There was always the chance, too – an outside one, I admitted, but a chance none the less – that Otillius had been stringing me along; that he’d been responsible for Surdinus’s death himself. He’d certainly had motive, whatever the points against.
‘Anyway,’ he was saying, ‘you tell her. Tarquitia. If you see her again. You tell her that if she wants to come back it’ll be fine with me. No problems, none at all. Clean slate. OK?’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘OK. I’ll do that.’ I stood up.
‘You haven’t drunk your wine.’
Fuck; he’d noticed. ‘Nah. I’m not much of a one for wine, me,’ I said. ‘A sip or two now and again. Maybe two cups at the Winter Festival, just to celebrate, if it’s well-watered.’ I passed the cup over. ‘You have it, pal. Enjoy. I’ll see you around.’
I left.
Hmm. Quite a lot to think about there. On top of everything else.
Enough for the day. Back to the Caelian.
TEN
‘It was a set-up,’ I said to Perilla as Bathyllus served us our pre-dinner drinks in the atrium. ‘She planned the whole thing.’
‘Evidently so, dear.’ Perilla sipped her carrot-juice cocktail. The lady was experimenting with vegetables. You do not want to know. ‘But what I don’t understand is how she did it.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, if she’d targeted Surdinus specifically then she must have known that he would be at the dinner party. That could be the only reason for swapping places with the other girl.’
‘Maybe she didn’t. Target him specifically. Maybe she sized him up when she was doing her act, reckoned he was a likely prospect, and took it from there.’
‘Marcus, that’s nonsense. If that had been the case there would’ve been no reason to make the swap in the first place. Men who can afford to hire musicians and dancers for their dinner parties are all likely to be wealthy – positively rich by someone of Tarquitia’s class’s standards. If she were simply planning to hook a wealthy protector, one set of customers would offer as good a chance as another. And Surdinus wasn’t even the one giving the party. She might conceivably have known the host’s name in advance, but not the names of his guests. No, the plan was aimed at Surdinus from the beginning. It had to be. But, as I said, I can’t see how she could’ve managed it.’
‘You’re assuming she didn’t have another reason for making the swap. A good one, not connected with Surdinus.’
‘Well, did she? You talked to her husband. What did he say?’
Bugger; she was right, of course. As far as I remembered, Otillius hadn’t said in so many words that Tarquitia hadn’t had a reason for getting the other girl to switch gigs, or at least offered one, but that was definitely the implication. And Otillius himself had called the whole thing ‘queer’.
‘Yeah, OK, lady,’ I said. ‘Point taken. Still, puzzle or not, manage it she did. And from there on in, she managed things pretty neatly. Oh, sure, according to Gallio everything was done perfectly legally, with Surdinus himself calling the shots, but six gets you ten that whatever he thought was the case himself, the idea behind the transfers came from her. And the upshot is that Tarquitia is now one seriously rich lady.’
Perilla frowned. ‘How could an intelligent man like Surdinus do that?’ she said. ‘He was very wealthy, yes, obviously, but half a million sesterces is a huge amount of money. It must represent a significant part of the estate. And to make a gift of it in the course of a single month to someone who’s only been his mistress for a year, with the promise of more to come … frankly, Marcus, I find it incredible.’
‘Yeah, well, from all accounts the guy was completely besotted.’ I topped up my wine cup. ‘Besides, there are contributing factors. Sullana told me that he looked on Tarquitia more as a daughter than a mistress. And he’d certainly far more time for her than for his real family. Wife divorced, one son estranged and the other, to his mind, mostly a waste of space.’
‘Hmm.’ Perilla was twisting a lock of hair. ‘You have thought in terms of him, haven’t you? Surdinus Junior?’
