David Wishart - White Murder

So Felicula, much though I’d liked her, was most definitely still in the running. Why she would’ve done it – or had it done – was a separate issue. I doubted whether the motive was simple jealousy. There hadn’t been any indication, so far anyway, that Pegasus was tom-catting – quite the contrary, if his feud with Laomedon was anything to go by – and having met the lady I was ready to take her at her own valuation. Also, a rich bubblehead who got her kicks from squiring one of Rome’s top drivers might’ve had him stabbed out of pique if he’d given her the brush-off, but Felicula was no bubblehead; if she decided to kill someone, it’d be for a much less simple reason.

The rain started before I was half way through the Carinae. By the time I hit Head of Africa I was soaked. I could’ve called in at mother’s, but why make matters worse?

Not that I knew at that point, of course, that even mother’s was preferable to what was waiting for me at home.

Bathyllus had the wine all right this time, but he was looking distinctly subdued: there was something… internal about his manner as he handed me the cup that just didn’t square with the sarky, supercilious ray of sunshine that we knew and loved.

‘Uh, hey, Bathyllus,’ I said as I handed over my wet mantle. ‘You ill or something, pal?’

He compressed his lips. ‘No, sir.’

‘A bereavement? Anything like that?’ I didn’t know much about Bathyllus’s family, although he’d mentioned a brother in Thessalonica once. Not that I could imagine the little bald-head having anything as messy as a childhood. My guess was that the brother was a blind and he’d sprung full-formed from a broom closet, like Athene from the head of Zeus.

‘No, sir.’

‘Uh-huh. So what’s the trouble? You lose your truss in the wash? The Watch on the point of nailing you as the Caelian Flasher? One of the kitchen maids is pregnant?’

He coloured up and gave me the ghost of a sniff, but the guy’s heart obviously wasn’t in it. ‘No, sir. None of these things. Nothing at all, in fact.’ He folded the mantle carefully, avoiding my eye. ‘Did you enjoy your day?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, it was okay.’ I frowned as I moved towards the atrium. Jupiter, this was bad! I couldn’t even wind him up any more! The gods knew what was bugging the little guy, but things were going beyond a joke. Still, if he wouldn’t confide he wouldn’t confide, and I’ve never believed in coming the hard-hearted master. ‘Perilla at home?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Perilla. My wife. The mistress.’

‘She’s working, sir. In her study.’

‘Fine, fine. Give me the jug, Bathyllus.’ I paused. ‘The jug, sunshine. Okay?’

I took it from his nerveless fingers and went upstairs. Perilla was at her desk with a writing tablet and half a dozen serious book rolls arranged tidily in front of her. She looked up, smiled and lifted her chin for the welcome-home kiss. I set the jug and the wine-cup on the table by the reading couch and stretched out.

‘Bathyllus,’ I said.

The smile faded. She put down her stylus. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with him, Marcus. He’s been roaming the house like a ghost, you have to say everything twice, and he broke an ornament this morning. That little glass dolphin I bought in Antioch.’

I winced. Not because of the dolphin; I’d never liked that thing. But Bathyllus with a feather duster was pure poetry in motion. I couldn’t’ve been more shocked if he’d taken a scrubbing-brush to the wall paintings. ‘He won’t talk to you either?’

She shook her head. ‘Not a word. Do you think we should call in a doctor?’

‘No. The guy isn’t ill, as far as I can see. He just has something on his mind, that’s all.’ I took a swig of the wine. ‘But we can’t go on like this. The poor bastard’s suffering.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘The gods know. Whatever it is, it’s serious. And it isn’t getting any better. We have to find out.’

‘How? He won’t tell us.’

‘Okay. So maybe one of the other lads can.’

Perilla chewed her lip. ‘Is that ethical? If Bathyllus doesn’t want to confide then we can’t just go behind his back.’

‘The hell with that. We can’t help him unless we know the problem.’

I got up and went to the window. Perilla’s study looked down onto the garden, which was the self-elected province of smart-as-paint Alexis. The rain had stopped, and sure enough there was the guy himself engaged in two-spit-double-mulching, or whatever Varro’s Gardener’s Year recommended for late March. If my young horticulturist had a second name it would be Conscientious.

‘Hey, Alexis!’ I shouted. His head lifted. ‘Up here! The mistress’s study, spit-spot!’ He gave me an answering wave and left his spade in mid-mulch.

Perilla was still looking doubtful. ‘It does seem too much like prying,’ she said.

‘Prying nothing.’ I filled my cup from the jug: being in Perilla’s study with all these books glaring down at me always gives me a nervous thirst. ‘We have a seriously-disturbed major-domo here. Everything’s going fairly smoothly at the moment but it’s just a matter of time before the place starts to fall apart. It’s my simple duty as head of the household.’

‘Well.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. How was your day, incidentally?’

‘I’ll tell you later. We’ve got more important things to think about at present than murder.’

We twiddled our thumbs while Alexis, presumably, washed the layer of topsoil off himself and dragged a comb through his hair: I’d said I wanted him spit-spot, but the guy had his own standards, and leaving half the Caelian on the stairs in his wake didn’t play any part in them. Besides, even in his present weakened state Bathyllus would’ve had the guy’s guts for truss strings. Finally, he knocked and came in.

‘Yes, sir.’

There was no point beating about the bush. ‘What’s up with Bathyllus, pal?’ I asked.

He looked at his feet and shuffled them. ‘Er -’

Jupiter on a see-saw! ‘Come on, Alexis! You know! Spit it out! That’s an order!’

The guy swallowed painfully. ‘I…ah…’ His Adam’s-apple bobbed again.

I was really alarmed now. Alexis was one of the best, hardly a slave at all. We had a good relationship going. If he was that chary about spilling the beans then the situation was Serious with a capital S. ‘Look, whatever it is, however bad it is, it can be fixed,’ I said. ‘But we can’t do anything until we know what we’re up against.’

‘Oh, no, sir.’ Alexis coloured. ‘It’s nothing like that. It’s just that he’s…ah…’ – he swallowed again – ‘Bathyllus is in love, sir.’

I nearly dropped my cup. Beside me I heard Perilla gasp. ‘He’s what? ’

Alexis was as red as one of his own radishes. ‘With the housekeeper next door,’ he said.

Oh, holy gods! ‘Bathyllus?’

‘Yes, sir.’ He glanced reproachfully at Perilla who was having a choking fit. ‘It isn’t funny, madam.’

Yeah; I’d forgotten that the kid had been smitten himself not all that far back. I’d wondered how the affair was going, but how Alexis spent his occasional free hours was none of my concern. I managed to keep my face straight.

It wasn’t easy, mind.

‘Titus Petillius’s housekeeper?’ I said; Petillius was our neighbour, a hefty Etrurian very big in the mantle-dyeing business. ‘She’s in her eighties!’

‘No, sir. The new one. She only arrived a few days ago. Her name’s Tyndaris.’

Oh, joy in the morning! The little chubby chap with the wings and archery set didn’t put off, did he? ‘What’s she like?’