David Wishart - Bodies Politic

I pulled back on my hand, but I might as well’ve tried to shake off a vice. ‘Touch my family, you bastard, and you’re dead meat. You and whoever sent you.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so, sir, I really don’t. Believe me. And like I say this is just a friendly warning. Next time – well, let’s hope there’s not a next time, for everyone’s sake, eh?’ He leaned over and patted my shoulder. ‘I’ll see you around. Be good. Enjoy your wine.’

And he was up and off, striding into the crowds that packed the entrance to Augustus Market. I stood up myself, but he’d already disappeared and I knew I hadn’t a hope in hell of following him let alone catching the bugger. And there wasn’t a lot I could do to him even if I did.

I sat down again and swallowed the wine in my cup at a gulp, brain and guts both churning.

When I got back home Perilla was in the garden going through what I just knew was the wedding checklist for the umpteenth time.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘You win. I’m giving it up.’

‘ What? ’ She set the tablet and stylus down on the table beside her.

‘The investigation. I’m giving it up.’

She looked scared. ‘Marcus, what’s happened?’

I told her.

‘The guy was a plain-clothes Praetorian,’ I said when she’d finished biting her knuckles. ‘Or if he wasn’t he behaved like one. Perilla, he knew the lot! My name, your name, about Marilla and Clarus. He even knew where Marcia’s fucking villa was.’

‘Gently, dear,’ Perilla said.

‘And that bugger Dion was a fake. Macro’s major-domo had never heard of the guy. The same goes for Macro’s fucking letter. He didn’t write the fucking thing at all.’

‘Marcus. Please. Sit down.’ I did. ‘Take a deep breath, hold it to a count of five, and let it out.’ I did. ‘Good. So. Now exactly what are you going to do?’

‘Give up. I told you. It isn’t worth it.’

She was frowning. ‘You’re sure? Absolutely sure?’

‘Lady, I’m not a complete idiot, or a potential suicide. If the warning came from Gaius – and six gets you ten it did – then I can’t go head-to-head with the emperor, whatever the rights or wrongs might be. Besides, I promised.’

‘Yes, that’s true. Still, when has that ever mattered?’

I stared at her. ‘Whose side are you on?’

‘Yours. That’s the point.’ She picked up the wax tablet again. ‘Fine. So if you think the emperor wants to stop you then your logical next step would be to confirm it with him.’

‘ What? ’

‘Go and see him.’

‘Gods almighty, Perilla -!’

‘Why not? It would save everyone a lot of grief and heartache, wouldn’t it? If the wineshop man was a Praetorian, and Gaius had sent him, then why shouldn’t the emperor confirm it? Then you can say, Yes, Caesar, all right, I’m sorry, I’ll stop being such a nosey bastard from this moment on, and you’re both happy. Or at least you’ll know where you stand. Or am I wrong?’

I was laughing despite myself. I leaned over and kissed her. ‘Absolutely right, lady. We have a deal.’ I turned and raised my voice. ‘ Bathyllus! ’

The little guy had been hovering as usual. I’d hardly got the last syllable out when he shimmered over.

‘Wine, sir?’

‘Yeah, but then I want you to put on your cleanest socks and go on over to the palace. Make an appointment for me to see the emperor.’

Bathyllus doesn’t faze easily, but he did now. ‘Ah…’

‘You heard me, sunshine. I’m not joking. The palace, appointment with the emperor, asap.’

‘Yes, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘Could I suggest, though, that when you do go you wear a mourning mantle?’

Oh, bugger; I’d forgotten about that. Rome might be getting back to normal after Drusilla’s death, but she’d been far and away Gaius’s favourite sister. From all accounts her death had hit him hard – he hadn’t even been able to attend the funeral on Mars Field – and he was still a long way from getting over it. Turning up looking crisp, summery and well-barbered, smelling of roses and with a broad grin on my puss, would go down with the guy like a six-day-old anchovy in a heatwave. If, that was, he agreed to see me at all. Still, things were urgent, and I had to try.

‘Well reminded, Bathyllus,’ I said. ‘Off you go. Spit spot.’

He left.

‘Flute-players,’ Perilla said.

I frowned. ‘What?’

‘For the wedding, Marcus. I’d thought of getting them from the guild in Rome, but Marilla says she’d rather use ones from Bovillae. What do you think?’

‘Ah…Bovillae’s fine with me. If that’s what Marilla wants.’

‘Very well.’ She made a tick on the list. ‘Clarus can arrange that. He has an uncle in Bovillae. Now what about Patinius Cruso? I’m a bit worried about him.’

‘Who the hell’s Patinius Cruso?’

‘You know perfectly well, dear. The priest. He was a very close friend of Aunt Marcia’s and he’s known Marilla all her time in Castrimoenium. He must be well over eighty.’

‘So?’

She sighed. ‘Marcus, he’s completely senile. The last time I saw him his major-domo was trying to convince him that a loincloth and hobnailed boots were not appropriate dress for a dinner party. We’d be far safer with someone else, agreed, but he’s a lovely old man and he’d be desperately upset if we passed him over.’

‘It’d make for an interesting ceremony. Not many people get married by a priest in a loincloth and boots.’

‘Be serious.’

‘Okay. So make sure the major-domo rides close shotgun on the day and have one of the other priests primed to take over. If necessary we can bundle the old guy up in his mantle and lock him in a broom cupboard until the reception.’

‘Hmm. Well, if you’re sure.’ She made another tick. ‘What about flowers?’

‘Your wine, sir.’ Bathyllus must’ve gone off to the palace; the slave with the tray was one of the skivvies.

I took the wine and sipped. Well, there was nothing I could do now until Gaius agreed to see me. Or not, as the case might be. And at least Perilla was off the Alexandrian jag.

I was still puzzled over this Dion business, though. That made no sense at all.

I got my appointment two days later.

I was nervous as hell; sure I was. We’d got on well enough in the past, Gaius and me, on the occasions that we had met, and although Macro’s letter had been a fake the bit about him being well-disposed had seemed true enough. Even so, the guy was emperor now, he could break me with no more trouble than swatting a fly. And he was about as reliable as an adder with fang-ache.

Besides, we’d had four enforced top-bracket suicides inside of eight months. Those sort of statistics aren’t exactly encouraging.

I’d let Bathyllus choose the wardrobe. Going unshaven for the two days, which is proper mourning etiquette, had seemed a bit OTT – the guy didn’t like crawlers, I knew from past experience, and Drusilla hadn’t been family – so I didn’t do it; but a plain mourning mantle and no barber’s powder was only sensible. I took the litter, too: walking from the Caelian to the Palatine in the afternoon heat of summer can leave you humming, and that I didn’t want either.

I gave my name to the palace flunkey – like all the slaves in the imperial quarters he was in a mourning-tunic himself, and half his fringe was missing – and he took me in to the Presence.

Gaius looked terrible. Yeah, well, he usually did – not a good-looking guy, our emperor – but I’d seen privy-slaves in better nick. If I’d had any doubts about his grief over Drusilla, I didn’t have them any more. Oh, sure, his mourning-tunic would be top-of-the-range quality, but even at a room’s-distance in the poor light I could see he’d had the same one on for days. From the length of his stubble he hadn’t shaved since Drusilla’s death; hadn’t eaten all that much, either, because he looked like a half-starved goat. Skulls came to mind. Mildewed ones, at that. The room’s curtains were closed, there were only a few lamps lit and the place smelled of stale sweat and incense.