‘As the killer? Or at least the one behind the killing?’ I set down the jug. ‘Oh, yeah. I’m not stupid, lady. In fact, after what old Gallio told me, I’d say he was a pretty good bet. Certainly far and away the best we’ve got at present. Tarquitia – well, she’s a con artist seriously on the make, and for her to have Surdinus murdered just when the con is beginning to show a real profit wouldn’t make any sense. Even if he’d woken up to what she was doing and told her he was pulling the plug, he’d be too late; all the transactions had already gone through, she was legally half a million up and sitting pretty, and if she knew about the will she could afford to forget about that side of things. Murdering him just wouldn’t be worth the effort, and she’d be taking a terrible risk for very little reason. Surdinus Junior, now, he’s another kettle of fish altogether.’
‘Damage limitation,’ Perilla said.
‘Sure. Gallio told me he’d kept the guy informed about what his father was doing, and was planning to do. In effect, Surdinus Senior was giving away the family fortune hand over fist, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him. Junior was down a cool half million of his inheritance already. The only way he wouldn’t be down a hell of a lot more was if his father were suddenly to die. And – conveniently – die he did. Plug pulled, end of problem.’
‘You could never prove it, dear.’
I sighed. ‘Yeah, I know. That’s what’s so frustrating. His hand wasn’t on the stone that killed the old guy, so it’s not a question of proving he was in the tower at the time. As far as this case is concerned, we can forget opportunity altogether; means, too, because we know how the murder was done and who did it, and anyone could’ve set that up. So it all comes down to motive, and that’ – I took a morose swig of wine – ‘is a real bugger.’
‘We have to find this freedman,’ Perilla said. ‘Make the connection there.’
‘No arguments, lady, none at all. You like to tell me how?’ Silence. ‘Exactly. If he was acting for Junior, he wasn’t one of the family’s own, because Cilix would’ve recognized him. Or Leonidas would’ve, from Cilix’s description, because a birthmarked or whatevered cheek is a pretty fair giveaway. Or some other smart bugger among the bought help would, when Cilix’s story became common knowledge, which it would about five minutes after he’d opened his mouth, with the result that by now we’d have the guy’s name and address. Plus if Junior had the common sense of a gnat he’d be perfectly well aware of the stupidity of using one of his own men to kill his father on his own estate in broad daylight, when he might be seen. Which, of course, he was. Ergo he’s a complete stranger, a once-off, who by now could be anywhere in Rome, or anywhere in the fucking whole of Italy for that matter. Not to mention the rest of the empire. Gods!’
‘Gently, Marcus, gently. And don’t forget that Surdinus Junior isn’t the only possibility. If someone else were responsible for the murder, none of that would necessarily apply.’
‘You have any theories, lady? I’m open to suggestions.’
‘You don’t think it was this Otillius? Tarquitia’s husband?’
I shrugged. ‘It could’ve been. He’d have motive enough; he was obviously more than fond of Tarquitia, and he knew where to find Surdinus. Plus he’s got enough of a violent streak in him to commit a murder, that much is pretty obvious.’
‘But?’
‘Right. Definitely but. First of all, he’d’ve done the killing personally, not sent someone else to do it. Someone like Otillius would want the satisfaction of bashing the old guy’s head in himself.’
‘We can’t be absolutely sure he did send anyone else.’
‘Come again?’
‘Cilix only said he saw a strange freedman acting suspiciously and coming from the direction of the tower at approximately the right time. He didn’t see him actually leave the tower, let alone commit the murder. At first he thought the man was a poacher. Why should
n’t he have been right?’
I sat back. Shit. True; absolutely true. We were assuming the freedman Cilix saw was the killer, but that’s all it was: an assumption. If he’d been what was effectively an innocent bystander, then the whole thing was up for grabs.
Thank you for that, clever-clogs. Thank you so very much. Just what I needed.
‘Even so, lady,’ I said, ‘Otillius wasn’t a planner. He’s a porter in the vegetable market, for the gods’ sakes.’
‘So?’
‘Jupiter, Perilla, intelligence in a job like that is a positive drawback. Some of the cabbages are smarter than those guys.’
‘Marcus, that is judgmental and completely unfair.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe. But he didn’t seem much of an intellectual giant to me. And he was genuinely surprised that Surdinus was dead. Either that or he was a bloody good actor.’
