David Wishart - Last Rites

‘Uh, okay, thanks,’ I said. ‘We’re getting there.’

‘That’s good.’ He sat down in the chair next to mine and Philemon’s second-stringer put the napkin round his neck. ‘I don’t envy you your job. It’s a messy business, but the bastard has to be caught. The gods know where it would leave the state if the killer of a Vestal went unpunished.’

I glanced sideways at him while Philemon tutted and fished his slip of pumice off my lap where the movement had sent it. Nomentanus hadn’t struck me as a particularly religious guy, which was what the comment implied, but then the Vestals are something special: feelings about them go deep, and even your hardened modern religious sceptic is leery of the consequences if things involving them get out of kilter. ‘Yeah,’ I said; then, because I knew the thought was bound to be in his mind: ‘Hey, I’m sorry about the rites.’

He shrugged. ‘It can’t be helped. Best to be safe than sorry. The Senate’s making an extra allowance under the circumstances, and the emperor might chip in with an ex-gratia. I won’t lose all that much.’ Well, I was glad he didn’t seem too cut up: the next step on the ladder from city judge is the consulship itself, and running for that is pricey, even in these supposedly egalitarian days. Nomentanus obviously wasn’t too badly strapped for cash. ‘You have any leads on the man who did it? The bogus flutegirl?’

‘Some.’ I was cautious: you don’t mention outright to one of Rome’s serving elite that you’re delving through a current consul’s dirty laundry. The beautiful and good are a tight-knit club, and one indication that you’re sniffing for scandal makes them close ranks faster than a virgin crossing her legs at an out-of-hand party. ‘Uh, incidentally, how’s Sulpicius Galba taking it?’

‘Galba?’ He faced front as the guy with the razor got to work. ‘I don’t think he’s too concerned. Apart from being disgruntled at the upheaval, of course. That and the extra expense.’ His voice was dry. ‘The house had to be purified, naturally, and although technically a re-celebration of the rites is the state’s concern – and mine – it means his wife will have to play the hostess again. Coming on top of this latest business with the loans that doesn’t altogether make him a very happy man. If you knew our present consul you’d understand what I mean.’

Yeah, well; I knew enough about close-as-a-clam Galba to grasp the basic concept, anyway. I’d reckon getting so much as a bent copper coin out of that guy voluntarily would need a surgical operation. ‘The loans?’ I said.

I had to wait while Nomentanus raised his chin for the barber to scrape its underside. When he’d finished the guy chuckled. ‘You really don’t keep abreast of Market Square matters, do you, Corvinus? You haven’t heard of the emperor’s latest directive? It’s setting half the Senate by the ears.’

He definitely sounded smug. I’d met this attitude before in smart-as-a-whip go-getters like Nomentanus, and it always rubbed me up the wrong way. It was the tone that meant ‘I’m okay personally but the other bastards are being screwed.’

‘Is that right, now?’ I said.

‘Tiberius has been getting complaints for some time about loan-shark profiteering.’ Another chuckle, while the lad with the razor shortened a sideburn. ‘He’s finally clamping down and my colleagues are sweating blood.’

Uh-huh. I was beginning to get his drift. Broad-stripers are forbidden by law to go in for trade, but the money for the daily crust has to come from somewhere, and over the years Rome’s conscript fathers have found that loan-farming is a natty little earner; or rather, not just the loan-farming itself but its spin-off as well. Under the old Julian law, interest rates are fixed at five per cent max, with compound loans forbidden. What the beautiful and good – who had their hands on a large slice of the circulating currency – had been doing was to ignore this. They’d been advancing loans at ten, fifteen per cent compound, sometimes even higher, on security of the debtor’s property; then when the guy defaulted, as he naturally did, foreclosing at their own valuation and padding their estate books with the result. Sneaky and totally illegal, sure, but when it’s your spoon in the gravy and you enforce the laws then the system ain’t going to change in a hurry. Only evidently from what Nomentanus was saying the Wart had decided to step in and pull the plug personally. No wonder the fat-cat bastards were losing sweat.

‘The emperor’s given them eighteen months to regularise matters and pay any surplus profits they may already have made into the Treasury.’ Nomentanus grunted as the bronze razor slid down his cheek. ‘After that the prosecutions start. Meanwhile the interest rates – and consequently the incomes – have been cut at a stroke and my less well-heeled colleagues – plus the rich but parsimonious souls like Galba – are frantically trying to liquidise their investments by calling in the debts themselves. Oh, it’s all fun in the Senate House at the moment, Corvinus, believe me.’

I did. I whistled. Jupiter on a seesaw, the shit had hit the fan with a vengeance! Not before time, though. And the Wart was a braver man than I was: it takes guts to mix with Rome’s finest, especially when you aim for their pockets. ‘You’re all right yourself, then?’ I said sourly.

‘Oh, I’m fine.’ The smugness went up a notch. ‘And if I may give you a tip’ – he leaned over – ‘ready money’s going to be in short supply soon. You could pick up a few good bargains on the property market if you keep your eyes open. You understand?’

But Philemon had got to the talc stage and now wasn’t exactly the time to take the guy’s advice; not literally, anyway. Five minutes later, smooth and sweet-smelling again, I nodded to my new whizz-kid financial adviser and headed off for the wine and sausage.

So Galba had his balls in the mangle, did he? And things were going to get a hell of a lot worse. I didn’t know if what Nomentanus had told me was relevant, but it was certainly something to bear in mind.

Alexis was ensconced in the cookshop’s warmest corner, right by the oven: he must’ve fought off half the eighth district to keep the table for us, because the place was full and it was beginning to sleet outside. I noticed that a few tables off my four litter lardballs were happily blowing the pocket money I’d given them on pigs’ trotters in gravy, and I tried not to think about cannibalism. Alexis stood up, but I waved him down and put my order in at the counter. I took the jug and a couple of cups with me while the cookshop owner put the food together and went to join him.

The first cup went down without a whimper – it was Massic, not all that bad – and I poured a refill. Then the waiter brought the sliced sausage, cheese, olives and bread. Me, I was happy with the wine, plus maybe a nibble or two, but Alexis dug in like he hadn’t seen food for a month. Unaccustomed sleuthing obviously did wonders for the appetite. I caught the waiter’s eye and got him to add a wedge of onion tart to the bill.

Finally, when the pace began to slow, I sat back.

‘Okay, so how did it go?’ I said.

‘Not bad at all, sir.’ Alexis was wiping his fingers on a napkin: the guy may be a slave, but he’s more fastidious than a lot of broad-stripers I’ve met. Smarter, too, although that wouldn’t be so difficult. ‘I talked to Lady Lepida’s maid.’

‘Yeah?’ I poured myself some more wine and held up the jug. Alexis shook his head, which was par for the course: my smart-as-paint garden slave’s a clean-living boy, and no proper drinker. ‘Nice work.’

‘Her name’s Melissa.’ Jupiter! Was that a blush? ‘She’s a very nice girl. Spanish.’