David Wishart - Foreign Bodies

There was the sound of movement from inside the house proper, and an old woman came out. Plainly a slave or a servant, in a shabby tunic that matched the condition of the porch.

‘Who are you?’ she said.

‘Valerius Corvinus.’ I closed the door behind me. ‘The master at home? Julius Oppianus?’

‘He’s in his study.’

‘You think I could talk to him? I’m-’

‘I know who you are. Or I can guess. Wait here and I’ll see.’

She shuffled off back the way she’d come. Another chicken appeared. I opened the front door and got rid of that one, too. Scion of one of the oldest families in Gaul or not, Oppianus didn’t believe in living in style, that was clear. A mansion on the Caelian, this wasn’t. Not even close.

Five minutes later, the woman reappeared.

‘He’ll see you,’ she said. ‘Follow me.’

I did. The room was a bit more upmarket, with some nice furniture – or rather, I’d guess it had been nice at one time, about fifty years back – but again everything was pretty shabby, and the fine layer of dust and general lack of shine suggested that what should’ve been the house’s principal room wasn’t used all that much. The old woman didn’t pause. She led me through and along a short corridor to a panelled wooden door beyond, knocked, and opened it.

‘Valerius Corvinus,’ she said.

The study looked a lot more lived-in than the actual living room had; at least it was clean and tidy, although the guy sitting in the wickerwork chair next to the desk wasn’t dressed any better than his housekeeper was, in a lounging-tunic that’d seen far better days. He hadn’t shaved, either. He set the book he’d been reading – or at least holding – down on the desktop.

‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Pull up a chair.’

There was one beside me, against the wall. The cushions on its seat and back had been plush velvet at one time, but it was so worn in places that the lamb’s-wool stuffing showed through the holes. I pulled it over and sat down while he watched me closely and in silence. Mid-fifties at a guess, but he gave the impression of being at least ten years older, and he put me in mind of a moulting cockerel: scrawny neck, nose like a beak, not much meat on his bones.

Sharp pair of eyes, though, and I had their full attention.

‘So,’ he said, ‘this will be about Claudius Cabirus.’

‘That’s right. I’ve-’

‘No need for explanations. The family have pulled a few strings and had you brought out from Rome to look into his death, yes?’

‘Actually-’

‘And, wonder of wonders, they’ve got me put down as the prime suspect.’ His lips twisted. ‘No surprises there.’

Less than a minute in, and the guy was seriously getting up my nose. I shifted in my chair. To hell with the niceties.

‘Look, pal,’ I said, ‘let’s get a few things clear before we start, right? First off, as far as I know, bringing me out from Rome had nothing to do with the family per se; it was the emperor’s own idea, and he had it because the governor happened to mention Cabirus’s death in a routine report. Secondly, I’ve just talked to the widow, and she is personally convinced you had nothing to do with it; in fact, she went out of her way to make sure there were absolutely no misunderstandings on that score. Thirdly, I give you my solemn word that, whatever I’m told by any third party, be they who they may, I will make up my own fucking mind as to who was fucking responsible, and then only after due careful investigation and a proper objective weighing-up of the consequently discovered facts. Now is that understood, or would you like me to repeat or rephrase any of it?’

The eyes had widened. He cleared his throat.

‘Very well, Valerius Corvinus,’ he said stiffly, after a pause. ‘Perhaps I spoke out of turn. Not that it’s an excuse for bad language on your part, but I’ll let it pass. My apologies. Let’s start afresh, shall we?’

‘Fine with me.’

‘So. What do you want to know?’

‘You didn’t like the man. You care to tell me why, exactly?’

‘He was a jumped-up parvenu. A tradesman.’ There was enough venom packed into the final word to have kitted out a dozen self-respecting asps.

‘Is that all?’

‘ All? Isn’t it enough?’

‘I wouldn’t’ve thought so, personally, no.’

‘Indeed?’ He grunted. ‘Well, then, it’s more than enough for me. Claudius Cabirus came from a nothing of a family, and his wife was the same. Merchants and shopkeepers, the lot of them. He wasn’t even local; he only moved here twenty years ago, while my family have been pre-eminent in the region for centuries. If he’d kept to his proper place I’d have had no quarrel with him, but as it was he began trespassing on what should have been the preserve of his betters almost as soon as he arrived, and that I bitterly resented. Does that answer your question?’

Gods! Diligenta had said, or at least implied, that the guy was an arch-snob, and on present showing he could’ve given even the most right-wing of Rome’s starchy top Five Hundred lessons.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, it does. To a degree.’

‘Good. I’m glad. His being elected to the magistracy was bad enough – money will buy you anything these days, wherever sewer it comes from, and the good citizens of Lugdunum are toadies to a man – but getting himself appointed as officiating priest at this year’s Assembly was a step too far, even for him. A pure disgrace. And you ask me why I didn’t like the man? I’d have thought that was self-evident.’

‘Right. Right.’ I had to go careful here: the guy was practically spitting, and I was beginning to wonder if there wasn’t a bit more than simple, ordinary jealousy and snobbery involved. In fact, I was getting the distinct impression that Julius Oppianus was more than a few tiles short of a watertight roof. ‘That mattered to you a lot, did it?’

He looked at me like I’d just sprouted an extra head. ‘For a man from Cabirus’s background to hold the highest position the city could offer was nothing short of a desecration. A blasphemy. You know that my own grandfather officiated at the original assembly?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I did, as a matter of fact.’

‘Well, then! To have that … tradesman … stand in my grandfather’s place at the Altar and conduct the ceremony was an insufferable insult, and one not to be borne.’

‘So. Did you kill him?’ I asked quietly.

He blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘It’s a simple question. Someone did.’

‘Evidently. But whoever it was, and for whatever reason, I’ll tell you this, Valerius Corvinus: Claudius Cabirus’s death was a judgement, one richly deserved. The proper order of things isn’t mocked, and dross like Cabirus try it at their peril.’ He picked up the book he’d set down on the desk. ‘Now. I can’t wish you success in your investigations. Good day, sir.’

I didn’t move. ‘You care to tell me where you were at the time?’ I said. ‘When the murder was committed, I mean?’

That got me a positive glare. ‘No, I would not,’ he snapped. ‘I expect you can find your own way out. Good day to you!’

He unrolled the book and started reading, without giving me another glance. I stood up and left the room.

Short and a long way from sweet. Yeah, well: obviously totally out of his tree and no mistake, that one, at least where Cabirus was concerned. Whether it made him a killer, though, motive and inclination in spades or not, was another thing entirely.

Onwards and upwards. So: where to next? The procurator’s offices, where according to Publius young Titus might or might not be, were back up the Hinge towards Market Square and home; familiar territory, in other words, and besides, Titus would still be on duty. I might as well see a bit more of Lugdunum while I was at it.