David Wishart: Last Rites

‘Don’t tell me,’ I said. ‘Your application for an investigative commission into Sextius Nomentanus’s finances has been refused and you have orders to drop the case down a very deep hole.’

He blinked. ‘Correct,’ he said. ‘In both particulars. Corvinus, I am bitterly sorry. Not to say ashamed.’

Well, it was all I could’ve realistically expected. I’d been through this before, and there was no point getting angry myself, certainly not with Camillus. ‘That’s okay,’ I said wearily. ‘It happens. Sertorius Macro, right?’

‘Indeed.’ Camillus spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Gods, I hate that bloody man! What the hell right has he to-’

‘He was the guy behind Nomentanus. Or rather, his boss Prince Gaius was.’

Camillus sat motionless for a good half-minute, staring at me. Finally, he nodded.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I see. That would explain it.’ Then, simply: ‘Why?’

‘Gaius was responsible for the deaths – ostensibly suicides – three months ago of his own mother and brother. Macro had orders from him not to let the fact go public.’

‘Sweet gods! Sweet, merciful gods!’ The deputy chief priest’s face had gone the colour of milk. ‘You’re sure?’

I shrugged. ‘I’ve no proof, if that’s what you mean, and I’m never likely to have; but, yeah, I’m sure. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. Certainly Gaius was behind the murders, whatever his reasons were.’

‘Gaius himself? Not Macro?’ There was a hint of quiet desperation in the tone that I recognised: like a drowning man reaching for a life raft he knows probably isn’t there but feels he should make the attempt anyway. Macro as a villain was one thing, but taking in the idea that Rome’s next political master was a parricide – let alone living with it – wouldn’t come easy to someone like Camillus.

‘Uh-uh.’ I shook my head. ‘Macro might have the clout to stop an investigation here at Rome, but the rest of it – the money angle and the fake treason rap that nailed Proculus – are out of his league. He’s no Sejanus, not yet, much as he’d like to be. It has to be Gaius.’

‘Not necessarily.’ The initial shock over, Camillus had gone very quiet and stiff. Now he cleared his throat. From his impersonal, clinical tone we could’ve been discussing a fine point of ancient liturgical practice. Understandable: this conversation wasn’t just verging on treason, it was over the edge and halfway beyond. ‘Oh, no one genuinely believes that Agrippina and Drusus starved themselves willingly; their deaths were too convenient and too close together for coincidence, especially in conjunction with Asinius Gallus’s.’ He paused. His eyes stared past me at the far wall. ‘However, the consensus of opinion is that all three… fatalities… originated in a direct order from the emperor.’

‘Tiberius had years to get rid of Agrippina and Drusus.’ I could’ve added that the Wart had good reason, too, especially in the lady’s case, but Camillus wouldn’t know that. ‘He didn’t. Why do it now?’

‘To secure the succession.’ Camillus was looking more uncomfortable than ever. It was to the guy’s credit that we were having this conversation at all; me, I’ve got no hang-ups about airing the dirty linen of politics, but even the best broad-striper spends most of his life tiptoeing round the washing-basket. The line between hypocrisy and self-preservation is pretty thin at that level. ‘Agrippina and Drusus were the last of the Julian family, and Gallus was their last major supporter.’

‘Yeah, right,’ I said. ‘So if our next emperor’s a Julian himself – which Gaius is – then why kill them at all? The crown prince’s own mother and brother? That’s some coronation present.’

Camillus blinked and sat back. ‘Put like that,’ he said, ‘it does seem a little… anomalous. Your alternative explanation, please.’

‘Okay.’ I’d thought about this on the way over; in fact, I’d thought of nothing else since I’d woken up with the pieces of the puzzle neatly assembled. Sure, I hadn’t covered all the angles and never would, things being as they were, but it held together. And the way things had panned out it had to be right, in outline at least. ‘First of all, look at it from Gaius’s point of view. He may be a Julian by birth, but he’s Tiberius’s grandson by adoption. He’s crossed over the fence and the family’s an embarrassment, especially his mother who’s hated the Wart for years. And an elder brother would just be a complication. If Gaius is to establish his credentials as Tiberius’s successor then they’re better off dead.’

Camillus was still looking at the wall somewhere to the side of my left ear. ‘That,’ he said, ‘if we’re speaking dispassionately, as I assume we are, would be an equally strong reason for the emperor himself to have them killed. As I said, to ensure the stability and ease of the succession.’

‘Granted. All I’m saying at this point is that in theory Gaius has as much motive for wanting the pair of them dead as Tiberius does. Fair?’

Camillus hesitated. ‘Yes,’ he said finally, like he was dragging the word up with a hook. ‘Fair.’

‘Fine. Now we get down to character. In your honest opinion, is Gaius Caesar congenitally capable of engineering the deaths of his own mother and brother?’

Camillus was silent for a long time. Then instead of answering the question he murmured, so softly that I had to lean forward to catch the words, ‘“There are worse crimes than murder.”’

I said nothing.

‘That was what young Lepidus meant, wasn’t it? That Gaius was not simply a murderer but a parricide?’

‘Yeah,’ I said quietly. ‘Yeah, I think so.’

‘Sweet holy Jupiter!’ The guy was looking ill. ‘So Lepidus knew?’

‘He knew. How he found out I’m not sure, nor how Gaius – or Macro, rather – knew that he knew. Cornelia was easier. Macro must’ve had Lepidus watched. Then it was just a case of creating an opportunity.’

‘And of course when Cornelia was murdered the boy realised that he had been the cause of her death. The innocent cause. And that he was powerless even to bring her killers to justice.’ The chief priest closed his eyes briefly. ‘No wonder he committed suicide. He was a good Roman. Corvinus, this is horrible. What can we do?’

‘Nothing.’ I felt pretty gut-sick myself. ‘Tiberius may even have known about Agrippina and Drusus from the start.’ Yeah, I’d bet he had, at that: the Wart didn’t miss a trick, he was a cold-blooded bastard where political necessities were concerned and he wasn’t in any doubt about his grandson’s character. He wouldn’t mind taking the rap, either: the tough old bugger was used to being slandered, and the deaths of two more relatives added by popular opinion to his score would be like water off a duck’s back. Still, that didn’t make Gaius’s crime any less. Anything but. ‘File and forget, Camillus. Put it down to dirty politics.’

Camillus half smiled. ‘“Dirty politics”,’ he said. ‘A good phrase. The two words seem to go together more and more naturally these days.’ He stood up; stiffly, like the old man he wasn’t. ‘I’ve lived too long, Valerius Corvinus. Much too long.’

I didn’t say anything, but I knew what he meant. Maybe we all had.

‘Well, you’ve fulfilled your task, young man.’ Camillus suddenly took to straightening the objects on his desk, aimlessly, like he needed to feel his hands busy with something, but his voice was brisker. ‘You’re right, of course; there is nothing to be done, in Gaius’s case at least, especially if he had the emperor’s… cognisance.’ His mouth twisted as if the word hurt him. ‘The same, unfortunately, goes for Macro. For the present, at any rate.’