Food for the Fishes (Marcus Corvinus Book 10)

by David Wishart

  The road was busy, busier than you’d expect from a dead-end direction, but there’s a fairly constant stream of traffic to and from the naval base at Misenum itself on the peninsula’s tip. When I reckoned I must be getting close I asked a slave on duty outside one of the villas for final directions and he pointed me towards a set of iron gates further up the drag.

  Tattius’s place wasn’t big - not by the neighbours’ standards, anyway - but it was still pretty impressive. At first glance, at least: the gates were fancy expensive ironwork, fixed to marble pillars, but they could’ve done with painting and the gilded fish that topped them had a bad case of scale-rot; while the slave sitting outside them had on a tunic that was darned in places and looked like it’d been washed half a dozen times too many.

  ‘The master at home this morning, sushine?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The slave got up and opened the gates. ‘Just go in.’

  I walked the mare up a paved carriage-drive towards a porticoed entrance with a line of statues in front of it. At least, there were a line of statue pedestals, but two or three of them were empty. A slave in a tunic that was hardly better than the gate-slave’s was sweeping the marble steps. He set his broom against a pillar and came towards me.

  ‘I was looking for the master,’ I said.

  ‘He’s at breakfast, sir. What was it about?’

  I dismounted. ‘The name’s Valerius Corvinus. I was wondering if he could spare a few minutes to talk to me about his partner. Licinius Murena.’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir.’ The guy’s voice took on a hushed, reverent quality that indicated he knew the partner in question had recently been stiffed. Not that that was surprising, mind: the slave grapevine is second to none, and Murena’s death would be old news by now. ‘If you’d care to wait I’ll tell him you’re here.’

  He went inside. While the mare nuzzled the grass at the edge of the driveway I looked around me. Yeah, right; initial impressions confirmed. The place wasn’t falling apart - far from it - but it had a slight air of seediness that suggested Tattius was having difficulties living up to the manner to which he’d evidently become accustomed. The box hedges round the ornamental fountain were just that little bit overgrown, and the fountain itself could’ve done with a scrub out. There were these missing statues, and the second slave’s tunic: one could’ve been chance, but not two. Some of the trellising that supported the roses was –

  ‘Valerius Corvinus? The master will see you, sir. Follow me, please.’

  I did. They were eating al fresco, in a small enclosed peristyle garden off the atrium. ‘They’, plural. The woman was Penelope.

  I pulled up short. ‘Uh...I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know –’

  She got up. ‘Good morning, Valerius Corvinus. You wanted to talk to my husband, I understand. If you’ll excuse me I’ll leave you in peace while you do so.’

  Decimus Tattius rose and watched her go inside. They hadn’t exchanged a word. Then he turned to me, smiled and held out a hand.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Corvinus,’ he said. We shook. ‘You’ve breakfasted?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, that’s okay.’ I was still looking after Penelope, vaguely fazed. ‘I’m sorry, sir. When I met your wife yesterday she didn’t mention –’

  ‘So I see.’ Tattius motioned me to a chair. His face was expressionless. ‘It doesn’t matter. Now. How can I help you? I understand you’re investigating the death of my partner.’

  He’d’ve had to be about Murena’s age, late sixties or early seventies, but he looked fit enough, if more than a little overweight and with a pouting, pendulous look to his lips, more like a sulky kid than a senior citizen. His grip, though, had been firm and hard.

  ‘Yeah.’ I sat down. ‘Don’t let me disturb your breakfast.’

  ‘Oh, I’d finished.’ He laid himself back on the couch. ‘This is a dreadful affair. Although I did hear they’ve caught the man they think did it.’

  Despite the sentiments I’d met crocodiles who sounded sorrier than Tattius. Still, the murder had been five days ago now, so maybe the shock had worn off. ‘Gaius Trebbio,’ I said. ‘There’s...an element of doubt over that.’

