, met him recently, yeah,’ I said. Well, I had, in a manner of speaking. ‘You don’t get out much, do you?’

‘No, sir, I must confess I’m afraid that I don’t, or as little as I can. I live over the shop, you see. And my legs aren’t strong these days. Nor my eyesight. I go with the master to an auction sometimes, just out of interest, so long as it’s close by and there’s things worth seeing, but that’s about all.’

I made a point of examining the bronze horseman that he’d set down on the desk. ‘So what’s Baebius got against Quintus Caesius, then?’ I said casually. ‘If you don’t mind my asking?’

‘Oh, no, sir, I don’t mind at all. No secret there. They’re real birds of a feather, Caesius and the master. Don’t like to be beat, neither of them, and living practically cheek by jowl’s made it worse. You should see them at the auctions; it’s a tonic, especially when they’re both after the same piece. Spitting cats isn’t in it.’