David Wishart - Bodies Politic

The screaming went down a notch. There wasn’t all that much difference to the sound level, cosmically speaking, but it seemed to satisfy Cass because she was facing me again.

‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘They’ve been on a high all morning.’

‘Uh…that Septimus?’ I said, meaning the grumpy gnome. Obviously a new addition to the scrum. At least he hadn’t got the use of his legs yet.

‘Septima.’ The grin widened. ‘Look, come on in. Agron won’t be back for a while yet, but if you’ve ridden all the way from Rome you’ll be -’

‘Ah…that’s okay, Cass, if you don’t mind,’ I said quickly. ‘Not just now.’ Absolutely no way was I crossing that threshold, not if the kids were on a high: they were bad enough at the best of times, and from the sound of things I’d probably be torn apart before I got the length of the living room, even with Cass there to provide the supporting muscle. ‘It’s business, and pretty pressing. A commission. In fact, two commissions.’ There was a loud crash and another scream from beyond the door, followed by what sounded like a war-to-the-knife squabble between two blood-crazed maenads. I felt the sweat break out on my forehead, but Cass didn’t even blink. ‘For young Larcius Paullus.’

‘ Polyxene’s boy?’ She bounced Sprog Number Seven in the crook of her arm and the gnome burped. ‘Two commissions? Marcus, that is wonderful! He’ll be absolutely delighted! He’s got a real talent.’

‘Yeah, I remember.’ There was another crash. Shit; time I was leaving. Past time. They’d be out here with us in a minute and it’d be Cannae all over again. ‘Uh…where can I find him?’

‘He works from home. One of the old houses beyond the seaside gate. I could send Tertia to show you, but you’d be better dropping in on Agron at the yard. It’s practically next door.’

‘Fine. Don’t disturb Tertia. I’ll just, ah, head on over there now.’

She laughed. ‘Coward. Tell him dinner’s two hours after noon, or it will be today now you’re here. That’ll give you plenty of time to see Paullus and have a cup of wine together. But don’t be late, and come back sober or I’ll skin the both of you.’

‘Got you.’ I had: the inevitable presence of homicidal sprogs or not, one of Cass’s meals was not to be missed. She wasn’t kidding about not being late, either: turn up when the sun was an inch past the mark and you were toast. ‘Oh, by the way, you may as well have this now. It’ll only get broken.’ I handed her one of the two packages I’d brought carefully from Rome across the mare’s crupper, a pistachio and almond-cream pastry the size of a paving slab. If Cass has one weakness – and it shows in her sideways spread – it’s pastries. The other package was a Sarsina cheese. I hadn’t had time to scour the cheese-market for a fresh Lesuran or a Gabalican, but Meton had come up trumps, and it was absolutely top grade. Cheese is Agron’s thing. I’d give him that myself.

I left her sorting out whatever domestic crisis had been going on behind her back, beat a hasty retreat to the mare and headed towards the centre of town.

Ostia’s an easy place to find your way around in; at least, easy compared with Rome. It’s based around the old Republican fort, and although that’s long gone the streets are laid out on the army’s grid plan, parallel with the original ditches. The seaside gate’s to the south-west, and beyond it the town straggles out along the shoreline, mostly warehousing and boat-builders’ yards. Or what used to be the shoreline: the tidal changes that’ve been responsible for the silting up of the harbour are adding shallows and new land every year, and a lot of the builders’ yards’ve been left high and dry. Agron’s was one of these. He – or his father-in-law before him, rather – hadn’t handled the big stuff, just small coastal fishing boats, but even so the old man had needed to dredge a channel and keep it clear to get them to and from the stocks. Since the changeover, though, Agron hadn’t bothered. The cradles and pits had disappeared in favour of three or four large sheds. The place was certainly busy, with a dozen slaves working all out. Noisy, too, with sawing and hammering, but that sort of noise I could take.

I tied the mare to a handy cart and went inside. ‘The boss around?’ I asked the nearest slave.

‘Corvinus! What the hell brings you here?’ The man himself, coming over and wiping his hands on a rag. A bit older, like the rest of us, greying now at the temples, but he still looked like he could bend iron bars without breaking sweat. Which he could.

We shook.

‘Business,’ I said. ‘You got half an hour?’

‘Sure. More, if you want it.’ He raised his voice. ‘Decimus!’ He did a mime-show of pointing at me and drinking. One of the slaves raised his hand in salute and grinned. ‘We’ll go to Vetus’s place. He’s got a decent Privernan in.’

‘Maybe later. I was hoping you’d take me to your nephew Paullus.’

‘What, Polyxene’s Paullus? What do you want with him?’

‘Commission from Mother of a couple of portrait busts for Marilla and Clarus. And something for me. Not another bust, just an idea.’

‘No problem. And it’s in the same direction.’ He strode off towards the yard gates, and I followed. ‘So how are you? Busy with the wedding?’

I laughed. ‘Yeah. You could say that. Oh, and by the way, in case I forget Cass says to tell you dinner today’s two hours after noon.’

‘Fine. That’ll give you plenty of time to get back to Rome. Unless you want to bunk down for the night in the living room, of course. We can manage that, easy.’

‘Ah…no. Thanks anyway, pal, but I’ll stick to the round trip.’

He grinned. ‘Suit yourself.’

‘And I brought you a cheese. Only Sarsinan, but it’s a good one.’ I handed the package over. ‘I had to prise it out of Meton with a crow-bar.’

He stopped, unwrapped it and took a sniff. ‘Beautiful! We’ll have it with the Privernan. Vetus doesn’t know a good cheese from old socks.’ We carried on, back the way I’d come, towards the town proper. ‘So. A couple of portrait busts, eh? Real upmarket stuff. Paullus’ll be thrilled, and he could do with the work. He’s a paint-on-wood guy, really, that’s all people about here can afford, but he can handle a chisel with the best of them. Learned it from his great-uncle, and the old man really knew his marble. That’s Vetus’s, incidentally’ – he pointed at a neat little wineshop with a trellised vine, that I’d noticed on my way out – ‘and Polyxene’s place is just down this alley. Couldn’t be nearer. She lives alone now, apart from Paullus, since Larcius died a couple of years back.’

Like Cass had said, it was one of the old houses; probably it’d been a fisherman’s cottage a hundred years or so back, when the coast was closer and Ostia hadn’t spread out this far. There was a lean-to beside it, where the original fisherman would’ve hung his nets to dry and stored his gear.

‘Hey, Polyxene!’ Agron shouted. ‘It’s me! Anyone around?’

A tall, lanky kid came out of the lean-to, holding a paintbrush.

‘Hi, Uncle Agron,’ he said. ‘Mum’s gone to the market.’

‘No problem. It was you I wanted to see.’ Agron jerked his thumb at me. ‘My friend Marcus Corvinus here’s got a job for you. Two portrait busts.’

‘ Two? ’ The kid’s eyes lit up. ‘Wow! Great!’ Despite his Latin name he was pure Greek, with tight-curled black hair, an oval face and olive skin.

‘You did one for a friend of my stepfather’s a few months ago,’ I said. ‘He was impressed.’

‘That’d be Septimius Gallus,’ Paullus said. ‘Yeah, I was pleased with that myself. Luna marble.’ He was examining my face. ‘You want Luna as well, sir? Or something different? Black, maybe. Black’s more unusual.’