‘You’re welcome, pal,’ I said. ‘You deserve it, both of you. Oh, one more thing. The big guy who saw the freedman originally. What was his name again?’
‘Cilix, sir.’
‘Right. Cilix. I’ll need him with me to make a formal identifi-cation. You think you can get him to come over here tomorrow morning? Say the third hour?’
‘Of course. I’m sure that won’t be a problem.’
‘Fine. And thanks again, Leonidas.’
He left.
‘Well, lady,’ I said when he’d gone, ‘it looks like we’re home and dry after all. I’ll go over to the Subura tomorrow with Cilix, check this guy out. If he’s the one we want, I reckon I can go straight to Gaius. That sound fair?’
‘I suppose so, dear. But I’d rather you left things alone.’
‘Yeah, well, we can’t always have our druthers, can we?
‘As long as you’re careful.’
‘I’ll be walking on eggs, I promise you.’ I would, too.
We might be inside Alexander’s deadline after all.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Cilix turned up the next morning bang on time. Not that I would’ve recognized the guy, because they’d hosed him down, given him a new tunic, a shave and haircut, and a final wax and polish before sending him over, with the result that he was a gleaming picture of pristine cleanliness and sartorial elegance.
Raring to go, too. He stood there – loomed, rather – at the foot of our steps, grinning like a six-foot-six yard-across-the-shoulders schoolboy being taken out for a birthday treat. Which I supposed wasn’t all that far from the reality: as far as domestics go, which isn’t all that far to begin with, garden slaves are at the bottom of the pecking order and their social life is zilch. The fact that they spend a large slice of their time interacting with manure in one way or another doesn’t help matters, either.
‘You ready for this, Cilix?’ I said.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘OK. Modus operandi.’ He blinked. ‘Uh … the way we’re going to do things, right?’
‘Oh. Yeah. Got you, sir.’
‘The guy – Sosibius – doesn’t know me. Or at least I’m hoping he doesn’t. And he didn’t see you either, right?’
‘Yeah. ’Cos I was crouched down in the bushes taking a—’
‘Fine. Fine. So we go in as ordinary customers; at least I do. You tag along behind, and – this is really, really important, right? – with your mouth tightly zipped. Eyes only, OK? Get a good look at the bastard while I’m talking to him, but say nothing until we’re back outside. Got it?’
‘Yeah. Got it.’
‘Great. Well done. So off we go.’
Off we went.
The Subura’s like a rabbit warren, one of the oldest and poorest parts of the city with streets even narrower and messier than they usually are in Rome, zig-zagging between tenements that’re in such bad nick that you have to keep one eye on the road and the other leery for falling tiles. Other things, too, deliberately thrown, or poured, rather: no sanitation in a tenement, the top floor’s a long way from even the most basic comfort area, and the locals don’t bother too much about the courtesy warning. Not the ones doing the pouring, anyway, although the poor buggers on the receiving end of things can get pretty vocal.
Safety Incline, Leonidas had said – a misnomer, if ever there was one, because this time of year it was slippery as hell with a mixture of the previous night’s rain and the variously compounded organic element that covered the one-in-four pavement and made walking a tricky business. If you were lucky enough to get to use the pavement for walking on, that was. Half the Subura seemed to have decided to go either up or down Safety Incline that morning, and Suburan bag-ladies don’t take prisoners: we spent most of the time with one foot in the central gutter while a large sample of the local matriarchy barged past us on both sides loaded down with bagfuls of assorted root vegetables and dried pulses for the family’s dinner. If it hadn’t been for Cilix’s bulk diverting the stream, as it were, they wouldn’t’ve bothered about the both sides aspect of things much, either.
We found the bookshop about three-quarters of the way down the Incline, sandwiched between a cobbler’s and a second-hand clothes merchant’s.
‘OK, Cilix,’ I said. ‘Remember, I talk, you just look, OK? Whether it’s him or not, you wait until we’re outside again. Clear?’
‘Yeah. No problem.’
I crossed my fingers and went in, with Cilix following.
