David Wishart - Foreign Bodies

Without another word, he went out into the lobby, heading for the front door. I stood up. Before I could follow, Diligenta said quietly: ‘You must forgive him, Corvinus. He’s at an awkward age, and very sensitive. He found Tiberius’s death very upsetting, perhaps even more so than any of us.’

‘No, that’s OK,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your help.’

‘You’re welcome. Such as it was. And naturally anything else I – we – can do, please don’t hesitate to ask.’

‘I’ll do that,’ I said, and followed the kid outside.

He was waiting for me in the porch. Still no smile.

‘It’s down here,’ he said, and set off down the path, with me a step or two behind.

‘So you were upstairs in your room when it happened?’ I said.

‘That’s right.’ He didn’t turn round, or slow down.

‘You didn’t see or hear anything?’

‘I was asleep.’

‘Yeah, so your mother said. Fair question though. Your window overlooks the garden, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ We’d reached the summer house. He stopped shy of the open door and turned back to face the house. ‘Here you are. Help yourself.’

I went past him. There wasn’t much inside, although the place was fitted out more like a small study than a summer house: reading couch, small table, a single book-cubby against one wall with two or three books in the pigeonholes. I pulled one out at random: Columella’s Treatise on Agriculture , or part of it, the section on vine-growing and wines. From the wear on the lace fastenings and the general shabbiness of the book itself, it looked well-used.

There was a dark patch of what could have been blood on the upholstery of the couch. Or it could’ve been just an old stain: if the guy had been stabbed through the heart there probably wouldn’t’ve been much actual blood. Certainly there wasn’t much else to show the place had been the scene of a murder. Which was fair enough, given that it had happened over a month ago.

I came back out. Publius hadn’t moved, his back to the open door and his eyes still on the house.

‘Your father spent a lot of time here?’ I said.

Another shrug. ‘No. He did most of his business work in his study. He only used this for his afternoon naps in good weather.’

‘You involved on the business side of things yourself?’

‘Dad would’ve liked me to be.’

‘But you wouldn’t?’

‘Don’t have all that much choice, do I?’ He still hadn’t looked at me.

‘You got on well together?’

‘He was OK.’

Jupiter, this was heavy going! ‘Look, son,’ I said, ‘all I want to do is to find out who killed your father, right? That’s not a particularly pleasant job, but it’s what I’m here for. You want that too, don’t you?’ Silence. ‘Come on, give me a break. I’m no ogre, and I don’t ask trick questions.’

He turned round, slowly and reluctantly. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Anything that’ll help. Only I don’t know what that is yet. You’ll have to tell me.’ More silence, and still no eye contact; I’d have to back off here if I wanted any sort of cooperation at all, because the kid obviously had issues somewhere along the line. ‘So if you’re not keen on the wine trade, then what do you want to do?’

His shoulders lifted. ‘I don’t know. Not many options around here.’

‘You got any hobbies? Anything you’re interested in?’

‘I make models.’

Yeah, well, not much mileage there, right enough. Even so, for the first time he was volunteering.

‘What kind of models?’

‘Ships. Temples. That sort of thing. I’m making one of the local theatre, to scale. With all the backdrops and so on. I’ve got a-’ He stopped.

‘You’re interested in the theatre? Acting?’

‘No. Production. Masks, costumes, stage machinery. The technical side of things.’

‘Uh-huh. Are your friends-?’

‘I don’t have any friends.’

Delivered absolutely dead-pan. I sighed, mentally; this was like pulling teeth. ‘OK. So tell me about your brother.’

That did get me a quick, sideways look. ‘Titus? What’s to tell? He’s my brother, that’s all.’

‘He’s older than you, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. Three years older.’

‘So I’d’ve expected him to be involved in the family business before you. Is he?’

‘No. Titus is even less interested in business than I am. Soldiering, that’s his bag. That and-’ He stopped again. ‘He’s with the procurator’s guard, but he wants to move on to the proper auxiliaries, maybe even the legions. Dad doesn’t – didn’t – mind that. It’s respectable.’ That came out flat, with a twist to the word. ‘So it had to be me, didn’t it?’

‘You don’t get on, you and Titus?’

That brought his head round sharply, and for the first time he looked me straight in the eye. Defiantly, if that wasn’t too strong a word.

‘Titus is OK,’ he said. ‘And like I say, he’s my brother. Why shouldn’t we get on?’ He turned away again. ‘Now if you’ve seen all you want to see and asked all your questions I’ve things to do, and you’ll want to be going.’

Yeah, I might as well, at that; I certainly wasn’t making much headway here.

Gods!

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Nice to talk to you.’ No answer. ‘Titus is still living at home, isn’t he?’

He turned back. ‘Yes.’

‘He’s on duty now?’

‘Until sunset.’

‘Where would I find him?’

‘Depends what he’s doing, doesn’t it?’

I held on to my patience. With difficulty. ‘You like to give me a possibility or two to work on, maybe?’ I said.

‘He could be at the procurator’s headquarters on the Hinge, or he could be at the barracks. Or there again the procurator might’ve sent him off on an errand somewhere.’

‘And the barracks are where?’

‘Further down the Hinge, just before the Narbonensian Gate. Now, like I said, I’ve things to do. I’ll see you around.’ Without another word, he turned again and walked away towards the house.

I watched his retreating back. Shit, kids! Well, I supposed I’d been like that myself, once, and Diligenta had warned me. Still, it didn’t make it less exasperating.

So; what now? I’d got the names of three people I’d have to talk to, for a start, at least, and it didn’t particularly matter which order I took them in. Assuming he was at home, though, Julius Oppianus, with more than a smidgeon of form and a house on the Hinge, was the most sensible option. I set off in the direction of the city centre.

The house wasn’t difficult to find, with a bit of asking. Like Diligenta had said, it was one of the older properties, a two-storey building in its own grounds set back from the road opposite the theatre: neat enough in its way, but definitely run-down compared with the Cabirus place, especially the garden, which had more or less been left to do as it liked. I went through the gate and up past beds of unpruned roses and scabby-looking fruit trees to the front door. This time, there was no one around, but the door itself was ajar. Peeling paint, and the handle hadn’t been polished for months. Bathyllus would’ve had a fit. I knocked a few times. No answer, so I went inside.

Whatever Oppianus’s priorities were, impressing visitors didn’t seem very high on the list: the front porch was obviously used as a sort of storeroom, with boxes and crates piled up one on top of another along the inside wall, nets of root vegetables and onions hanging from pegs, and a general air of shabbiness, damp and mould. A chicken came strutting towards me, stopped, fixed me accusingly with a beady-eyed stare, and then carried on out through the open door.

‘Anyone at home?’ I shouted.