David Wishart - Last Rites

‘Morning, little guy.’ I stretched out on the couch and reached for one of Meton’s poppy-seed rolls. ‘Sleep well?’

‘Yes, sir.’ He set down a bowl of what looked like yoghurt with jam through it. Uh-huh; I’d have to watch that lady. The last thing I wanted was a second Mother on my hands. ‘You had another message, by the way, sir. Delivered shortly after you and the mistress left yesterday evening.’

There was a ghost of a sniff in the little guy’s voice. I’d been tearing off a scrap of the bread. I stopped. ‘Yeah?’ I said. ‘What kind of message?’

‘An invitation to call at the Lepidus mansion, sir.’ Bathyllus had on his prim expression. ‘The sender being the ex-consul’s daughter.’

Well, that explained the disapproval: as a guardian of morals Bathyllus had old Cato beat six ways from nothing. I put the roll to one side. An invitation, right? Jupiter! That I hadn’t expected, especially since last time I’d been practically thrown out of the house on my metaphorical ear. And from Lepida, not the father; interestinger and interestinger. ‘She give any sort of reason?’ I asked.

‘No, sir.’ The little bald-head treated me to a full-scale sniff this time. According to the tenets of the Bathyllus moral code invitations from unattached females with reputations like Lepida’s were the equivalent of being hit by a bra from a balcony. I’d just bet he’d chosen to tell me now on purpose, rather than pass on the news last night while Perilla was around. ‘She did, however, stress that the matter was of some urgency.’

‘Yeah, okay. Thanks, Bathyllus.’ While he finished laying out the goodies I settled back, tore a bit off the roll and dipped it in oil. My brain was buzzing. Some urgency, right? What the hell did ice-bitch Lepida have for me that was so urgent she would send a skivvy round at an ungodly hour and yank me up the Quirinal before the cypress branches round the family door had even dried out? It had to have something to do with her brother, sure; but I’d as much idea of the whys and the wherefores as I had of basket-weaving. Still, I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity, and the invite would give me a chance to check the lady out. But to do that properly I needed intelligent help.

Bathyllus had unloaded his last plate of prunes and was heading for the kitchen, his back still radiating disapproval.

‘Hey, little guy,’ I said. He turned. ‘Alexis around?’

‘I expect so, sir.’

‘Fine. Send him through, would you? I’ve got a job for him.’ I kept my face straight. ‘Oh, and when the mistress surfaces you can tell her I’ve gone to the Market Square for a shave.’

Bathyllus gave another sniff, and his mouth looked like he’d just taken a swig from the pickle-barrel. ‘A shave in Market Square, sir.’ He eyed my already stubble-free chin. ‘Yes, sir. Certainly, sir.’

I didn’t smile until he’d gone. Yeah, well, maybe I shouldn’t wind the prissy little so-and-so up, but he couldn’t get much fun out of life and the whiff of vicarious scandal would keep him sniffing happily until dinner-time.

The weather had turned nasty again and it was chucking it down like there was no tomorrow, so I stilled my prejudices and went by chair. Litters I hate – they make me feel queasy, even when they’re carried by a good team – but it being daylight the ban on wheels was in force and Lysias and the coach weren’t an option. Besides, the Lepidus ménage was no place to turn up looking like a half-drowned rat. I’d been careful to put on my best mantle, for a start.

We got there. Eventually. Sure, Perilla uses the litter on occasion, but she’s not a honey-wine-and-tartlets socialiser by nature so the litter guys aren’t exactly lean, mean and speedy; with the result that when I do take them out they tend to breathe heavy, move slow and arrive knackered. Especially when the target destination is the Quirinal with its chichi panoramic views and one-in-three gradients. Alexis ran alongside; he doesn’t mind the rain, and an extra body to tote would’ve finished those lardballs off when we hit the first slope. Embarrassing, really.

We left them heaving their lungs out against the Lepidus family’s street-side wall. Alexis worked the door knocker, and while my old pal the Faithful Retainer showed me through to the lady’s private apartments he went off, suitably instructed, to mix with the other ranks in the servants’ quarters. I was beginning to get the feel of the place now, so I wasn’t surprised when I was led down half a mile of snazzy marbled corridor to a self-contained wing that for elegance wouldn’t’ve disgraced one of Tiberius’s villas on Capri; only I’d seen a couple of these, and the decorators Lepida patronised were clearly guys of much more robust taste. Forget the usual fruit-and-pheasant tat or Perseus holding up the head of Medusa; this artwork would’ve had Perilla reaching for the whitewash and Bathyllus slipping his hernia support. I noticed that my still none too friendly Mercury kept his eyes front and centre; but then perhaps he was used to it.

We reached a door with a simple pastoral scene carved into the panelling. I didn’t have much time to check out the details, but from a cursory glance I’d reckon that it didn’t have a lot to do with milking goats. The slave rapped sharply and waited.

‘Yes, Venustus.’

Old Faithful turned the knob so the door opened a crack, then stepped back. Uh-huh. I recognised standing orders in operation when I saw them: no peeking on the part of the bought help at what the mistress currently had on offer, evidently. Bathyllus could be right. I put my hand against the unlikely opulence of the courting swain’s girlfriend’s bosom and pushed.

No, she wasn’t lying naked on a bed of rose petals stroking a cat; not even close. She was sitting at a desk going through what looked like a set of accounts.

‘Ah, Valerius Corvinus. You got my message.’ Cool enough, but, lack of the traditional encouragements to seduction or not, the lady was something. No mourning now, despite the cypresses outside; her mantle was pure silk – Indian, not Coan, from the sheen – and whoever had done her make-up could’ve given Dioscorides a run for his pigments. Added to which, like I said before, she was a grade-A stunner with bells on. ‘Come in, please. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.’

Not a boudoir or a study; something halfway between, with a definite air of business to it. Centre stage was a reading couch that looked suspiciously wide – maybe the decoration on the outside of the door wasn’t so out of place after all – but I ignored it in favour of a folding stool.

Lepida smiled and put the wax tablets away.

‘I don’t bite, Corvinus,’ she said. There was a final-sounding click as the door closed behind me.

‘You want me to take a second opinion on that, lady?’ I said.

‘Actually, no.’ The smile broadened; long and slow. ‘Second opinion might not back me up. But then perhaps the concomitant circumstances might not be quite as unpleasant as you seem to imagine.’ Uh-huh. ‘Now. Would you like some wine?’

‘Yeah. Thanks. Wine would be great.’

There was a tray on a side table. She stood up, poured for both of us and passed me the cup. Her fingertips brushed my hand. It could’ve been accidental, but I wouldn’t’ve taken any bets.

‘Before we go on,’ she said, ‘I’d like to apologise. When you were here last I froze you out. It wasn’t anything personal.’

‘That’s okay.’ I took a sip of the wine. It was Caecuban; good Caecuban. ‘No problem. I hardly even noticed.’

That got me a brief glare: evidently in Lepida’s book not noticing how she reacted to you was a first-magnitude crime. ‘Father’s so stuffy, you see,’ she said. ‘I find myself playing up to him. And with Marcus dead…’ She left the sentence hanging and sat down on the couch, so close to me we were almost touching. The couch’s covering was blue velvet, and the nap looked well worn. Her perfume was grade A too.