David Wishart - Last Rites

The priest angle was a far better bet. Sure, to kill a Vestal in the first place argued that our pal Myrrhine didn’t have the normal inbuilt horror of divine retribution, and she might just turn out to be a nut with a pathological hatred of anything to do with religion, but I doubted it: that you don’t get all that often, especially with people of Myrrhine’s class. On the other hand, the incident had happened. So why?

The obvious explanation was that she was afraid of being recognised.

The fact that the guy was a priest of the Great Mother made the theory even more attractive. Cybele’s been in Rome a long time – she was invited in from Asia by the state two hundred years back to help tip the divine scales against Hannibal – but the authorities have always handled her with kid gloves. Sensible. Religions from the mystic east and Romans – at least the pukkah variety – are like oil and water, they don’t mix, and whatever theological street-cred it has any cult that appeals primarily to women, involves orgiastic rites and asks its priests to dress up in flowing robes and lop their own wollocks off while chewing suspect substances isn’t going to go down a bomb with the staid city fathers. As a result, Cybele has only ever had one temple in Rome, on the Palatine where it’s nice and visible, and her priests are strictly non-citizen: Asiatics, not even Greeks. If Myrrhine had been a devotee at some time – and being a slave- or freedwoman-class made that a fair possibility – then that meant the Palatine set-up was the only game in town: she’d know them and, more important for my purposes, they would know her. QED.

It was too late to go calling today, but Cybele’s temple was my logical next step.

I just made dinner. Sure, with the Festival – and the omelette pan – on the horizon Meton wasn’t likely to throw a serious wobbler, but it was as well not to tempt fate. Not that I was too hungry: the cookshop I’d taken Aegle to was offering lung stew with garlic, which you don’t see all that often, and I’d pigged out. Still, I could pick, and with Meton it was being there on time that counted.

Perilla was already in the dining-room.

‘Hi, lady.’ I kissed her and settled down on the couch. ‘Good day?’

‘Not bad, Marcus. How was your flutegirl?’

‘Which one?’ Bathyllus was serving the hors-d’oeuvres. He gave me a sniff in passing and I grinned. ‘There’re three of them now.’

‘Three?’

‘Sure. Aegle, Harmodia – the kid whose place Thalia took – and the killer.’

Perilla set down her cup of fruit juice. ‘I thought the killer was a man,’ she said.

‘That was yesterday. There’ve been developments.’

‘Corvinus, unlikely as it is that you’re suggesting some form of outré hermaphrodism at work that is how it sounds. Now perhaps you’d like to explain a little more clearly.’

I explained.

‘You mean the rites weren’t profaned after all?’ she said when I’d finished. ‘You’ve had Torquata repeat them for no reason?’

‘Ah.’ Shit, I hadn’t thought of that aspect. ‘Well, anyone can make a mistake.’

‘Perhaps. But you don’t know Junia Torquata, dear. When she finds out she will kill you. Probably very slowly. I doubt if Nomentanus will be too happy either.’

Yeah, well; that guy’s unhappiness I could live with. I snitched an olive from Bathyllus’s passing tray. ‘Forget the rites, Perilla. As far as the murders are concerned we’re getting there. The next stop’s Cybele’s temple.’ I told her Harmodia’s priest story.

‘It certainly makes sense.’ Perilla selected a pickled radish from the bowl on the table. ‘Especially if the woman is a fluteplayer. The cult of Cybele does tend to use its own devotees for the ceremonies rather than professionals.’

‘Yeah?’ I poured myself some wine. ‘Is that so, now?’

‘So I’m told, at any rate. You’ve still no idea who could be behind the original murder?’

‘Uh-uh.’ I shook my head; that was the real bugger. The identity of the killer was one thing, but we still didn’t have so much as a smell of the person responsible. Let alone a motive. ‘He – or she – had to have some connection with Myrrhine to make it happen. Also, of course, they had to feel threatened in some way.’

‘Unless it was a simple revenge killing. Perhaps your Myrrhine had a personal grudge against Cornelia, or even Vestals in general. After all, the second murder – Thalia’s – was… I suppose you might call it an operational one, to facilitate the first. Why should there be anyone else involved at all?’

‘No, that won’t wash.’ I reached for another olive. ‘You’re forgetting young Lepidus. He felt he was responsible for Cornelia’s death. He must’ve had some reason to think that. Besides, how would Myrrhine have known the layout of the Galba place in advance? And she had to, to make the whole thing work.’

‘I thought you said that she’d questioned your other flutegirl – Harmodia, was it? – about the details of the rites? Including, presumably, the venue itself?’

‘Sure. But the Galba house was only this year’s venue. It changes every year, with the consul. Or the consul’s wife, rather.’

‘Had Harmodia been there before? On another occasion? Did you ask her that?’

‘Uh… no.’ Hell; this was slipping away from me here. Whether I liked it or not, the lady had a point.

‘As for Lepidus, what he thought and what the reality of the situation was could well be two different things. He was obviously not the most balanced of young men. He could have been fantasising.’

‘Yeah? And what about Niobe, then? Sure, we’ve cleared the matter of the note up, but her death was no fantasy.’

‘Hmm.’ Perilla frowned. ‘Yes, well, I suppose that does present a difficulty. It couldn’t have been coincidence, could it? An unconnected killing?’

‘Come on, lady!’

‘Of course, Niobe was Cornelia’s slave. The grudge could extend to her.’

I laughed. Say what you will, Perilla’s a fighter. ‘You believe that?’ I said.

Perilla ducked her head. ‘No. Perhaps not. But I do think that you’re looking for needless complications. Catching the actual murderer would be success enough. I’m sure Camillus would agree, for one.’

Yeah; that was certainly true. The deputy chief priest had never liked my idea that one of the upper classes was involved. He’d go for Perilla’s theory with open arms, Niobe or not. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a hard day. Truce; sleuthing over for the evening.’ I shelled an egg and dipped it in the fish pickle. ‘So tell me: what’s been happening on the domestic front?’

‘Gaius Secundus and his wife sent round to say they’d be delighted to come for dinner. I’ve suggested the day after tomorrow.’

‘Fine. Wear your biggest earrings.’

She stared at me. ‘What?’

‘Just do it, lady. Furia Gemella will, and I don’t want you outgunned. You told Meton?’

‘Of course. He was delighted. He suggested wild boar with myrtle and cumin. And perhaps a duck stuffed with dried plums and apricots.’

‘Great.’ We didn’t give dinner parties all that often – that was one of Meton’s pet grouses – but when we did the guy pulled out all the stops. And his fruit-stuffed duck was a minor culinary miracle. ‘Anything else in train?’

‘The clock. It’s been making peculiar noises all day.’

Oh, hell. ‘What kind of noises?’

‘Digestive.’

Gods! That thing was more trouble than Armenia! ‘Perilla,’ I said, ‘search your soul. Just how much do you really want a flatulent super-intelligent sundial?’

‘It isn’t a sundial, it’s a clepsydra.’

‘Whatever.’