David Wishart - Last Rites

‘Genuinely?’

‘Yeah. I knew it might be important so I leaned on him a little. Nomentanus was seeing one of the girls on a regular basis-’

‘Phoebe.’

‘Right. He went upstairs, came down half an hour later, had a drink – it must’ve been about an hour after sunset – and left. That was the last the fat guy saw of him.’

‘He was alone?’

‘Yeah. The Hippo says he thinks one of the other customers – not a regular – may have left at his back but he can’t be sure. The place was full at the time.’

I took a swallow of wine. ‘He remember anything about the customer?’

‘No. Not much. Big guy in his twenties, rough type, maybe a carter. You get a lot of carters in the wineshops by the gates.’

‘Not after sunset you don’t.’ Sunset was when the carts moved out to make their deliveries. ‘And carters tend to stick together. They’ve got their own favourite watering-holes.’

Lippillus grinned. ‘You sure you don’t want a Watch job, Corvinus?’ he said. I gave him the finger. ‘Okay. So not a carter. That sort of thing, though.’

‘He been in before?’

‘The Hippo couldn’t swear to it either way. It’s possible, the guy looked familiar, but like I said the place was packed and he didn’t have the time to notice him properly.’

I sighed. Yeah, well; it was suspicious, sure. Still, a solo mantle in the Raudusculan – plain or striped – would be a prime target for an enterprising knifeman after a fat purse, and conspiracy theory didn’t necessarily apply. Besides, whoever the guy was who’d zeroed the bastard, vested pecuniary interest or not, he deserved Rome’s congratulations and a pension. ‘So that’s that, then,’ I said.

‘Maybe. Nomentanus was a city judge. On the other hand the powers-that-be aren’t exactly screaming for action.’ Lippillus gave me a quizzical glance over his wine cup. ‘And that’s strange, Corvinus. These two things just don’t go together. Unless of course besides being seen as a damn fool to go tomcatting alone on the Aventine after sunset the guy’s blotted his copybook in other ways.’

There’d been half a question in his voice. I answered it; I owed him that much.

‘He was Myrrhine’s boss.’

Lippillus set his cup down and stared at me. Then he whistled softly. ‘Uh-huh,’ he said. ‘Even so, murderer or not, for a city judge not to get automatic five-star treatment we have to be talking political here. Right?’

Jupiter, the guy was smart! ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘We are.’

‘Political enough to scrub the investigation altogether?’

‘Easily. Twice over. And if you try to push things, Decimus, you’ll be slapped down so hard your head will ring. From both sides, senatorial and imperial.’ I held his look. ‘I’ll tell you something else: this time it’s got my vote. The bastard deserved everything he got and more. How he died is secondary.’

‘Fine,’ Lippillus said equably. ‘Keep your hair on. I’m just thinking aloud here.’ Gods! Thinking aloud was right: I could almost hear the guy’s brain chug. ‘Senatorial I can understand, but not imperial. You mean the Wart? Or Gaius and Macro?’

This was getting too close for comfort. I could just tell him the whole story, sure, but that sort of knowledge was dangerous. We’d got corpses enough already. ‘Lippillus,’ I said, ‘read my lips, okay? Cut it out now, please. You just do not want to know. Believe me.’

I might as well have been talking to the wall. He picked up his wine cup again and sipped slowly.

‘Gaius and Macro, then,’ he said. ‘So what particular dirty laundry are those two beauties kicking under the bed?’

Oh, shit. Well, what the hell; he’d probably work it out anyway in another couple of chugs. It was sickening: solving the case had taken me half a month’s hard grind and here he was with the basics in two minutes flat. ‘Hang on, pal,’ I said. ‘You like to hear a scenario? A totally fictitious, totally hypothetical scenario with absolutely no bearing on the real situation whatsoever, in this world or any other?’

‘Yeah.’ He was grinning. ‘I’ll settle for that. Tell me.’

I told him. The whole boiling. By the time I’d finished he wasn’t grinning any more.

‘There isn’t anything you can do?’ he said.

‘Not a thing. And even if there were, I doubt if I’d do it. The Wart will carry the can like he always does. What’s another bit of mud? Whereas when he hangs his mantle up at least Gaius will start fresh.’

‘Screw fresh. The bastard’s rotten to the core. In the old days mother-killers got the Rock, whoever they were. Now if their last name’s Caesar we put it down to political expediency.’ Lippillus got up. He was angry as hell. ‘You were right; I didn’t want to know. Now that I do, as a Watchman I feel just that much dirtier.’

‘How do you think I feel?’

Lippillus grunted. ‘You’re lucky, Corvinus. You were born one of the great and good. Me, my dad worked a hammer at the cattle market. Where wading through shit’s concerned, you’ve got the family edge.’

Ouch. The guy had a point, though: purple-stripers take in the murky ground rules of politics with their mother’s milk. If I couldn’t sympathise with the cover-up, at least I could understand the whys and wherefores. Lippillus had a cleaner mind than I did; he couldn’t do either.

We walked to the door in silence.

‘Have a good Winter Festival, Decimus,’ I said.

The frown lifted; not altogether, but enough. We shook hands, which is something we don’t often do.

‘Yeah. Yeah, Marcus,’ he said. ‘You too.’

I like the Winter Festival. Partly it’s the anarchist in me, partly it’s the pure pleasure of seeing the happy smiling faces of the slaves when they wake up on a Winter Festival morning to the knowledge that for three whole days they don’t have to take any nonsense from the bastards in the mantles. Or that’s the theory at any rate. Licensed anarchy and role reversal for three days a year may sound a peachy way to keep the wheels of society oiled, but there’s always the morning-after effect. Any silly bugger stupid enough to use the family’s best Corinthian vase as a spittoon or feel the mistress up while she’s passing him the turnips at dinner is just asking to be clobbered the moment things get back to normal.

Every household has its own little ceremonies. Me and Perilla, we start the day off in the atrium giving out the presents and the cash, after which the guys and girls are free to do what they want until dinner-time. Kitchen staff excepted, for obvious reasons: if we tried to muscle in on the cooking side of things Meton would throw a fit. Besides, Perilla can’t boil an egg without burning it, and you can carry equality too far.

So there we were, up and brushed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I’d got my new mantle – not on, because everyone slops around at the Festival – and Perilla had her book-rolls. Bathyllus went into quiet ecstasies over his long johns. I’d bought Alexis a belt like Lysias’s to go with his sharp new courting tunic, and Meton had gone back to the kitchen clutching his omelette pan. The various minions and skivvies had their little chinking bags, I’d broken out the sticky animals and that was the heady excitement over for another year. The atrium began to empty. Finally there were only us and Bathyllus left.

‘You got any plans for the day, little guy?’ I said.

‘Yes, sir. I thought I might pay a visit to a friend near the Querquetulan Gate.’

‘Uh-huh.’ I grinned. ‘Good idea, sunshine. You can show her your new thermal leggings.’

Bathyllus coloured. ‘ He is a retired schoolmaster from Ephesus, sir, an expert on Pindar and most respectable. We used to play draughts together on the first day of the Winter Festival regularly, until you and the mistress went abroad.’