  ‘Is there, indeed?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m surprised. Lucius mentioned Trebbio to me several times, and seemingly the man had made direct and specific threats. Also I was told he was wandering drunk in the neighbourhood of the fish farm the time it happened. Personally I’d have thought - if poor Lucius’s death wasn’t natural, which seems to be the general opinion, although I’m not convinced, myself - that the evidence was fairly conclusive.’

  ‘There’s some,’ I admitted. ‘But I wouldn’t call it all that conclusive. They quarrelled over Trebbio’s eviction, didn’t they?’

  ‘I’d hardly call it quarrelling. Lucius had bought the Juventius estate, which included the man’s cottage.’

  ‘Trebbio had had the place for fifteen years. That’s a long time.’

  ‘You haven’t seen it yourself?’ I shook my head. ‘Then take my word, “cottage” is dignifying it: it’s no more than a hovel, a shack, hardly more than a ruin. Trebbio was simply camping out there.’

  ‘None the less –’

  ‘I’m saying that to describe the place as a property and this Trebbio as an evicted tenant is overstating things. If Lucius chose to terminate the lease he had a perfect right, legally and morally, to do so. It was a purely business matter. He’d no quarrel with the fellow personally - why should he? - and Trebbio had no right to complain.’

  ‘Ah...you say “Lucius” and “he”. It wasn’t a partnership decision to buy the estate, then?’

  Tattius frowned. ‘Oh, I suppose it was. Technically, at least.’

  ‘“Technically”?’

  ‘I don’t really involve myself much in the business side of things, Corvinus. I know nothing about fish or fish farming, and care less. All that was Lucius’s concern, and increasingly over the years that of his sons. Plus Ligurius’s, naturally. The Anchovy’s a real tower of strength.’

  There was a certain something in his voice I couldn’t place. Smugness? A touch of contempt, maybe? I didn’t know, but it was there, and I didn’t like it above half. I wasn’t sure I took to Decimus Tattius: the guy had a greasy feel about him that was simultaneously as flash and as run-down as his property.

  ‘“Anchovy”,’ I said. ‘That was Murena’s name for him, wasn’t it?’

  Tattius looked at me in surprise. ‘Yes, it was, as a matter of fact. Lucius had a habit of giving people around him nicknames. He did it all the time, and it was, I’m afraid, one of his less endearing traits, especially since he had no compunction about using them to the person’s face. But then, that was Lucius for you. He never did have much respect for people’s feelings. Ligurius, as it happens, didn’t and doesn’t mind. We - the family - call him Anchovy now as a matter of course; there’s no opprobrium involved.’

  ‘He called you Oistrus,’ I said. ‘“Gadfly”.’

  Tattius’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, he did,’ he said slowly. ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘Care to tell me why? Just out of interest?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, I can’t remember now; we’ve known each other practically since boyhood. In any case, I’ve grown quite used to it over the years and it certainly doesn’t offend me. If it ever did.’

  Yeah, well, from his initial reaction that was something I wouldn’t risk too hefty a bet on. He hadn’t liked me using the name; he hadn’t liked it at all. Still, I let that go. ‘The partnership. When did it start?’

  ‘Oh, that’s ancient history, too. As I said, we were very old friends, did our junior magistracies together. Then - well - we both decided independently that politics and public life weren’t for us. Lucius’s family have always had interests down this way, fish farming especially through his grandfather, and when he made the decision to move permanently from Rome and develop the farm commercially I took up his suggestion to go into partnership. We’ve be
en here ever since. That’s all there was to it.’

  ‘But you’ve never really involved yourself in the business?’

  Tattius smiled. ‘To be frank, that suited both of us. I’m no businessman and never have been; Lucius was, very much so, as were - are - his sons. I don’t interfere. I leave things to them and let them get on with it.’

  ‘What about this hotel idea? I understand it’s a new venture.’

  ‘Yes.’ Tattius looked down briefly and plucked a stray thread from his tunic. ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘You didn’t approve?’