‘Are you so certain that he wasn’t?’
‘Come on, lady! Give me a break! Trust me, Otillius isn’t the one we want.’
‘Very well. What about Naevius Gallio?’
I just stared at her. ‘What?’
‘He’s a possibility. Not as good a one as Surdinus Junior, I admit, but far better, to my mind, than anyone else. And for much the same reasons.’
‘You care to elucidate, maybe?’ I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
‘Certainly. His family have managed the Naevius estate finances for three generations, and he clearly takes considerable pride in the fact. How do you think he felt when the current head of the Naevius family started dismantling the estate and effectively giving and continuing to give away large parts of it to a common nightclub dancer?’
Bugger; I could see where she was heading. Put like that, it was obvious. A client/patron link that went that far back would be pretty much bred in the bone, and its loyalties would be to the family as a whole, not to any of the individual members. Furthermore, those loyalties would override everything, absolutely everything, even the moral and legal concepts of right and wrong. Pace Perilla, Gallio had a motive that, in its own way, was at least as strong as Junior’s.
‘Pretty hacked off,’ I said. ‘Particularly when he was forced to sit on his hands and watch it happening. Or, even worse, organize the transactions himself.’ Hell. ‘Yeah, fair enough, lady. Add him to the pot. Anyone else, while we’re about it? You haven’t got an axe to grind regarding Sullana, have you?’
‘No, dear. Not so far. But then I’m keeping an open mind.’
I grinned. ‘OK. Fair enough. Just get off my back, will you?’
She smiled and ducked her head. ‘There’s the other son, of course. He’s a completely unknown quantity at present.’
‘Yeah, right.’ I emptied my wine cup and refilled it. ‘Actually, I’ve got him scheduled. He’s tomorrow’s assignment.’
‘Do you know where to find him?’
‘Not exactly. Postuma said he’s got a place – a workshop or whatever – near the Circus.’
‘She couldn’t be more specific?’
‘I didn’t ask her at the time, but I’d guess not. Even so, tracking him down shouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘Oh, really?’ Perilla sniffed. ‘Marcus, dear, be sensible! The phrase near the Circus covers everything bounded by the Caelian, the Palatine and the Aventine. That is an appreciable chunk of the city.’
‘Yeah, I know. But he’s an artist, right?’
‘So?’
‘So where do you find artists – artists of a kind, anyway – in the neighbourhood of the Circus?’
I could see the answer registering. Perilla grinned.
‘In the arcades beside the entrances to the Circus itself,’ she said. ‘Marcus, that is brilliant!’
‘Yeah, well,’ I said smugly, and took a modest swig of wine, ‘score one for the boys.’ Of course, most of the hucksters who sold the cheap pottery models of the top chariot drivers were just that – hucksters, without an artistic bone in their bodies, and a lot of the stalls only opened on race days when there were plenty of punters around, but you did see a few booths run by genuine artists and craftsmen who produced their own stuff, mainly for the quality end of the market. Better, some of them – and I hoped that Marcus Surdinus was one – were fixed up more permanently in ground-floor properties opposite the arcades themselves: potters, sculptors, jewellers, bronze-workers and the like. Even if I struck out there, the art-and-craft community in Rome, as happens with any other trade or profession, is a small world where everyone knows everyone else. If I asked around long enough, someone was sure to know where the guy was based.
I was giving myself another top-up when Bathyllus tooled in to say that dinner was ready. Well, I couldn’t really complain about how things were going. There were plenty of possible angles to explore still, and even if Surdinus Junior was our man, maybe we’d strike lucky. In any case, after a day traipsing round more than half of Rome and a lunch that’d consisted of a few olives, a hunk of bread, and a bit of cheese, I was starving.
Time for dinner. Tomorrow was another day.
