David Wishart - Last Rites

Yeah. I thought that that would be the verdict. Not that it made swallowing it any easier, mind. I kept my expression blank.

‘As for those more directly involved, Sextius Nomentanus and Lepida,’ Camillus cleared his throat again, ‘I hold myself to my promise. Leave them to me, and to friends like Lucius Arruntius. Aemilius Lepidus is a sick man, he won’t last much longer and losing both a son and a daughter before he dies would hit him hard, but in Lepida’s case punishment is only deferred.’ He looked at me directly; hard and cold. ‘They’ll pay, both of them, one way or another, you have my oath on that. I owe it both to Cornelia and the boy. Not to mention my own conscience.’

‘Yeah. Right,’ I said. I got up.

‘You have plans for the Festival?’ He followed me to the door.

‘No. Not really.’ I felt empty.

‘Nor have I. I think a quiet few days are in order. The past month has been very tiring.’ He hesitated. ‘My thanks again, young man. Remember, the fault isn’t yours. You did your best.’

‘Yeah.’ Some best: five innocent deaths, counting Chilo the Watchman’s, and I was walking away from them. It was getting to be a habit. ‘Have a good Festival, Camillus.’

What else could I do? I went home.

Not straight home; I took in Renatius’s wineshop off Market Square – the place I’d got stewed in the afternoon of the dinner party with Gaius Secundus – and set about drowning my sorrows. Or some of them, anyway. At least I couldn’t fault the weather: by some freak it was almost as warm as March, and most of the outside tables were taken by guys from the Square and the government buildings round about it catching an early lunch. I grabbed the last free bench and ordered up a jug of Spoletan – Renatius was an Umbrian, and proud of it – plus some bread, cheese and olives to fill in the corners.

Yeah, well; that was that, then. Like Camillus had said, I’d done my best and it wasn’t my fault we were screwed; certainly if Gaius and Macro were involved there wasn’t much point taking things any further, not to mention dangerous to try. It rankled, sure, and the incompleteness left a bad taste in my mouth, but I’d been through this scenario before a couple of times and I was getting pretty philosophical about it. There ain’t no sense in bucking the system; especially when the system can roll over and squash you like a beetle without even noticing.

I felt bad about all the deaths, though. Camillus had said that Nomentanus and Lepida would pay, and I trusted him, but the promise of payment in the abstract wasn’t exactly satisfying. Call me a ghoul if you like, but I wanted blood, and I wanted it now.

Wants don’t get. And at least the case was solved before the Festival; just in time, too, because the next day was the first of the three. I stretched out my legs, sank half the wine in my cup and began to feel better: Renatius’s Spoletan is good stuff, and he doesn’t overdo the water, either. Hell; what was I beefing about? Spoiled case or not, this was my first Winter Festival in Rome for ten years. I could go down to the Festival Market in Argonauts’ Porch with the other punters and buy the candles, the clay dolls and the sticky animals no one ever got round to eating, do the usual holiday things. Who needed sleuthing, anyway?

‘Hey, Corvinus!’

I looked up. Gaius Secundus was limping towards me with a candelabrum under his arm.

‘Hey, Secundus.’ I made space on the bench and signalled to the waiter. ‘Last-minute Festival shopping?’

‘Yeah.’ He parked himself and set the thing down. ‘Present for Gemella.’

‘Uh-huh.’ I took a closer look and grinned. Whoever had sold him it had seen the guy coming. Rampant cupids was the phrase that sprang to mind, and the artist seemed to have a penchant for grapes. Having that on the table when you were eating would be a sure-fire way to indigestion. ‘She’ll love it.’

He shot me a look that was pure old-Gaius and laughed. ‘Actually, yeah, she will,’ he said. ‘It’ll go perfectly with the other five. What’re you doing down the Square, anyway? Besides getting pissed and sneering at expensive artwork?’

‘Unfinished business.’ I sipped my wine. ‘With the chief priest.’

His face sobered. ‘The Vestal murder?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I thought you’d solved it. The runaway slave.’

‘That’s right.’ I didn’t want to go into details; certainly not the finer ones. Luckily the waiter came over at that point and I ordered a plate of sliced sausage and a second cup. ‘So how’s life with you?’

He helped himself to a piece of my cheese. ‘Not bad. You still interested in Sextius Nomentanus, by the way?’

I played it careful. ‘Uh-uh. Not any more, pal. The guy’s a dead-end.’

Secundus chuckled. ‘He’s that, all right. Or was that a joke? You knew already?’

‘Knew what?’

‘He was found on the Aventine early this morning. Near the Raudusculan Gate.’

I set my cup down. ‘Nomentanus is dead?’

‘They don’t come deader. Knife through the heart.’ He mopped a scrap of bread in the olive oil. ‘The Watch think he was tomcatting and got himself mugged. He was wearing a plain mantle, but luckily the local Watch commander recognised him.’

That would be Lippillus, and it didn’t surprise me: Lippillus recognised everyone, and a city judge would be as easy to place as his own grandmother. Shit, though! While Secundus started in on the olives I leaned back and thought things through.

It couldn’t’ve been Camillus’s doing, that was certain. And not Macro’s, either. Sure, like I’d said to Perilla the guy might well have been booked for a seat on the Ferry, but if Macro had ordered his ticket punched he wouldn’t’ve bothered putting the brakes on Camillus’s investigative commission: auditing stops at the grave in this city, and slamming down the shutters on a dead man’s accounts would’ve been pointless. Not to mention eyebrow-raising. Which left the simple, straightforward Watch explanation of an Aventine hug. That was likely enough not to strain anyone’s credulity, because knifings in the Raudusculan were two a penny; still, my skin prickled. I’d wanted blood, and I’d got it.

Maybe there was such a thing as divine justice after all.

Lippillus himself was waiting for me when I got in, perched on a couch in the atrium with his short legs swinging like the disreputable dwarf he was. Perilla was feeding him Meton’s dried-apple cake. I held up a hand before he could speak.

‘Yeah, I know, pal,’ I said. ‘I heard already. Sextius Nomentanus, right?’

Lippillus swallowed a mouthful of sponge. ‘The lads found him tucked in an alleyway near the Crocodile. Neat job: one stab, between the ribs. He probably didn’t have time to blink.’

‘Marcus, if you two are going to talk anatomical details I think I’ll go elsewhere.’ Perilla got up. ‘Besides, I have work to do.’

I grinned. ‘Yeah, okay, lady. Catch you later.’ When she’d gone I turned back to Lippillus. ‘How did you make the connection? With me, I mean? Nomentanus was after your time.’

‘The Hippo said you’d been in asking about him. I thought maybe you’d like to be kept informed.’ He paused. ‘Also that you might be able to help finger the guy who did it.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Well, the first bit didn’t surprise me: Lippillus could add up faster than an abacus, and the Crocodile would be a logical starting point. The second I wasn’t so sure about, especially under the circumstances. My sympathies were all with the killer. ‘So what happened exactly?’

‘Exactly, I don’t know.’ He reached over to the wine jug on the table and poured for both of us. ‘Nor does the Hippo.’