David Wishart - Last Rites

Which was as far as the lady got before the giggles took her. We sat down on the nearest couch and hugged each other until our sides stopped hurting.

Finally I looked up. The atrium was empty except for Bathyllus, the bucket and the stepladder, and every hair in the little guy’s nostrils was quivering with disapproval. Bad sign; bad sign. Bathyllus has a list of many heinous social gaffes and outright crimes in that card index that he calls a brain, but we’d just committed the worst of the lot, for which there was no forgiveness: we had abandoned our seigneurial gravitas before the entire assembled staff.

This was going to take us months to live down.

‘Uh, they’ve gone,’ I said.

Silence. Finally, Bathyllus said, ‘Yes, sir.’ You could’ve used his tone to pickle mummies.

‘I’m, ah, sorry about that, little guy.’ Perilla started giggling again and I elbowed her in the ribs. ‘It was just, uh, unexpected, you know?’

‘Yes, sir. Quite, sir.’ Ice was beginning to glister in the ornamental pool.

I indicated the bucket. ‘You, ah, can get Alexis to handle that, pal. Or maybe one of the skivvies. The mistress’ll see to the ducks when she’s feeling more herself.’ I clapped a hand over Perilla’s mouth just in time and held it there while she gave way to another spasm. ‘Which had better be pretty damn soon if she wants to make the Winter Festival with her wedding ring still in place.’

Bathyllus’s grade-A glare can freeze the balls off an imperial legate at twenty yards. The one we got now might’ve managed thirty. ‘Thank you, sir. Madam. Will that be all?’

‘Yeah. Tell Meton we’re ready to eat.’

‘Certainly, sir.’ He stalked off.

Ouch.

Bathyllus was still pretty sniffy next morning. He wasn’t having anything to do with the clock, either, so I made a unilateral decision and handed control of the thing – under Perilla – to Alexis. There isn’t much gardening to be done in December (the garden’s Alexis’s province; his choice, not mine) and like I say he’s the smartest of the Corvinus ménage with a genuine interest in what’s going on outside his own narrow world.

Me, I’d a busy schedule lined up. First was another trip to the fluteplayers’ guildhouse to arrange a meeting with Thalia. Second, over to the House of the Vestals – or rather to the chief priest’s house next door, because rough uncouth men weren’t allowed across that hallowed threshold – to give Junia Torquata an update on the latest developments; that I wasn’t looking forward to. Third…

Third was Caelius Crispus. That little encounter wasn’t going to be a barrel of laughs either. Crispus and I went way back, and he’d loathed my and Perilla’s corporate guts ever since the lady had got him thrown out of Rome’s premier bachelor club on the Pincian. Threatening to slit his throat, losing him his Treasury job and putting the screws on him three months back when he was the praetor’s rep for the Caere district hadn’t helped much, either. Still, Crispus was my best bet when it came to the Aemilia angle, because when it came to rooting through the dirty linen basket Caelius Crispus was a greasy neck ahead of the field. He might be on his way up – repping for an out-of-city judge was a pretty prestigious job for someone with his antecedents, or lack of them – but the reason was still who he knew. Or more to the point what he knew about who that they’d rather he didn’t and were willing to pay in money or position for the privilege of keeping the lid on.

Celer, the fussy little expediter, was in residence when I got to the guildhouse.

‘Ah, Valerius Corvinus,’ he beamed. ‘Did you find Aegle?’

‘Sure. No problem.’

‘Oh, that is good!’

I rubbed the side of my nose with a silver piece. ‘Actually, I’ve got another favour to ask you. That Thalia girl. She been around since we last spoke?’

The smile slipped. ‘What would you want with Thalia in particular, sir? I understood that -’

‘Just a few questions,’ I said smoothly. ‘Aegle told me the girl might be the best one to answer them. You seen her yesterday or today?’

‘To tell the truth, no I haven’t.’ Now the guy was looking slightly peeved. ‘Which is very annoying, because she has a booking tonight and there’ve been some changes to the original arrangements.’

A feather of cold brushed my spine. ‘Is she, uh, usually conscientious about checking in?’ I said.

‘Of course.’ He sniffed. ‘All the girls are. It’s in their own interests if they want to eat. But I’ve seen nothing of Thalia since before the ceremony at the consul’s house.’

Damn. Well, there was no point in worrying until I had to. From what Aegle had said the girl was probably shacked up with a client somewhere working her embouchure off. ‘If I gave you my address could you send her round as soon as she turns up?’

The beam came back. ‘No problem whatsoever, sir. This would be a professional engagement, I take it?’

‘Uh, yeah.’ Bugger. Well, it might simplify the issue. ‘Yeah, okay. If you like.’

‘Good.’ He took the pen from his belt. The Alexandrian port authorities could’ve used the beam now to power their lighthouse. ‘In that case standard last-minute guild rates would apply. Payable in advance, of course.’ He named a figure and I blanched. Gods! That explained Aegle’s opinion of the guy: if I were making that much of a rake-off from my clients I’d be able to underwrite the Treasury. I slipped the silver piece back where it came from; who needs chicken-feed when you can eat caviar? ‘I’ll send her right over. Previous commitments permitting, naturally.’

‘You do that, sunshine.’ I gave him the address, sourly, together with a large proportion of the coins in my purse. ‘Tell her to wait until I get back. Oh, and have a nice day.’

‘You too, sir.’

Bastard. I set off through the Subura towards Market Square. At least the weather had improved.

The House of the Vestals and the chief priest’s official residence are part of the same building, fronting on New Street next to Vesta’s temple itself. Like I say, there was no point in knocking on the Vestals’ door because I’d just have got the bum’s rush, so I went round to the other entrance and asked for Camillus who in the absence of the Wart in his chief-priestly capacity was currently in occupation.

The slave who opened up could’ve deputised for the high priest of Jupiter himself, if you’d given him the fancy hat and the right togs. Scratch that: give the guy an electrum thunderbolt and a gold-wire beard and he could’ve done the god.

‘Yes, sir?’ he said. Uttered. Enunciated.

‘The master in, sunshine?’

‘I will enquire. Your name?’ I told him. He let me in and waited until I’d wiped my feet carefully on the mat. ‘If you will be kind enough to follow me?’

I dogged his august footsteps into the hall where he left me communing with the fancy artwork the state had filched over the years to decorate the surroundings allocated to the holder of its principle religious office. Actually – this was the first time I’d been in the place – it was pretty seedy. I’d guess from the chewed look of some of the woodwork the deputy chief priest had rodent problems.

‘Good morning, Valerius Corvinus.’ Furius Camillus was coming towards me in an old tunic and slippers. ‘How pleasant to see you again, my dear fellow. You have some news?’

‘Uh, yeah.’ I cleared my throat. ‘But if it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d like Junia Torquata to be present before I tell you.’

Camillus raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh. Oh, dear. As bad as that, eh?’ I didn’t answer. ‘Well, come through to the study and I’ll send someone round to see if the lady’s free. Lucius!’ The Jupiter look-alike manifested himself. ‘Send next door, will you? My compliments to the chief Vestal, and would she favour us with a visit at her very earliest convenience.’ He turned back to me. ‘Now, Corvinus, this way. I won’t bother to change if it’s all the same to you. Fortunately I have no official engagements myself this morning, and Junia won’t mind in the slightest, we’re old friends. You’re a fast worker, I’ll give you that, my boy.’