  He hesitated. ‘As I said, Corvinus, I’m no businessman. I leave - left - decisions like that to my partner. However, again - to be frank - I did think that it was a little...misguided.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I’m not criticising Lucius - how could I? - but the capital outlay was considerable and the returns doubtful at best, certainly in all but the very long term. The farm is doing reasonably well and always has done, although the profits aren’t as large as you might think after the costs have been deducted. Also, there was...a certain amount of local opposition to contend with which Lucius, being Lucius, refused to take into account.’

  ‘His freedman Philippus?’

  Tattius shot me a sharp look and took his time answering. ‘Yes indeed,’ he said finally. ‘Forgive me, but you really are remarkably well-informed, especially in so short a time. How on earth did you find out about Philippus?’

  ‘Murena gave him his freedom when he was quite young, didn’t he?’

  Another hesitation. ‘He did.’

  ‘You know why?’

  ‘No. Lucius may have been my partner, but his private life was none of my concern. No doubt he had his reasons.’

  ‘Or where he got the money from originally to start him up in business?’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  Odd. There was something definitely defensive about the guy now, and that was interesting. ‘I’ve been told that Philippus is one of the richest locals in Baiae. Granted he may be a good businessman, but he must’ve got his original stake from somewhere. On the other hand - by all accounts - there wasn’t much love lost between him and his ex-master. So I was just wondering –’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you over Philippus.’ Tattius’s face was closed now. ‘You’d have to ask the man himself.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, I’ll do that.’

  ‘Not that I suspect you’ll get a civil answer. Philippus is not what you’d call a civil person. Once a slave, always a slave.’

  I shifted on my chair. ‘Uh...to change the subject. Murena’s family. What can you tell me about them?’

  It might’ve been my imagination, but I thought Tattius looked relieved. ‘In the business sense?’ he said. ‘His elder son Titus is the lawyer of the family. Also he oversees the company’s accounts. Aulus is more like his father, the practical businessman and decision-taker. Although’ - he smiled - ‘he’s rather more adventurous than Lucius ever was, which can be both good and bad. He’s a natural gambler, and although Lucius did have a gambling streak it wasn’t particularly developed.’

  ‘They, uh, didn’t get on very well. Or so I understand.’

  The cautious look was back. ‘There was a certain amount of friction, yes. But no more so than in most families.’

  Yeah, right. And I was a baboon. Still, I couldn’t expect too much from that direction. After all, he was a relation by marriage. ‘What about Gellia?’ I said.

  ‘Again I have to ask you what you mean. Gellia isn’t involved on the business side of things.’

  ‘They were a happy couple?’

  ‘As far as I know. They were as close as couples from the upper bracket usually are, particularly in Baiae.’

  Which wasn’t saying much, but then again of course I couldn’t expect more. ‘She have money of her own?’

  I thought he wasn’t going to answer, which considering the question he’d be within his rights not to do, but finally he did. ‘Her father was an oil-shipper in a small way, in Puteoli. She’s not rich, but she has a competence.’

  ‘When did they get married?’

  ‘About five or six years ago.’

  ‘Murena was a widower, wasn’t he? I mean, his first wife died, he didn’t divorce her.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘She been dead for long?’

  ‘Almost thirty years now.’

  Strange: I could swear he’d tightened up again for some reason. ‘She couldn’t’ve been very old.’

  ‘No. She was a long-term invalid, never strong.’

  ‘What about your wife? Penelope? From the way she spoke the last time I saw her she didn’t get on all that well with her father. Or with the rest of the family, for that matter.’

  He stood up suddenly. ‘Corvinus, I’m sorry. I know you have a job to do, and I’m happy to help you all I can, but your questions are becoming a little personal. Could we stop now, please?’

  Yeah, well; I’d been wondering myself how far I could push it, and I wasn’t really surprised he’d choked me off. I stood up too. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘My apologies. And thanks for your time.’

  He smiled - with his mouth, at least - and held out a hand. ‘You’re very welcome. I wish you luck. Although, it has to be said, personally I think Lucius’s death was either a tragic accident or the man responsible is in custody already. I’ll see you out.’

  There was no sign of Penelope. I collected the mare - the sweeper-slave had tied her to a hitching-post further along the portico - and rode back to Baiae. Thoughtfully.

