David Wishart - Last Rites

‘Fine. Fine.’ I reached for my belt-purse.

‘No, that’s not necessary, sir.’ The Hippo put the full wine cup in front of me. ‘On the house. As I told the Watch commander, any friend of his is welcome at the Crocodile.’

The punter with the stare hawked loudly and spat. It could’ve been coincidence, sure, but it sounded like a comment to me. Still, I’d had worse; I gave him the benefit of the doubt, my best smile and a friendly nod. Just then the door opened and another customer came in, a heavy-shouldered, youngish guy with an unshaven chin and a workman’s tunic. He ordered his wine with a grunt, paid for it and took it over to one of the far tables without giving me or the other punters so much as a glance. Yeah, well: it’s a friendly place, the Raudusculan, full of happy smiling faces. Maybe it was my aftershave.

The Hippo picked up a cloth and wiped the counter in front of me.

‘Terrible thing, sir,’ he said. ‘That Watchman being knifed. Gives the place a bad name.’

‘Yeah.’ I sipped my wine. ‘Lippillus was telling me what a nice, orderly, law-abiding part of the city this is.’

My pal the punter sniggered into his cup. The Hippo gave him a glare. ‘Shut it, Antistius!’ he said, then turned back to me. ‘I told you Myrrhine was a bad one, sir. The street’s better off without her.’

‘She been here long?’

‘A year, give or take. Kept herself to herself most of the time. But then most people around here do.’

Yeah; I’d believe that. Half this part of the district was probably keeping a low profile in case it got noticed. ‘No visitors? Men friends?’

A pause. ‘You saw, sir. With Crispa. And the other girl I told you about. She wasn’t that way inclined.’

‘Uh-uh; I don’t necessarily mean sexual. Maybe just an acquaintance.’ I held his eyes. ‘Could be a purple-striper. One of your customers, perhaps.’

The Hippo’s jowls wobbled. The guy definitely wasn’t smiling now. ‘Purple-striper?’ he said. ‘ Myrrhine ? Oh, no, sir! And what would a purple-striper with any sense be doing around here? Saving your presence, of course.’

‘Phoebe seemed to imply different. That she’d had a certain amount of purple-striper experience. I was just wondering whether her guy and mine could be the same person.’

‘Oh, you don’t want to pay any attention to Phoebe, sir.’ There was a bead of sweat on the Hippo’s forehead. ‘It was only a come-on. Believe me.’

Yeah. And I was Cleopatra’s grandmother. Hell. This was going to be difficult…

‘If you’re asking about Myrrhine’s friend, squire, then maybe I can help you.’

I glanced round. Antistius the Spitting Punter was looking at me in an expectant kind of way. He rattled his cup on the counter.

‘’Course, I’d need something to oil my throat with first,’ he added.

Okay! And I can take a subtle hint when it’s given. Maybe I wouldn’t have to wait for Phoebe after all, which might be a good thing because I had the distinct impression from the Hippo’s general demeanour that he hadn’t liked the turn the conversation was taking one little bit. I pulled a coin from the purse. ‘Have a drink on me, pal?’ I said.

‘That’s uncommon decent of you, consul.’

I grinned in spite of myself. For a parody of a plummy upper-class accent it wasn’t bad; overtones of my Uncle Cotta, in fact, when the old guy was pissed and putting it on.

‘What kind of friend would that be, now?’ I said.

The Hippo took the coin this time and topped up the guy’s cup. He didn’t look too happy as Antistius left his two silent mates to their pie-eyed ruminations and came over to where I was standing. If looks could kill my new informant would’ve been hamburger.

‘Not a purple-striper,’ he said. ‘Plain mantle. You’re right about him being a customer, though. I’ve seen him in here quite a few times, in fact.’ He glanced at the Hippo, eyebrows raised like he was waiting for confirmation.

If so it didn’t come. ‘Have you, indeed?’ the Hippo said. You could’ve used his tone for slicing beets.

‘Yeah.’ The guy swallowed half the cupful straight down and grinned at him. ‘Real gent. You know who I mean.’ No reaction. ‘Oh, come off it, Hippo, you know the fancy bugger as well as I do!’

‘How do you know he was a friend of Myrrhine’s, pal?’ I said to break the deadlock.

He sank the rest of the wine, set the cup down and fixed me with his eye. Yeah, well. I reached into my purse again. I had the idea that when the Hippo poured this time he’d sooner the stuff was neat rat poison, but he didn’t interfere.

‘I live in the same tenement she did.’ Half that cup went the same way as the first. ‘Third floor. They passed me once on the stairs.’

‘Yeah?’ The hairs on my neck prickled. ‘When was this exactly?’

‘Maybe half a month back. Thereabouts, anyway. Can’t say I fancied her myself, but there’s no accounting for taste.’

‘That’s the last taste you get in here anyway, Titus Antistius.’ The Hippo was polishing the counter like his life depended on it. ‘I’ll tell you that now, boy!’

‘Come on, Hippo!’ Antistius didn’t seem too worried. ‘You don’t mind me talking, surely? Especially since you’re such a great pal of the Watch. Besides, the consul here’s putting money in your pocket.’ He drained the cup and set it down with exaggerated care like it was made of glass.

Shit. The purse again. ‘Fill it up, Hippo,’ I said. Then to Antistius: ‘You like to describe the guy?’

‘Medium height, thin mouth, eyes close together. Smooth type, a real lady-killer, well-groomed. Looked like he kept himself in good shape.’ He winked at the Hippo. ‘He’d have to with Phoebe, isn’t that right?’

The fat man grunted; a defeated sort of grunt.

Yeah; that was Nomentanus, okay. To the life. The plain mantle didn’t make any odds, either. If the guy was slumming it he wouldn’t want to be too obvious. I turned back to the Hippo.

‘Right, sunshine,’ I said. ‘Forget the fan-dance. Just for the sake of completeness I need a name. You can tell me or the Watch commander when he drops by again. Which will be about an hour after I leave. Only I guarantee he won’t be asking so nicely. Get me?’

‘Sextus.’ The Hippo’s face was grey. ‘That’s the only name the bugger ever gave me. What he tells Phoebe I don’t know and I don’t care.’

That put the lid on. Sextus – first name – for Sextius, middle; not very imaginative, my pal Nomentanus. But then there wasn’t really any need. I took out a silver piece and laid it on the counter.

‘Thanks, friend,’ I said to Antistius. ‘A present from the Senate and People of Rome. You’ve been a great help. Buy yourself the jug.’

I left.

Okay; so we had a viable scenario here. Nomentanus had known Myrrhine at the temple and had been the man the archigallus had called in when she knifed two of his staff. Some time over the next twelve months, he’d seen and recognised her outside the Crocodile; a coincidence, sure, but not a huge one given the guy’s obvious propensity for low-life sex and a desire on both their parts to keep away from the more popular areas of the city. On his side that was as natural as it was on hers: tomcatting isn’t illegal, but some of these selection committees are pretty strait-laced, and for a religious officer and city judge with his eyes on the consulship to be seen brothel-crawling doesn’t do his career chances much good. Which explained why he hadn’t shopped the woman, too: giving the authorities the goods on Myrrhine would’ve raised some nasty questions, like what a paragon of the establishment was doing down at the Raudusculan in the first place. And he’d be blowing his own cover at the same time. The game just wasn’t worth the candle.