David Wishart - Last Rites

‘Uh, yeah.’ I wiped the grin off. After all, it was a holiday, and Bathyllus-baiting was out of order for the duration. ‘Yeah, right. Have a nice time, Bathyllus.’

‘Thank you, sir. You too.’ He left.

Now we were alone I grabbed Perilla round the waist, lifted her up and held on while I planted a Festival smacker between nose and chin. ‘How about you, lady?’ I said. ‘It’s a beautiful morning. You fancy a walk?’

‘If you like, Marcus. Where to?’

‘I thought Sallust Gardens.’

‘Mmm.’ She gave me a return peck and smiled. ‘All right. If you just put me down and stop messing up my mantle I’ll-’

Something went urgleurgleurgle.

I stiffened. ‘Uh… was that your stomach, lady?’ I said cautiously.

‘No, dear. I thought it was yours.’

Urgleurgle.

Uh-huh. I set her down slowly and carefully. I didn’t want to turn round; I really didn’t want to-

Urgleurgleting!

‘Oh, shit,’ I said. I turned and looked at the clock…

I could see the pointer rising from here; fast and steady. From the looks of things, if our pal in the tutu and her friend the jolly titan had their way this was going to be the shortest Winter Festival on record.

‘Marcus…’ Perilla said.

Urgleurgleurgleting!

We both watched in fascination. I’d been right to be wary of that thing. The cunning bastard had bided its time until the house was empty. Now it was ready to make its move.

‘Don’t panic, lady,’ I murmured. Then I yelled, ‘ Bathyllus! ’

Urgleurgle …

Pause. Long pause. We held our breaths.

‘There, Marcus,’ Perilla said finally. ‘It’s-’

… ting!

Urgleurgle …

The bugger was playing with us. I broke out into a sweat.

‘Marcus!’ Perilla was really alarmed now. ‘Can’t you do something?’

‘Not a lot.’ I went over and looked up at the cistern. Perilla joined me. There was a good five gallons of water in there, and normally it’d stay put, but on this occasion I wasn’t taking any bets.

… urgleurgleURGLEURGLE …

‘Oh, fuck!’ I said.

‘ Marcus! ’

… URGLEURGLEURGLETING! TING! TING! …

Clunk .

Silence. A waiting silence. I didn’t like the sound of this. I stepped carefully to one side, my eyes on the clock. ‘Uh, Perilla,’ I murmured. ‘No sudden moves, right? But if I were you I’d get out of the…’

TINKLETINKLETINKLEPSSSSSSSSS …

Too late, and with the contents of a whole cistern behind them the cupids were doing it out of full bladders. The overflow cleared the basin in two seconds flat, hit the tiles in a wave and kept coming. Perilla squealed and jumped back clutching the hem of her mantle while the cistern cheerfully emptied itself all over the atrium floor.

Bastard! Clever, conniving bastard!

‘Having problems, sir?’

I looked round. Bathyllus had oozed in like a water-rat, his sandals making little plashing noises in the spreading pool round the now-empty clock.

‘What does it look like, pal?’ I snapped. ‘Get half a dozen skivvies in here with mops and buckets!’

‘Skivvies, sir? Mops?’ He sniffed. ‘Buckets?’

Oh, hell; the Festival! Cunning was right! ‘Look, little guy, never mind tradition, this is an emergency, okay? Bring anyone who’s around, even Meton. Your draughts can wait.’

‘Very well, sir.’ Another sniff. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

He squelched off.

The atrium – or that corner of it, at least – was like something out of the flooding of the Nile. I paddled over to my couch and took off my sodden sandals. Perilla was doing the same.

‘That monster goes back, lady,’ I growled. ‘First thing tomorrow morning.’

‘It’s the Festival, Marcus. All the shops are closed for three days.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Don’t swear, dear. And don’t be silly. It’s just a little teething trouble; you can expect that with any new machine. The engineer will-’

‘Perilla, my lips.’ I glared at the clock and it sneered back at me. ‘This is final. Either that thing goes or I do. It’s alive, it’s smarter than both of us and it hates us.’

‘Nonsense!’

‘How else would you describe something that waits for the perfect psychological moment and then pisses all over your living-room floor? Jupiter, even a Gallic wolfhound wouldn’t do this much damage. For a parallel you’d need to go the length of a fucking elephant.’

Perilla was wringing out the edge of her mantle. ‘Marcus, dear, you’re needlessly anthropomorphising. It’s only a machine. And please don’t swear; I’ve already told you.’

‘Listen, lady. If we don’t send it back then I’ll personally fucking anthropomorphise the brute with a sledgehammer and a hacksaw. And that’s a promise.’

‘Very well. If you’re sure.’

‘Sure I’m sure.’

The mop-and-bucket gang trailed in: Bathyllus, Meton and two vegetable-peelers. They didn’t look happy. Meton especially. Gods! Come dinner-time we were all going to suffer, I could tell that now. Scratch the special Winter Festival meal; it was going to be omelettes all round, with no afters, and lucky to get them. No one was going to tell me this wasn’t planned. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Thanks, pals. Just-’

Knock knock knock.

The front door. I’d bet the clever bastard had engineered that as well somehow. Bugger. This was all horribly familiar. Still, it couldn’t be what’s-her-name the stringy Vestal back. I doubted if we were on her Winter Festival visiting list. I just hoped it wasn’t Mother; that was all I needed.

‘Shall I get that also, sir, or do you think you can manage?’ Bathyllus, and sarky as hell.

‘No, that’s okay, sunshine. I’ll do it.’ I padded through to the lobby and opened up.

Aegle was standing on the step with a covered plate in her hand. Beside her was a big, well-muscled guy I half recognised but couldn’t place.

‘Happy Winter Festival, Corvinus,’ she said. ‘We’re not disturbing you, are we?’

Behind me I could hear the clanking of mops and buckets. ‘Uh, no.’ I stepped back. ‘No, come in.’

‘That’s okay, we’re not stopping.’ She handed me the plate. ‘I brought you some sticky animals from Harmodia’s mum’s stall. A Festival present. And this is Thalia’s brother Phrixus. He wanted to meet you.’

Phrixus held out a hand the size of a spade, and I suddenly remembered: the customer in the Crocodile, who’d come in after me the time I’d asked about Nomentanus and sat quietly drinking his wine while I was talking to my thirsty punter friend. The last piece of the puzzle slipped into place. Our eyes met as we shook, and I knew he knew that I knew; also that it was why the guy had come.

‘Happy Festival, Phrixus,’ I said.

‘And to you, sir.’ The voice was quiet with just a touch of wariness. Smart, too, with good vowels. Rough hands and working tunic or not, Phrixus was no uneducated bonehead.

‘You, uh, sure you wouldn’t like a cup of wine?’ I said. ‘On the house this time.’

The corner of his mouth lifted and the wariness left his face. ‘Oh, I’m not much for wine, sir,’ he said carefully. ‘Or wineshops. Just now and then, when I’m working.’

‘Is that so, now?’ I said. I closed the door behind us and motioned them towards the stone bench that ran the length of the lobby wall. ‘What work do you do exactly?’

‘I run a transport business. Three carts, out of the Tiburtine Gate.’

‘Not the Raudusculan?’ I kept my voice neutral.

‘No.’ His smile was more relaxed now. ‘I’ve been down there two or three times, but it’s not an area I know well. In fact, if I hadn’t been tagging along behind a friend the first time I visited I might never have found where I needed to go.’ He paused. ‘And I’d’ve hated that to happen. I really would.’