David Wishart: Last Rites

‘So.’ Perilla was frowning. ‘Prince Gaius – through Sertorius Macro – recruits Nomentanus, who in his turn enlists the services of Myrrhine and Lepida. Nomentanus’s reward is purely financial: enough money to clear him of his up-and-coming debt to the Treasury with possibly a substantial sum over and above. Myrrhine’s price is the death of her former owner who persistently raped her as a child.’

‘Yeah. Plus, in Nomentanus’s case, a better-than-average chance at the consulship in a few years’ time. Having an emperor-elect in your pocket is pretty powerful clout in career terms. I’d say he made a fairly good deal.’

‘If he lives to collect on it.’

I nodded. ‘Personally I wouldn’t take any bets. Playing footsie with Gaius Caesar isn’t exactly conducive to a long life. But then I get the impression the guy hasn’t got all that much between the ears, not where planning for the future’s concerned. I doubt if he thought that far ahead; or maybe he thinks he’s covered his back somehow.’

‘Hmm.’ Perilla played with a lock of her hair. ‘One thing puzzles me. Cornelia was killed, and Niobe, of course, but not young Marcus Lepidus himself. If the murders were intended as a cover-up then why not him?’

‘They’d’ve got round to it. Cornelia was the weak link, she had to go first. Lepidus was Gaius’s pal; he wouldn’t’ve told, not in a hurry, anyway. And by the time his mouth was the only one left to be shut he was dead anyway.’

‘All right. So what about motive? I mean Prince Gaius’s motive? You said it yourself: a million sesterces and a senator executed is a high price for safeguarding one secret. You’ve no idea what it could have been?’

Yeah; that was the real bummer, and we couldn’t get past it. I took a swallow of wine. ‘Search me, Perilla. Like I say, the loopy bastard must have enough dirty underwear in his basket to keep a laundry going a year. But whatever it is, this one’s big. Maybe he’s planning to knock the Wart off his perch before his time.’

‘Unlikely. Tiberius can’t last all that much longer in any case, and apart from Gemellus he’s the only member of the imperial house left. Besides, as you said he virtually controls the state through Macro already. What would he gain?’

Not a lot; added to which – although I’d never told even Perilla this – thanks to the Wart’s tame astrologer Gaius knew for a certainty that his name would be the next on the imperial decrees. An assassination plot at this stage just wouldn’t be worth the trouble. The same went for poisoning Gemellus’s porridge: the kid hadn’t even put on his adult mantle yet, he was a sickly wisp of a thing, and when the Wart popped his clogs one got you ten his Uncle Gaius would chew him up at a sitting without breaking sweat.

‘Excuse me, sir. Madam.’

I looked round. Bathyllus had oozed in on my blind side.

‘Yeah, little guy?’

‘Meton asks me to intimate that lunch will be served in five minutes.’

‘Fine.’ The Call of the Chef. Well, we’d just have to leave it at that for the moment. I emptied my cup, picked up the jug and followed him through to the dining-room.

There are worse crimes than murder…

That was the key; sure it was. The problem was, I didn’t know what lock it fitted.

I still wasn’t any further forward by bedtime; if indeed there was anywhere else to go. Sure, I wasn’t dumb: if Gaius and Macro were behind this – and I’d bet a year’s income to a poke in the eye that they were – then I wasn’t going to make much headway in any case. I’d had brushes with the imperials before, and I knew my chances of getting any of the dirt to stick where it belonged were about as good as an oyster’s were of making consul. Still, I’d’ve liked to solve the case for my own satisfaction, even if the bastards did go un-nailed. Camillus might be interested, too.

I went to sleep with my brain still buzzing. I don’t usually dream – or at least if I do I can never remember the details – but this one was a beaut, clear as crystal. I was back in Athens with Perilla, at one of these highbrow plays of hers where the villain gets it in the neck in the final act after the chorus have spent two hours explaining in tedious detail why he or she has it coming. We were up in the top tiers with the fruit-and-nut brigade, looking down at the stage. There were two actors, one in a young man’s mask, the other in a woman’s. Maybe it was the distance – it seemed a hundred yards, easy – or maybe it was because the crowd on the benches around us were making so much noise, but I couldn’t hear what was going on, let alone recognise which play it was. I began to get bored, and I shifted around on my cushion until Perilla poked me in the ribs with her elbow.

‘Sit still, Marcus!’ she said. ‘How can they murder anyone properly with you fidgeting about?’

‘Who’s the guy?’ I said.

‘Corvinus, don’t you know anything about Greek drama, for heaven’s sake? Orestes, of course. And the woman is his sister-in-law Lepida.’

‘Uh… right. Right. Thanks.’ I tried to concentrate, but the old man at the end of the row had stood up, slipped on a pair of clogs and was tap-dancing down the staircase towards the priests’ seats. I recognised the Wart. Orestes stopped speaking and turned to stare at him.

‘Really, Grandfather!’ he snapped. ‘This isn’t necessary! I only had them murdered, after all. You’d think you cared.’

Just then they swung a god from a crane above the stage; only it wasn’t a god, it was young Marcus Lepidus. He was wearing a tutu, like the hour marker on the water clock, only instead of holding a pointer he had a sword in his belly and his guts were spilling out. He held up his hand, and the three raised their faces to look at him. Drops of blood fell from the gaping wound on to the masks. The whole theatre was suddenly silent; I could even hear the creaking of the rope. Lepidus opened his mouth and cleared his throat.

‘Listen carefully, Marcus,’ Perilla whispered. ‘It’s the solution. The god always has the last word.’

I bent forwards, all ears.

‘There are worse crimes,’ Lepidus intoned, ‘than murder.’

I woke in a cold sweat. It was worth it, though, because I knew now what young Lepidus’s secret had been.

Next day I paid my really final visit to Furius Camillus at the King’s House where he had his office. I’d just given my name to the clerk on the outer desk when the acting chief priest’s door opened and a guy in military uniform came out. He gave me a quick, sour glance and carried on walking without so much as a nod. Yeah, well, I wasn’t crying. Sertorius Macro’s path and mine had crossed briefly a couple of years back when Sejanus was chopped, but on that occasion we hadn’t exactly forged the bonds of a lasting friendship. Now he had Sejanus’s old job as commander of Praetorians, a political no-hoper like me was beneath the great man’s notice. Also, of course, I’d spent the past half-month doing my best to bugger up his carefully orchestrated bit of whitewashing; unwittingly, sure, but these things are bound to rankle. No wonder the bastard had cut me dead.

‘You can go in now, sir,’ the clerk said.

I tapped on the door and pushed it open. Furius Camillus looked up from his desk. He didn’t look happy, to put it mildly; in fact, if he’d been a younger man, or a less self-controlled one, I had the distinct impression he’d’ve been busting up the furniture.

‘Ah. Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Come in, my dear chap. Close the door and take a seat. I was just going to send for you. There’ve been developments.’

Angry or not, the guy sounded embarrassed. I thought I knew why, too. I pulled up a chair.