It was like any copyist’s shop you’d find anywhere in Rome. Most of them, of course, are in the more salubrious districts, especially near the Palatine with its Pollio Library, but there are a few properties in both the Subura and on the Sacred Way that’ve kept to their original purpose through a dozen generations of owners while the buildings around them have slid steadily downmarket. This one looked like it’d been built in with the Suburan bricks; no doubt when the Gauls had occupied the city four hundred years back, Brennus or one of his more bibliophilic mates had dropped by to pick up Plato’s latest before getting down to a hard day’s pillage, arson and rape.
The two copyists sitting at the tables under the window, making use of what daylight had made it between the tenements, ignored us completely, without even a cursory glance. In the body of the shop behind a counter laden with book-rolls was a guy in a freedman’s cap. Definitely not Sosibius, I could see that for myself, even though his left cheek wasn’t in full sight: he was eighty if he was a day, and he looked like he’d have serious problems crossing the room, let alone climbing up several builder’s ladders and along a dodgy parapet.
Fuck; things did not look good!
‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’
He sounded nervous as hell; strange. Unless of course the quaver in his voice and the slight twitch were just age and infirmity. Which, given that he looked less than a fingernail’s breadth from an urn, was pretty possible.
‘Uh … I’m sorry, pal,’ I said. ‘Maybe I’ve come to the wrong place. I was looking for a Valerius Sosibius.’
‘Oh, no. He’s here, sir. If you’ll wait I’ll get him for you.’
He shuffled off through a curtain at the far end of the shop, and I could hear a murmur of voices. I turned round and rested my backside against the counter. The copyists were still bent over their work, and did not give so much as a sideways glance. That was strange, too: me, if I’d been stuck in a place like this, scribbling away in semi-darkness day in day out, I’d’ve been grateful for any break in the routine …
Something smelled, and it wasn’t Cilix. Things were definitely wrong here. Very, very wrong.
‘I think we’ll leave,’ I said to the big guy. ‘Quickly and quietly.’
Which was when the curtain parted again and the three Praetorians emerged. I made a move towards the door, but one of the buggers was there first. He was about the size of the blunt side of the Capitol, and he had a drawn sword in his hand. Not much mileage there, then. And his mates who’d taken up position either side of me were even bigger.
Shit.
The curtain moved and Lucius Papinius came out. He was holding a sword as well. I swallowed. Shit, shit, shit! Fuck, fuck, fuck!
‘You.’ With his free hand he pointed at Cilix, then jerked the thumb sideways. ‘Out.’
The Praetorian by the door stepped aside. Cilix gave me a single apologetic look, ducked under the lintel, and disappeared into the street. The copyists hunched down even lower and scribbled away like their lives depended on it. Which maybe they did.
Speaking of which …
‘You were warned, Corvinus,’ Papinius said. ‘I am really going to enjoy this. Hold him, lads.’
Fuck.
The two Praetorians either side of me grabbed my arms, pinning them to my sides and lifting me slightly off the ground. Papinius moved towards me and I lashed out with my right foot, but he stepped back and the kick never landed.
Bugger, bugger, bugger!
He drew
back the sword for a thrust, hesitated, then turned it sideways. The pommel and guard, together with his fist holding it, slammed into my face and the world exploded in a burst of pain as I heard and felt my nose break. Then I was down on the ground, hugging myself for protection as three pairs of hobnailed military boots began kicking the hell out of me. I felt one of my ribs go, then one of the boots connected with the side of my head and everything went mercifully black.
I woke up in bed at home, with Perilla looking down at me. At first I was just relieved not to be dead after all. Then the pain started, and I changed my mind: the first and second joints of the little finger on my left hand felt OK, but everything else was bloody agony.
‘Marcus? You’re awake?’ Perilla asked anxiously. She’d been crying, I could see that.
‘Yeah. More or less.’ I must’ve whispered it, because she bent down and put her ear a couple of inches from my mouth. Speaking wasn’t easy; my mouth felt like it was full of rocks, and my nose kept getting in the way. If that makes sense. ‘Unfortunately.’
‘Thank Juno! Don’t try to move.’
