David Wishart - Foreign Bodies

‘That’s only as far as you know, dear. It’s something to check, certainly. Balbinus will be able to tell you.’

‘Yeah. Even so, I can be pretty certain what his answer will be. If that were the case he would’ve mentioned it straight off when I showed him the coin in the first place. No, the whole thing’s a dog’s breakfast.’

‘So what do you do now?’

I shrugged. ‘The priority’s the Cabirus side of things. If Balbinus can’t help with that, at least at present, then I’ll just have to do what I always do, muddle along and hope something turns up.’

‘Never mind, Marcus. No doubt it’ll all make sense eventually.’

‘You think so?’ I said sourly. ‘Read my lips: we are definitely floundering here.’

‘It can’t be that bad, surely.’

‘Believe it.’

Hell.

The situation wasn’t completely black, mind. Stymied we might be, but when a case hits the buffers I’ve always gone for two courses of action to get things moving again: a) rattle the cages of whatever bastards you think are in the running and see whether they jump, and b) find a wineshop with a barman or bar fly who’s more than delighted to dig the dirt and keep your ears open. The first, unfortunately, wasn’t an option this time because our list of possible perps was zilch. That – now that I was officially if not off the wagon at least perched on the tail-gate, and thank the gods for small mercies – left the second …

Or at least it would’ve done anywhere other than bloody Augusta Treverorum. Tight-mouthed and clannish was right: after four days of trying and a dozen cups of wine – I’d conscientiously limited my intake to a single cupful per establishment – all I’d got was a succession of stony silences and looks that were the equivalent of the straight finger.

Let’s hear it for Gaulish solidarity. Everyone hates the Roman.

So there I was, late morning four days down the road, trying my luck in the thirteenth wineshop and getting nowhere fast, when Vercingetorix walks in, does a double-take, hesitates, then comes on over to join me at the bar.

‘Valerius Corvinus, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘We travelled up from Lugdunum together.’

‘Ah … yeah. Yeah, that’s me. And yes, we did.’ I moved my stool along so he could pull his closer to the counter. ‘You’re, uh …’

‘Segomarus. Segus, for short.’ He was looking up at the wine board. ‘What would you recommend?’

‘Pass.’ I was staring at him. ‘It’s my first time in here and I’ve only had the one. The Cabellian. From just outside Massilia, I think. It’s not that bad.’

‘Fine.’ He ignored the stare and turned to the barman. ‘Make it a cup of the Cabellian, please.’

‘Ah … excuse me, pal, and no offence,’ I said. ‘But you speak good Latin.’

‘Shouldn’t I?’

‘Not according to Titus Cabirus.’

‘Who?’

‘The young officer who was in charge of Procurator Laco’s guard on the way here.’

He laughed. ‘Oh. Yes, of course, I’m sorry. Then it’s a misunderstanding on his part. We happened to share a bench at the Lugdunum baths, he spoke to me in Celtic, and I answered in the same. Of course; you were there yourself that day, weren’t you?’

‘Yeah, I was. If I recall correctly, you gave me a look that would curdle milk and stalked off.’

‘Did I? Then it absolutely wasn’t intentional, and nothing to do with you. My stomach was playing up, and I was probably dashing off to the latrine. If I offended you then I apologize.’

‘No need. Maybe it was preoccupation rather than a scowl at that.’

‘Anyway, on the few occasions the lad and I happened to exchange words on the journey up here from Lugdunum we spoke Celtic. To tell you the truth, I encouraged it, which might explain things; it’s getting so as you hardly hear Celtic spoken any more outside the country districts, or not in this part of the country, particularly by the youngsters. A sign of the times, I’m afraid.’ The barman set the wine-cup down in front of him. He paid and took a cautious sip. ‘You’re right, this isn’t bad at all. A bit on the tart side for Cabellian, mind.’

Bloody hell, first the guy spoke Latin better than I did and now he turned out to be a fellow wine aficionado. It just showed you couldn’t go by appearances.

‘You’re from, ah …’ I couldn’t remember the name of the place. ‘Over in the west.’

‘Burdigala. That’s right. But I travel around a lot.’

‘On business?’

‘I don’t do it for fun, Corvinus. I’m a merchant. Of course, on business.’

‘So what kind of business?’

He held up the wine-cup. ‘Wine, as a matter of fact. A family firm. My father started it fifty years back. He’s long dead now, but my brothers and I keep it on.’

‘You produce your own wine over there?’

‘Oh, no. Not at present, but trust me that’s going to change. The climate’s perfect for vines, and the soil’s good, too. Once we have the vineyards planted and established we’ll be off and running, producing wine that’s good enough to match Massilia’s, at least. Say ten or fifteen years, at most.’

‘Is that so?’

‘That’s indeed so. It’s why I’m here, on this side of the country where the vineyards are. Studying methods, assessing the markets for the future, while my brothers keep the import-export side of things going back home.’

‘You do any trade with Britain?’

He’d been lifting the cup to his mouth. Now he set it down again.

‘Why do you ask that?’ he said.

‘No particular reason. It’s just that Britain happens to be in the front of my mind at present.’

‘No, none at all. Burdigala’s a long way from the Gallic Strait, and all the exports – imports, too – go through Itius and Gesoriacum. Our market’s mostly local, or south towards the Spanish border. Mind you, if the rumours are right and the emperor intends to add Britain to the empire then that could well change.’

‘I wouldn’t’ve thought you’d be holding your breath on that one, pal. He has to take the place first, and it’d be years before any sort of market built up.’

‘We’re thinking in terms of years. And if things work out then within a decade Burdigala will have the only stretch of quality commercial vineyard in western Gaul. That’s something to aim at, isn’t it?’

‘It is, indeed. Good luck to you.’

‘So.’ He took a swallow of wine. ‘Why are you here, yourself?’

‘You mean you don’t know?’

‘Why should I?’

‘No reason. But if you don’t then given the way news spreads over here you’re probably the only person in Augusta who doesn’t.’

He laughed. ‘Believe me, I’ve better things to occupy my time than listen to wineshop gossip. Oh, I know you’re official, you have to be, but what kind of official exactly I’ve no idea.’

I told him. He nodded.

‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘This Tiberius Claudius Cabirus. He’d be a relative of the young guards officer?’

‘Yeah. His father, as a matter of fact.’

‘There’s a Quintus Cabirus, too. Or am I wrong?’

‘That’s the brother. You know him?’

‘No, we haven’t met. But I have heard the name, here and in Lugdunum; naturally, I have, since we’re in the same business. I didn’t make the connection with our young tribune, though. That was dense of me, although to be fair he probably only gave me his name once.’ He drained the last of his wine and signalled to the barman. ‘You want another?’

‘No, I’m fine,’ I said. Bugger.

‘It still doesn’t explain why you’re here in Augusta, though, does it? I mean, if the murder happened in Lugdunum.’