ELEVEN
In the event, I shouldn’t’ve been so smug: finding chummie wasn’t easy after all. Which, I suppose, was fair enough, given that – barring at its ends, where the starting gates and triumphal parade entrance are – the Circus has more access points for the punters along its almost-mile circumference than you can shake a stick at. Naturally, this being a non-race day, most of the souvenir booths and shops that serviced them were closed, but even so by the time I’d worked my way along the Palatine side and back round to the southern edge, I’d asked at a good couple of dozen places with no result. The weather didn’t help, either: I’d barely come down off the Caelian before it had started to drizzle, and ten or fifteen minutes later it’d been throwing it down. Not pleasant; not pleasant at all.
When I did finally strike lucky it was in a cookshop where I’d stopped off for a dry-out and a restorative late-morning plate of beans and bread.
‘Hellenus?’ The guy ladling the beans said when I asked him. ‘Young guy, well-spoken. Not a freedman; free-born, yes?’
‘That’d be him,’ I said. ‘Artist, right?’
‘Sure.’ The cookshop owner nodded in the direction of one of the side walls. ‘That’s one of his over there.’
I turned and looked. Not a mural as such, just a small painting that was part of a more simply decorated wall: a still life with a loaf of bread, various dried pulses, and a few assorted vege-tables. The subject was suitable for a cookshop, sure, but even so a piece of decoration like that was a lot more upmarket than you’d expect in a place like this. It was well done, too; not one of your cack-handed amateur’s daubs.
‘It’s good,’ I said.
‘Isn’t it?’ The guy beamed and passed me my bowl and hunk of bread. ‘He did it cheap, too. That’s his thing, painting, he doesn’t touch this souvenir tat. Me and the wife, we was thinking of having him do a portrait of us. He does a lovely portrait, Hellenus. Tasteful, you know? Maybe for the wedding anniversary, something to hand on to the kids. Twenty-five years, that’ll be, come January.’
‘Congratulations.’ I picked up the spoon. ‘So where would I find him?’
‘Practically next door. Three or four doors down. He rents part of the old Luccius place.’
‘You know him well?’
‘He comes in now and again for a takeaway, like most of the locals. But no, except to exchange a few words with, even when he was doing the picture. Not that he’s standoffish; he’s friendly enough but he keeps to himself, does Hellenus. Ask me, he’s a nob that’s down on his luck. Or maybe he’s had a spat with his father and got himself thrown out.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, that’s likely enough.’ I spooned up the beans. They were not at all bad; not the usual anonymous mush but carefully cooked with oil and sage. ‘So you wouldn’t know anything about his friends? People he sees a lot?’
‘Nah. Like I say, he keeps himself to himself. Th
ere’s no one regular.’
‘Girlfriend? Singular or plural?’
‘I’ve seen a girl around the place from time to time, yeah. Nice looker. Whether she’s his actual girlfriend or not, though, I can’t say. She’s not a live-in, at any rate, and she’s not from around here.’
I’d’ve asked if he could give me a name, but I was getting suspicious looks already. Besides, I’d found the man himself. I ate my beans in silence, paid and left.
The Luccius place turned out to be one of these old revamped properties where most of the internal wall between the street-side shops and what was once completely separate domestic ground-floor living space has been taken away, leaving what is in effect living quarters with a commercial outlet in open plan. Me, I’d’ve felt that having your living room open out on to a public street was a pretty uncomfortable arrangement, but the two sections were divided off by a curtain that was currently drawn for privacy, so I supposed it worked well enough.
There was no one immediately in evidence, but judging from the artwork hanging up on the available wall space and propped against the counter itself, I’d come to the right place. I was idly looking it over – it was a mixture of still lifes, topography, mythological subjects and portraits, all painted on board, obviously displayed to give potential customers thinking of commissioning a work an idea of what was on offer – when the curtain was pulled back and a youngish guy in his mid to late twenties came out.
‘Morning, sir,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’
Well-spoken, like the cookshop owner had said, and a very good looker. A bit under medium height, but well-built and even-featured, with tightly curling black hair. He radiated confidence, too; I was reminded of Tarquitia. Right; his mother had said he was personable. In looks and manner, he definitely had the edge over his elder brother, that was for sure.
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