I grinned, or tried to; my facial muscles weren’t up to grinning at present. ‘You kidding, lady?’
She stood up and glanced behind her. ‘Sarpedon?’ she said. ‘He’s woken up at last.’
Turning my head wasn’t an option at present, particularly turning it to the right, because that side of it felt like one of those big medicine balls the more sedate punters chuck around when they’re exercising after a bath. Sarpedon. Right. My father’s old freedman, the family doctor, and had been ever since I’d come down with my first dose of nappy-rash.
His face replaced Perilla’s. Not an improvement, because the guy had the features of a well-bred octogenarian camel.
‘How are you feeling, Valerius Corvinus?’ he said.
Bloody stupid question; and with the amount the bastard charged for home visits, even to family, I’d’ve expected something just a little more searching and clinical.
‘I’ve been better,’ I said, then repeated it when he put his ear where Perilla’s had been. He grunted, took my pulse and pushed up one of my eyelids.
‘Any double vision?’ he said.
‘You mean there aren’t two of you?’
‘Very droll, sir.’ Not a smile, but then Valerius Sarpedon never had been much of a lad for jokes. ‘The good news is that you’ll almost certainly live.’
‘Ah … only almost certainly?’
‘I would say so, yes. I can’t be absolutely sure at this point, of course, but it seems very likely.’
Joy in the morning. Nothing like a bit of positive encouragement from your doctor, is there? I did a bit of subjective body analysis on my own account: head and face, as I’ve said, pretty much a disaster area, ditto for the chest and ribs – from the tight feel of things there, I was bandaged neck to waist – various assorted aches, pains and bruises on my arms and legs. Short of killing me, Papinius and his heavy-footed pals had done a pretty thorough job. Apart from my nose and ribs, nothing broken, though. At least, that was what it felt like.
So why hadn’t they killed me? I wasn’t complaining, mind – or I wouldn’t be, when everything settled down to a dull ache – but still; it was a puzzle.
Apropos of which …
‘How did I get here?’ I said; at least my mouth was working a bit better now, and I could manage a bit more than a geriatric mumble. Plus I seemed, miraculously, to have kept all my teeth intact, although my lips were split to hell.
‘The slave – Cilix, wasn’t it? – brought you back in a hired litter. Once the, ah, perpetrators had safely gone.’ Sarpedon frowned. ‘It’s none of my business, of course, but … Praetorians?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘And you’re right, pal. It is none of your business. Believe me, it’s better that way.’ I frowned; my brain had just caught up with something. ‘“At last”?’
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘Perilla said that I’d woken up “at last”. How long have I been out?’
‘Ah. This is the fifth day. Late evening.’
I stared at him. ‘I’ve been unconscious for five days?’
‘Not as such. However, you were running a high fever for most of the time. I wouldn’t imagine that you’d have any memory of the period between the attack and now. Or am I wrong?’
‘No, you’re absolutely …’ I stopped as the implications kicked in. Five days. Shit! ‘Hang on. So this is nine days before the kalends, right? The twenty-fourth; the first day of the Palatine Games?’ I tried to struggle to my feet, and my head and most of the rest of me exploded with agony. ‘Fuck!’
Sarpedon’s hands were pressing against my shoulders, forcing me back down on to the bed.
‘Sir! Please!’ he said. ‘You must lie absolutely still! You are in no condition to—’
‘Fuck that!’ I snapped. ‘I have to warn the emperor! He’s—’
‘Gaius was killed this afternoon, Marcus.’ Perilla’s voice came from behind Sarpedon’s back.
I stopped struggling.
‘What?’
‘A few hours ago, in the temporary theatre on the Palatine. I don’t know the details, of course, but it’s quite definite.’
Oh, shit. Oh, gods. I felt sick; in fact, I found myself heaving. Sarpedon was just in time with the bowl beside the bed. Not that the result was too impressive.
He held out a napkin and wiped my lips.
‘The emperor’s dead?’ I said.
‘Yes.’ Perilla’s voice was toneless.
‘So who’s in charge now?’
