David Wishart - Last Rites

‘Excuse me, friend,’ I said politely. ‘Is there a guy called Scorpus here, do you know? Used furniture dealer?’

‘Sure.’ The guy pointed. ‘That’s him with Ma.’

I looked, then looked again just in case, but there was no mistake. The man talking to the wizened crone who was probably no older than forty was six six in his sandals, built like a trireme and black as the inside of the Tullianum at midnight. Disguised or not, fluteplayer or not, if Scorpus could pass as any sort of female for more than two consecutive seconds to anyone who wasn’t purblind and a congenital idiot then I’d eat my mantle.

Bugger. So much for that angle. I didn’t even bother to ask Aegle if she recognised him; I just steered her back into the litter and told the boys to take us home.

We were both pretty quiet on the way back.

‘Hey, come on, now, Corvinus,’ Aegle said eventually. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’

‘You want to bet?’ I snarled. ‘That guy was my best shot. In fact he was my only shot. With him out Aemilia goes too, and Galba, for what he was worth, and they leave fuck all behind them.’

‘It can’t be as bad as that.’

Cheery optimism I could do without. It just made matters worse. ‘Is that right now?’ I said. ‘You like to estimate how many other unaffiliated male fluteplayers there are in the city? Ones that don’t have their sandals made in a boatyard and can wear a short skirt and padded halter without looking like something out of a drag version of a titanomachy?’

She giggled. ‘He certainly looked a stud, though. I can understand why Aemilia dropped her pants for him. Even Galba.’

True; but then I wasn’t in the mood to see the funny side of things, not yet, not by a long chalk. And I hadn’t been kidding; I’d expected a lot from Scorpus. ‘Cut it out, lady,’ I said. ‘We’re in trouble. You’re the professional consultant; where do we go from here?’

She looked out through the curtains. ‘Well, I’m not sure about you, Corvinus, but I’m headed for a slot this evening at a broad-striper’s house down Tusculan Road. Some of us have to work. You can drop me off at the intersection.’

‘Jupiter, sister, it’s not halfway through the afternoon yet! If you don’t want to go all the way back to the Subura then come home with me and I’ll get Lysias to take you in the coach.’

She looked at me sideways. ‘You’d really do that, wouldn’t you?’ she said.

‘Sure I would. No problem.’

‘Yeah.’ She gave a small sigh. ‘Well, I suppose you would, at that. Uh-uh. Thanks but no thanks. I’ve got a friend living down that way. I’ll call in in passing, kill the time there.’

I didn’t believe her for a minute, but there wouldn’t’ve been any point arguing. If I’d learned anything about Aegle in our short acquaintance it was that she was some independent-minded lady. ‘Two slots in two days,’ I said. ‘That’s not bad going, is it?’

She shrugged. ‘It happens sometimes. Although for me not often enough. This one’s just a fill-in for Harmodia.’

‘Yeah?’ I was making conversation; anything not to have to think about the case. Or lack of one. ‘Who’s Harmodia?’

‘The girl whose place Thalia took at the rites.’

Oh, yeah; the one who’d gone sick. ‘She’s not back yet?’

‘She called in at the clubhouse a couple of days after the ceremony, but only for the news. Her throat was still swollen. She wanted to sign off until the Festival. Celer was livid because she’s pretty popular, but there was nothing he could do. We’re sharing her slots out between us.’

Something brushed my spine. ‘She, uh, missing out on a lot of work, then?’

‘Sure. Harmodia’s popular, like I said. The punters ask for her by name.’

‘Popular enough to take the best part of a month off and not feel the pinch?’

Aegle laughed. ‘We’re none of us earning that much, Corvinus. And Celer isn’t someone to cross. Still, it’s her decision.’

I remembered what Celer had said about the girls shacking up temporarily with some well-heeled client. ‘She wouldn’t be malingering, would she?’ I said. ‘Caught herself a rich boyfriend and be taking a pre-Festival break?’

‘No.’ Again I got the odd sideways look. ‘No, not Harmodia.’

The tingle was getting stronger. Why it was there, I didn’t know, but you learn not to ignore these things. ‘You happen to know where she lives?’

‘Sure. In Transtiber, near the Cestian Bridge. But why?’

‘You free tomorrow? Could you show me?’

‘If you like.’ She frowned. ‘What’s your interest in Harmodia?’

‘I don’t know.’ I didn’t; not exactly. ‘Maybe none. Just humour me. So when’s the best time to catch her in?’

‘One time’s as good as another. Not evenings, though.’

‘Okay. We’ll call it mid-morning. I’ll pick you up at your place.’

‘Fine. But don’t bring the litter. It makes me seasick, and I’d rather get wet.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, right.’

I dropped her at the junction with Tusculan and the lads turned left and began the slow climb to the Caelian. I was almost whistling.

Maybe optimism wasn’t such a bad thing after all. At least it was a possible line of enquiry. And after the Scorpus let-down the gods knew I needed a break.

Transtiber I don’t know all that well. It’s a little world of its own; or maybe not so little, and not just one world. Like the name implies it takes in the whole far bank of the river, from Vatican Field in the north to the southern slopes of the Janiculan. The full length of the city, that’s to say. The full social spectrum, too. Up on the Janiculan or on Vatican Hill itself you’re in rich urban villa country: mansions with the number of bedrooms well into double figures and a dining-room for each season of the year. The fat-cat belt, new money mostly but lots of it: government contractors, owners of shipping lines, guys who’ve cornered the market in grain or wine or oil or whatever else the city uses in bulk. Spanish racehorse breeders who need a little place to hang their mantles when they do business in Rome. Even the occasional politician who’s managed to salt away enough kickbacks to buy himself some clean country air.

At the other end of the scale there’re the tenements, crowded into the low-lying land in the bulge of the river next to the bridges and sandwiched north and south by the big warehouse areas. This part’s one of the poorest in Rome. Most other places, ground- and first-floor property makes at least some claim to respectability. In Transtiber after the rains go to bed any lower than the second storey and you can wake up to find eels in your blanket. That’s if you wake up at all. Still, one thing the locals share with their fat-cat colleagues up the hill is exclusivity: rich or poor, they’re Transtiberines first, Romans (in the city sense, at least) second and nowhere. For Transtibbies, Rome stops at the bridges. Cross the Sublician or the Cestian and you’re in another town.

Harmodia’s tenement was on a corner site next to an oil-seller’s. It looked in better repair than most, although that wasn’t saying much: if I’d been the oil guy I’d’ve had a permanent crick in my neck from checking for falling masonry.

‘That’s her flat up there.’ Aegle pointed. ‘Second floor, third window from the right. She isn’t in, though.’

‘Yeah? And just how do you know that, lady?’ The shutters were open; it was a beautiful December morning, with not a cloud in the sky.

‘She keeps birds in a cage on the ledge. When she’s out she leaves them with a neighbour. That’s them, in the window next door.’

Yeah; I could see the little fluffballs. Hear them, too. You’d’ve thought this was spring rather than close to the Winter Festival.