David Wishart - Bodies Politic

‘Agrippina, now. She’s a full-blown five-star imperial. She already has a son, the only one of the sisters who does, so the dynastic line’s already assured. She’s married at present, yes, but she’ll be a widow before the year’s out. And she’s an ambitious, ruthless, smart-as-paint bitch. You getting there, lady?’

She’d stopped twisting her hair. ‘They do complement each other, don’t they?’

‘Like fish-pickle sauce on radishes.’

‘And Crispus is sure? That they’re having an affair?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘So the idea would be for Lepidus to become emperor, marry Agrippina, adopt young Nero and make him his heir?’

‘Right. He gets the immediate kudos but Agrippina gets to play Livia to his Augustus, which she’d do to perfection. And eventually her son makes it to the purple.’

‘You don’t think they -?’ She stopped. ‘I mean, Drusilla’s death was convenient, agreed, but a husband and a sister! They wouldn’t!’

‘Of course they would. They’d have to. Things don’t make sense otherwise.’

She frowned. ‘Why not?’

‘Okay. Gemellus and Silanus died when?’

‘The end of last year.’

‘And Macro and Ennia?’

‘About two months later. What has that got to do with -?’ Her hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh.’

‘Right. It all has to do with timing. Drusilla died less than a month ago, by which time the fake Gemellus plot, which cleared the ground, had been dead and buried along with its protagonists for almost half a year. Unless Agrippina and Lepidus – or one of them, at least – was pretty hot in the prediction business, that was fairly fortuitous, now, wasn’t it? Crispus obviously believes Drusilla’s death wasn’t natural, but there again the guy’s a dirty-minded degenerate muck-raker, isn’t he? That type’ll believe anything.’ I took another swig of the wine. Perilla said nothing. ‘So. Crunch time. You think the scenario’s valid?’

She was quiet for a long time. Finally she said: ‘Oh, yes. It makes perfect sense.’

Hey! ‘You’re sure?’

‘No criticisms at all. Barring what I said about the problems of killing Gaius, as a theory it hangs together perfectly. It might even be true.’ Ouch! ‘Only -’

‘Only what?’

‘Well, several things, really.’

A cold wind blew: several things? ‘Such as what?’

‘First, where does Etruscus fit in? After all, if what he wanted you to bring to light by investigating Macro’s death was a plot against the emperor the broad details of which he already knew, then why should he be so shocked and surprised when you mentioned the imperials? That makes no sense at all. And what about these two men Flaccus and Isidorus? He obviously thinks they’re vitally important, but in your theory they play no role at all.’

Bugger; she was right. In all the excitement I’d forgotten all about Etruscus. ‘Yeah, well…’

‘Secondly, what about this “accident” of yours? You said yourself: Agrippina couldn’t have known you were going to be on the Stairs in time to arrange that, and for the same reasons nor could Lepidus.’

I was on firmer ground there. ‘Yeah, they could,’ I said. ‘I’ve thought about that. Livilla would know, and she’s having an affair with Seneca. Crispus told me that as well. Her husband isn’t aware of it, or not according to Crispus, anyway, but more to the point I’d bet Gaius isn’t either. My guess is Agrippina and Lepidus have got her on the team – at least marginally – by threatening to tell the emperor. Gaius wouldn’t take kindly to his sister committing adultery with a no-account hack poet from Spain. They’d both be heading for their respective fly-speck islands before you can say “Pandateria”’.

‘Hmm. Which brings me to the last point. Even if you’re right about this plot, what can you do?’

‘Jupiter, Perilla! Tell the -’ I stopped. Fuck! She was right again! Even though Gaius was accommodating, it was only a theory: I’d no proof, none whatsoever. And without it the emperor wasn’t going to take kindly to being told that practically the entire imperial family wanted to put him in an urn. ‘Ah.’

‘Quite.’

At which moment Alexis came in.

‘I’ve booked the passage, sir,’ he said. ‘A passenger-carrying merchantman sailing from Brindisi in seventeen days’ time.’

‘Perfect!’ Well, at least that was done. And we could pick up Clarus and Marilla on the way.

Rome, for the present, was played out. We’d have to see what Etruscus’s Alexan dria had to offer

We set out five days later, in the big sleeping carriage plus one cart for the supernumeraries and another for the luggage: twelve days would be enough to get us to Brindisi, sure, with good roads all the way, but you don’t take chances where sailing times’re involved. Or pickups: I’d sent a skivvy haring down to Castrimoenium to tell Clarus and Marilla that we’d meet them at the Appian crossroads near Bovillae on the evening of the first day, but delays happen and it was best to be careful.

Where the supernumeraries were concerned we were travelling light. Bathyllus was staying behind to look after the house: the little guy was an even worse sailor than I was, and I doubted if when we got to Alexandria our fingers-crossed-host Stratocles’s major-domo, whoever he was, would welcome the little guy butting in with helpful suggestions on running the household. Which, as inevitably as night follows day, he would. That hassle I could do without. The same went for Meton the chef. In spades. He’d packed us a huge hamper of the sort of goodies that would keep best on the trip, and that plus what the young sous-chef we were taking along could rustle up would have to do us. If the choice was living on salami and cheese for the duration and being the cause of a full-scale turf war in Stratocles’s kitchen I’d take the sausage any day. So we were down to Alexis, three more assorted skivvies, including the sous-chef, and Perilla’s maid Procne, who’d do for Marilla as well. Lysias and his co-drivers would come as far as Brindisi and then take the vehicles back.

Me, I hate travelling, although if you’ve got to do it and have the time to spare a sleeping carriage is the best way because at least the thing’s comfortable. We were both well-equipped. Perilla had brought along a couple of large book-boxes filled with what looked like half the Pollio, and I’d laid in a decent supply of Setinian plus a Robbers board and pieces: I’m no games player, normally, but Clarus was, and you have to do something to pass the time besides watching the scenery. Scenery you can keep.

We made the pickup no bother. Clarus and Marilla were waiting outside the roadside wineshop at the crossroads.

‘Everything okay, Princess?’ I hugged her.

‘Oh, yes. No problems.’ She was looking as bright as a button as usual, and excited as hell. ‘Corvinus, this is great! Thanks for asking us.’

‘Pleasure. Hi, Clarus.’ We shook. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Fine.’ He’d filled out in the few months since I’d seen him. Grown, too: he’d be as big as I was, easy. A lot more serious, though, but then that was no bad thing.

‘What’s that?’ I pointed at the case he was carrying. It had thin wooden sides covered with leather, like a book-box, but it was rectangular rather than round and there was a clasp under the handle.

‘Basic medical kit.’ He grinned. ‘Dad put it together for me. We thought it might come in useful.’

‘You got anything for sea-sickness? Because, pal, I’ll tell you now that I’m going to need it, for one.’

‘Oh, yes. There isn’t much call for sea-sickness pills up here, but Dad made them specially and he says they should work. Not that I’ve ever tried them out on anyone personally.’