David Wishart - No Cause for Concern

‘How so?’

‘If he had been putting in a bit of creative accountancy, it’d be sensible to have a contingency plan for the future, wouldn’t it? In case he was found out eventually?’

‘Sure, but -’ I stopped; I’d seen where she was going. ‘He gets in touch with one of the Paetinii – Senior or Junior, it doesn’t matter, lump them together as an item – and tells them he might be up for involvement in any scam they have cooking where Eutacticus and his stepson are concerned, in return for a guaranteed bolt-hole if he needs it. Yeah, that might work. Well done, lady. Astrapton is definitely in the frame. To say nothing of the Paetinius family.’ I stretched. ‘Still, we’re a long way from proof. Enough for today, leave it for now. You want some lunch?’

‘No, Marcus, I really need to get on with this. It’s for our next poetry meeting.’

‘Yeah. Right. Well, I think I’ll get Meton to make me an omelette, then take the afternoon off and go over to Renatius’s to prop up the bar with the punters. Assuming nothing else transpires in the meantime.’ I got up, picked up my wine cup and went to the door. ‘See you later.’

One thing, though: if I was having an omelette I’d eat it off a tray in the atrium. There hadn’t been any sign of our pint-sized artistic guru when I’d come in – no doubt he was sharing his prodigious talents among several lucky households and we’d just have to wait in line until he deigned to take Fantasy Architecturescape Seven to the next stage – but just knowing while I ate that that aberration in the dining room was lurking behind my back waiting to pounce would put me right off my lunch.

Ah, well, no doubt it would all work itself out; I had infinite confidence in Bathyllus’s deviousness and ingenuity, and judging by his reactions so far he was not going to take this lying down. Or at worst scenario it’d be whitewash time at the earliest opportunity, and screw the money. Meanwhile it was Renatius’s and an hour or two of shooting the breeze. The case could just simmer on the back boiler for a while.

I’d just finished breakfast in the garden next morning when Bathyllus oozed up with Laughing George – aka Eutacticus’s principal muscle Satrius – in close attendance. On a miffed rating of one to ten, the little guy was showing a clear fifteen.

‘It appears you have a visitor, sir,’ he said. ‘I asked him to wait in the lobby, but -’

‘That’s okay, Bathyllus. No harm done.’ I brushed the bread-crumbs off my tunic. ‘Go and count the spoons.’

‘Morning, Corvinus,’ Satrius said as Bathyllus huffed off. ‘The boss sent me.’

‘Yeah, I’d sort of guessed that.’ I stood up. ‘You’ve found Astrapton?’

‘Nah, not yet. I’m taking you to the Golden Fleece.’

‘What’s the Golden Fleece?’

‘Gambling joint. The boss said you’d asked him to find where the bastard did most of his hanging out. Word is, the Fleece. So that’s where we’re going.’

‘Uh…isn’t it a little early, pal? These places don’t open until -’

‘You’ll be with me, Corvinus. If we want the Fleece to be open then it will be fucking open. With little blue bows on.’

Right. Right. Well, it had only been a passing observation. ‘You have an address, maybe?’ I said.

‘Banker’s Incline, behind the Porcian Hall.’

The other side of town, near the Citadel. Still, it was a good day for walking. ‘Fine. I’m ready. Let’s go.’

‘I’ve got a litter outside.’

‘If it’s all the same to you, friend, I’d rather -’

‘Look. I’ve walked all the way from the fucking Pincian already this morning. We take the litter, right?’

We took the litter.

Gambling’s technically illegal in Rome, barring at the Winter Festival, but in practice the law’s pretty much a dead letter in these more permissive days. Even so, if you provide a facility that encourages its customers to lose their shirts and hock their grandmothers outwith the comfort of their own homes, making the fact obvious is not a sharp idea. The Golden Fleece was an anonymous building in one of the blocks between the Porcian Hall and the Fontinal Gate; more specifically, a door with a heavy iron grille set between a cutler’s shop and a bakery. Satrius waited while I paid off the litter – evidently transporting purple-stripers didn’t come under the heading of legitimate expenses where gorillas were concerned – and knocked.

A face appeared at the grille. ‘Bugger off,’ it said. ‘We’re closed.’ Then it saw Satrius and did a double-take. ‘Ah. There again -’

There was a rattling of bolts and the door opened to reveal a weedy slave in a threadbare tunic, clutching a mop like it was some apotropaic talisman. We went in.

‘Cicirrus around?’ Satrius said.

‘Yes, sir. In the office.’ The slave swallowed nervously. ‘It’s through here. If you’d like to follow me, sir.’

We did. Separating punters from their money, or creaming off a percentage, however places like that did things, was obviously a lucrative business. The Golden Fleece was done up like a top-grade cathouse, which it may well have doubled as: gilt candelabra, inlaid cedar tables, couches upholstered in red velvet with gold tassel edging, and pricey artwork on the walls, particularly the centrepiece with a seriously-hung Jason heading for the tall timber clutching the eponymous fleece with one hand and a well-endowed Medea with the other. The lady appeared to have lost most of her clothes in the spat with the dragon and was in the process of rapidly losing the rest of them. Well, where subject matter was concerned it beat fantasy architecture hands down, that was for sure.

The slave took us through the main room to a door at the back. He knocked, opened it and stepped aside. The guy behind the desk looked up from the tablets he was working on: late middle-age, balding, a run to fat that was more of a bolt.

‘This’d better be important,’ he snapped, ‘because if it isn’t -’ He stopped, did a double-take, and swallowed, just like the slave had done. I was beginning to see a definite pattern forming here. ‘Ah. Satrius. Not a problem, is there?’

‘Nah. Least, I hope not. The boss just needs some information, is all.’

‘Of course. Anything I can do to help.’

‘This is Valerius Corvinus. He’s got some questions for you. The boss wants you to answer them. No fudging, no cover-ups, just the straight answers. Okay?’

‘Certainly.’ Cicirrus gave me a nervous look. ‘About what?’

‘A guy by the name of Astrapton,’ I said. ‘He comes here quite often, doesn’t he?’

Cicirrus swallowed again, and his face took on a faintly greenish tinge. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Astrapton’s one of our regulars. What about him?’

‘You know he’s Eutacticus’s accountant?’

‘Ah…yes. Yes, I did understand something to that effect.’

‘So how’s he been doing lately? Wins and losses? In the red or the black?’

‘You mean “lately”, lately?’ His eyes shifted. ‘Neither one nor the other, really. Middle-of-the-road. He might be up or down a few hundred over the course of an evening, but -’

‘I told you, pal,’ Satrius said. ‘And I only tell people once. No fudging.’

‘Look, the house only takes a percentage, right?’ Cicirrus was definitely green now. ‘We only provide the venue, we don’t set the stakes or the limits. That’s the clients’ own business.’

‘Understood,’ I said. ‘Now tell me what you’re not telling me.’

Cicirrus licked his lips. ‘He went through a bad patch about six months ago that put him twenty thousand down at least. Probably a good bit more, I don’t know exactly. But he paid it off. Or at least, his creditors seem to be perfectly happy with things. Certainly I’ve heard no more about it, and he’s still a client in good standing.’