David Wishart: Foreign Bodies

The end of June can be pretty hot in Rome; plus, of course, at that time of year when old Father Tiber is stripped down to his metaphorical vest and underpants and there’s more mud to him at the edges than water, the low-lying bits of the city are fairly unpleasant, odour-wise; which is why most people who can manage it up sticks and head for cooler and more salubrious parts. Me, I’m OK with the heat, and so long as you remember to breathe through your mouth when circumstances demand, walking around is just this side of bearable. Perilla, now … well, on top of the temperature and the olfactory aspects of big-city life the lady’s always been the more outgoing member of the partnership, and between July and September when things begin to settle down again society’s thin on the ground. A good time, then, for touching base with the family – adopted daughter Marilla, her husband Clarus and the grand-sprog, young Marcus – at Castrimoenium in the Alban Hills.

So that’s where we were off to bright and early the next morning, with all the arrangements made barring the finer details of the packing. That’s definitely Perilla’s department; me, while it’s happening I tend to lounge around on the atrium couch with half a jug of wine and let the lady and Bathyllus, our major-domo, get on with things between them.

Which is what I was doing when Bathyllus himself oozed in to say that a slave had arrived with a message.

‘Is that so, now?’ I said. ‘Who from?’

‘The emperor, sir.’

Wine splashed, and I sat up straight. ‘You what?’

‘A personal request.’ Bathyllus’s nose had a distinctly elevated tilt to it, and it had nothing to do with the drains: our major-domo is the snob’s snob. ‘He would be grateful if you could drop by some time today, at your earliest opportunity.’

Uh-oh; this did not sound good. Oh, sure, Claudius was a different kettle of fish altogether to his predecessor – at least, unlike Loopy Gaius of not-so-fond memory, he had a full set of tiles on his roof (so far, anyway; give it time) and he was likeable enough in his own right – but impromptu invitations for a cosy imperial tête-à-tête weren’t exactly a regular occurrence in the Corvinus household. Not that I was complaining, mind; where mixing with the buggers at the top is concerned, I’ve always found that keeping your head well and truly below the parapet is the best way to make sure it stays attached to your neck.

I set the now-empty wine-cup down, reached for a napkin, and mopped my wrist. ‘He mention what it was about, at all?’ I said.

‘No, sir. But I imagine, from the wording of the message, that it is a matter of some urgency. I’ll fetch your best mantle, shall I?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, you do that.’ I hate those things, particularly in the summer months when wearing one is like walking through a steam bath wrapped in a sixteen-foot barber’s towel, but turning up at the palace in a lounging-tunic wasn’t an option.

Bathyllus exited, leaving me frowning: ‘a personal request’ and ‘at your earliest opportunity’ definitely boded. In spades. Still, I couldn’t very well tell the most powerful guy in the world to take a hike, now, could I?

Damn.

I stood up, just as Perilla came through from the direction of the stairs.

‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she said, ‘but if you were planning to take that old tunic you laid out on the bed with us you can think again. I’ve already thrown it out twice, and …’ She paused. ‘What’s the matter?’

I told her. To give her her due, under the circumstances, the lady was distinctly unfazed; but then like I say Perilla’s the social animal in the household, and if she and Tiberius Claudius Caesar weren’t exactly long-standing bosom chums they’d at least had a nodding literary acquaintance before his elevation, and a summons to the palace didn’t have the effect on her that it would’ve had when Gaius was running things. Nowhere near. Puzzlement, at best. Plus, given that we were practically en route to the Alban Hills, the barest smidgeon of annoyance.

‘But what can he possibly want?’ she said.

Bathyllus was back with the mantle. ‘Search me,’ I said, as he helped me on with it. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see. How do I look?’ I gathered up the last yard or so over my left arm in the obligatory fold. ‘Presentable?’

She regarded me critically. ‘More or less.’

Grudging as hell. ‘Come on!’ I said. ‘It’s the best I’ve got. You gave me it yourself at the Winter Festival, and it’s never been worn.’

‘True, Marcus. But then it never ceases to amaze me how even in a new mantle you still manage to appear slightly disreputable.’

I grinned. ‘Call it a knack.’

‘Then it’s one that you should not be particularly proud of. All right; make that “louche”, if you prefer. You’ll need the litter as well, of course.’

Bugger: swanning around in litters is another activity I can gladly do without. Still, she was absolutely right: turning up at the palace soaked with sweat and the accumulated mud and grime of a walk halfway across Rome wasn’t an option. And at least the wine stain on the tunic was now decently hidden. I was just lucky she hadn’t spotted that and had me change completely.

‘Fair enough,’ I said.

She came over and kissed me. ‘Have a nice time,’ she said. ‘And give my regards to Tiberius Claudius.’

I sent Bathyllus to roust out the litter guys.

At least I couldn’t complain about being kept waiting. Under the new regime – well, Claudius had been emperor for a year and a half now, so maybe ‘new’ was pushing it a bit – the imperial admin system had gained an extra layer of unsightly fat, and arranging an appointment involved filling out forms in triplicate and smarming your way past an endless succession of snooty freedman clerks. OK if you’ve got a few days to spare for twiddling your thumbs in antechambers, but frustrating as hell otherwise. However, right from the point when I gave my name to the hefty Praetorian on the door it was obvious that I was being given the full five-star VIP fast-lane treatment. The clerk detailed to look after me led me straight through the public offices, up the staircase to the private living quarters above and to the same richly panelled door I’d been through eighteen months before, when I’d had my little chat with that bitch Messalina. I just hoped that she wasn’t in evidence this time around: cousin or not, emperor’s wife or not, that was a lady I wanted nothing whatsoever to do with that didn’t involve a ten-foot barge pole and an insulated pair of gloves.

The clerk knocked, opened the door, and stepped aside. I went in.

The room had been refurnished since Gaius’s day. Cozy enough, sure, if your idea of coziness is a functioning office with a no-nonsense desk and wall-to-wall book cubbies. Nice collection of bronzes, mind, and considering where I was they’d all be originals.

The man himself was sitting behind the desk, writing. The desk was piled with book-rolls, plus a wine jug and cups that looked like they were permanent fixtures. He looked up.

‘Ah, C-Corvinus! Delighted you could come so promptly,’ he said. ‘Have a seat, my dear fellow. I’ll be with you in just a moment.’ Uh-huh; well, at least he sounded fairly affable, which was a good sign. Not that I felt particularly reassured, mind. The clerk who’d brought me bowed and went out, closing the door behind him. I pulled up a chair that was as old as the bronzes and probably just as expensive and sat down while he finished what he was doing and laid the pen aside. ‘You and your wife Rufia Perilla are well?’