  10

  I took my time riding back.

  So what had we got out of that little conversation? Several things, and all of them puzzling.

  First of all - and this was the biggie - the simple fact of the partnership itself. Friendship’s one thing, but business is another, and especially considering what I knew of Murena’s character he’d been no softie. Even in the most easy-going of partnerships there has to be a certain quid pro quo, and in the Murena/Tattius ménage I couldn’t see what that’d been. Scratch expertise: Tattius had admitted he wasn’t a businessman and that he’d no knowledge of or interest in fish farming, and that side of things seemed to have been Murena’s province completely. The same went for money. I might be missing my bet, but unless he was a real eccentric I doubted if Tattius was exactly rolling; not judging by the state of his villa, anyway. Of course, the cash might’ve gone into the business right at the beginning and drained away, but then he hadn’t given that impression either. Me, if that’d been the case I’d have expected more complaints and a lot more bitterness. He’d seemed, if anything, satisfied with arrangements. No, all things considered I’d reckon Murena had paid the lion’s share of the bills as well. Plus the fact that the farm had been his to begin with. So if neither expertise nor money was the basis for their partnership then what was left?

  The marriage tie between Tattius and Penelope was a third possibility, and on the face of it the most likely. I didn’t know exactly when Tattius and Murena had gone into business together - barring Diodotus’s mention of the fact that Murena had moved down from Rome some twenty-odd years back, so presumably it’d been about then - but if the wedding had come first then taking your son-in-law into the family business is a good old-fashioned Roman custom. Only that scenario posed serious problems of its own, didn’t it? From what he’d said Tattius had never been a junior in any way: he and Murena had been equals from the start. So as far as the partnership per se went any existing marriage was an irrelevance and we were back again to the simple question of Tattius’s contribution to the original arrangement. Friendship - even if the guy was already his son-in-law - wouldn’t’ve been enough, not for a full partnership, not for a businessman like Murena. That idea was out.

  If, on the other hand, the partnership had preceded the marriage then there were problems there too: it raised the question of why, if Murena was already making al
l the running financially and otherwise, he’d given Tattius his daughter at all. Oh, sure, again it’s an old Roman custom to cement a business alliance with a wedding, but Tattius and Penelope weren’t an obvious couple. They were thirty years apart in age, for a start; also, like I say, friendship and business are two different things, a marriage alliance, in families like Murena’s, is definitely part of the business side, and if Tattius didn’t have all that much going for him in himself then partnership or not someone like Murena would’ve thought twice about signing his only daughter away in a marriage contract. Or should’ve, rather, because he obviously hadn’t.

  Plus that scenario still left us with the original problem of why the partnership in the first case...

  Shit; I was going round in circles here, and my brain was beginning to overheat. Leave it. There was an answer somewhere, sure, but at present finding it was in the flying pigs category.

  The same applied to the question of Tattius’s nickname. I’d met Tattius now and it still didn’t make sense. Whatever the guy was, he was no gadfly: I’d reckon he had about as much get-up-and-go as a flatfish. Not that he was soft; he just didn’t show any signs of stirring himself, let alone spurring anyone else on. Oh, he was pushing it now and boyhood nicknames don’t have much relevance at that age, but it was still odd. Why ‘Gadfly’? You’d think there ought to be some signs there, but there weren’t.

  What else? Just his general manner. By Tattius’s own admission the two had known each other practically since they were kids, both as friends and business partners. Yet when he’d talked about Murena he could’ve been talking about a comparative stranger. Certainly there’d been no real grief. He hardly even seemed to care all that much that the guy was dead. Again, it was nothing definite, and if he had it would’ve left him in a minority of one, but somehow it just didn’t fit.

  Last, there was the business of the wife. Murena’s first one, the one who died...

  That’d been screwy, because it was unexpected. Yet I couldn’t be wrong: there had been a...reticence there: Tattius had been reluctant to talk about her. And why the hell should he be? After all, like he’d said, the woman had been dead for thirty years. So why – ?