‘I don’t know. Or at least I’m not sure; no one is. The rumour is that the Praetorians – the ones involved in the plot – have taken Claudius off to the camp outside the city, but that’s all it is, a rumour. They may have killed him, or perhaps he’s being held as some kind of hostage. I don’t think anyone really knows what’s happening.’
Jupiter Best and Greatest! I felt empty, gutted. Gaius might’ve been a total head case, latterly anyway, but he had been the legitimate emperor. When the Wart had died, at least we’d all known where we were, whether we liked it or not – presumably, too, when old Augustus went, although at fourteen I’d been too young and too interested in chasing girls to pay much attention to politics. There’d been nothing like this since old Julius got himself chopped, and that was eighty-odd years back.
If I’d only got to the guy in time! Oh, sure, the business with Sosibius had been a set-up, I knew that now: the bastard probably didn’t exist, at least under that name. But still, there’d been those five days …
‘Hey, Perilla,’ I said.
‘Yes, Marcus?’ She was still out of vision. I turned my head, ignoring the pain. The lady was standing by the bedroom door.
‘Why didn’t you send a message to the emperor?’ I said quietly. ‘You could’ve done; you’d plenty of time. I was out of it, sure, but he might’ve listened. Especially under the circumstances.’
She didn’t answer for a good half-minute. Then she said: ‘Because I decided not to.’
‘You what? Why?’
‘For four reasons. First, because those men didn’t kill you; they could have done, and it would have been by far the most sensible thing to do, but nevertheless they didn’t. I’m very grateful not to be left a widow. Second, because Gaius was a psychopathic monster, and liable to get worse. The world is far better off without him.’
‘Yeah, granted, but—’
‘Third, if you’re right, and I see no reason why you shouldn’t be, the new emperor – and I agree, there must be one – will be either Marcus Vinicius or Tiberius Claudius. I know, like, and respect both of them, and with either in charge, Rome will be a much safer place.’
‘OK. That’s three reasons. What about the fourth?’
‘The fourth, Marcus, is that it was my decision to make, and I made it. I decided for me, not for you, because I thought you were wrong.’
I closed my eyes briefly. You li
ve with someone for twenty years, you think you know them, and they can still surprise you. Not all the surprises are pleasant ones, either.
She could be a tough lady, Rufia Perilla, when she liked.
‘Yeah, well,’ I said. ‘It’s done. Finished business. We’ll just have to see what happens next, that’s all.’
We would indeed.
TWENTY-NINE
Me, personally, I hate lying around in bed, but having the shit kicked out of you by a set of beefy Praetorians who’re determined to make a proper job of it doesn’t leave you with all that many options. On the other hand, three days of healthful, nourishing barley gruel for breakfast, lunch and dinner and a total ban on wine – which was what that sadistic bastard Sarpedon had prescribed – was no joke either. When the expected summons came from the palace, boredom and alcohol deprivation had me practically climbing the wall.
Mind you, three days of enforced thumb-twiddling at least meant that I’d filled in the missing bits of the puzzle. Not that it’d been all that difficult, given we and the rest of Rome now knew that Claudius was running the empire. Total absence of flying pigs or not, unless of course there had been and the augurs were just too bloody embarrassed to let on.
There was my hindsight-driven rereading of Surdinus’s letter, too, which put the lid on things. For what it was worth at this stage, because I wasn’t stupid enough to go pointing accusing fingers, was I?
So it was the palace, and in a litter sent specially for the purpose; a goodwill gesture on their part, probably, rather than to make sure I came, because after all where could I have run to, barring Parthia? I gave Perilla what I hoped was a see-you-later kiss, eased my still-aching and seriously strapped-up body on to the cushioned chair, and off we went.
The Praetorian at the gate detached to lead me into the Presence finally stopped outside a lavishly panelled door. He knocked, waited a moment, and then opened it, stepping aside.
‘In you go, sir,’ he said.
The same room I’d been in with Gaius, the one above the torture chamber. Probably some sort of imperial inner sanctum reserved for cosy, off-the-record get-togethers which, I suspected, was what this was. I went in, and the door closed behind me.
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