Food for the Fishes (Marcus Corvinus Book 10)

by David Wishart

  The right side of my chest was one huge purpling bruise. Diodotus clicked his tongue.

  ‘You have been in the wars, haven’t you?’ he said, putting one hand behind my back and pressing gently against the bruise with the other. ‘Deep breath, please. Or as deep as you can manage.’ I breathed in and out. Carefully: breathing was something I’d got pretty circumspect about in the last half hour. This time I managed to up the half inch by another quarter. ‘Fine.’ He let go of me. ‘That seems satisfactory.’ Jupiter on skates! Not from where I was standing. Trying to stand. ‘You’re not spitting blood?’

  ‘Only metaphorically.’

  ‘Good.’ Not the trace of a smile. ‘Lungs intact, then. You’re lucky; the rib isn’t broken, but it may be cracked. I’ll strap you up and give you something for the pain. Aristias, the bandages, please.’

  While the two of them were busy with the bandaging and to take my mind off things I looked round the room. I don’t have much truck with doctors - no one does who has any sense - and I’d never been inside an actual surgery before. It was more or less what I would’ve expected: couch, desk, chairs, shelves with labelled jars and bottles plus a range of mortars, a wall-cupboard fitted with little drawers for - presumably - dried herbs and so on, and a bookcase stuffed to the gunnels with tagged book-cylinders. The only bit of furniture I couldn’t place - and I wasn’t sure I wanted to - was a thing in the corner with as many cords, levers and pulleys as you’d expect to see on a piece of serious military hardware.

  ‘Uh...what’s that?’ I said to Diodotus, nodding at it. ‘An army-surplus catapult?’

  ‘There are similarities in the construction.’ He finished pulling the linen band tight and held it while the assistant slit along the last yard of its length with a sharp knife. ‘But not in the purpose. It’s a Hippocratic bench.’

  ‘Is it, now?’ The thing had straps, and parts of it were obviously designed to move apart. More torture chamber than army storeroom, then, and high-tech, at that; I reckoned whoever was behind the levers asking the questions wouldn’t’ve had to wait too long before he got the answers. ‘A Hippocratic bench, eh?’

  ‘We use it for setting limb fractures and for traction.’ While the assistant held the unslit part of the bandage in place he wound the slit ends around my chest and tied a knot.

  Limb-setting and traction. I felt my balls shrink just at the thought. Shit; I was lucky that Philippus’s sunny little helper hadn’t broken my arm, although come to that I doubted if I’d be all that much happier on the operating side of things. Me, I could never be a doctor, no way. They say that in the army, where a good percentage of the patients tend to arrive with symptoms a bit more drastic than a dose of the collywobbles or a slight skin rash, the medics are trained to ignore the screams and just get on with the job of sawing, cutting and stitching. The really proficient ones can have a leg off, cauterise the stump and sew it up tighter than a Lucanian sausage in five minutes flat. Single-minded concentration like that takes a special kind of person, and I was damn sure it wasn’t me. Diodotus, now; Diodotus was another matter altogether. Cold, clinical, efficient bastards like him are just made for the medical branch of the Eagles. I could see operating this Hippocratic Bench of his wouldn’t faze him one bit. He might even get a kick out of it.

  That was a chilling thought.

  ‘Where did you do your training, pal?’ I said. ‘Just out of interest?’

  ‘The Cos medical school, for five years. Then Alexandria, for another ten.’ He tied a final knot and then stepped back. ‘There, Corvinus. That’ll do you. Aristias, mix some of the Number Three. Standard strength.’

  ‘What brought you in to it?’

  ‘The usual. My family have been doctors on Cos for a dozen generations. One of them was a pupil of Erasistratos himself.’

  ‘Erasistratos?’ I reached for my tunic. I wasn’t going to be dancing on any tables in the near future, sure, and anything but shallow breathing was not a viable option, but at least the guy with the vice had slackened off a notch.

  ‘You haven’t heard of him? One of the greatest surgeons who ever lived. He worked in Alexandria two hundred and fifty years ago. Did ground-breaking work on the brain.’ He smiled. ‘I have a copy of the treatise he wrote, if you’d care to see it. Fascinating stuff, especially the illustrations.’

  ‘The brain? You mean he dug around inside people’s heads?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Although “dug around” isn’t an expression I’d use myself.’ He went over to a basin with a jug standing in it, poured water and washed his hands. ‘And he based his operations on careful prior research, naturally.’

  ‘What sort of research?’

  ‘Practical research. The medical profession in those days wasn’t as hidebound as it is now. Dissection was allowed, even encouraged. Vivisection, too.’

  ‘Uh...vivisection? That’s cutting up live bodies, right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Jupiter!’

  ‘Why not? What’s so wrong in that? How do you expect medical knowledge - surgery especially - to advance if you forbid actual internal investigation?’ He reached for the towel that Aristias was holding out and dried off. ‘A corpse is well enough, and relatively easy to come by, naturally, but a dead body can’t provide all of the answers. Criminals, murderers - men who will die anyway under due process of law - you may as well make practical use of them if it’ll help push forward the boundaries of science. It’s a crying shame we’re no longer permitted to do it.’

  Sweet immortal gods! ‘You think it’s okay to cut people up? Live people? Just for information?’

  Again the cold smile. He handed the towel back. ‘Well, I’d settle happily for dead ones, myself,’ he said. ‘But living ones - yes, certainly, under certain circumstances. Again, I’d ask you why not, if they’re to be executed in any case? Why waste the opportunity? The only way to learn properly how the body operates is while it’s actually working.’ My expression must’ve shown what I was thinking. ‘Oh, I don’t expect you to agree, Corvinus - you’d be in good company, even where a fair proportion of my colleagues are concerned - but the practice is at least defensible. Unfortunately, in these more unenlightened times it’s an avenue no longer open to us. We have to make do with second-hand experience, and excellent though the textbooks are they’re no substitute.’

  Holy shit! Cold and clinical was right! Cutting up corpses was bad enough - I wasn’t a religious man, but when my time came to go I wanted to be burned whole, not filleted with my bits in separate bags - but I certainly didn’t approve of the idea of letting callous buggers like Diodotus slit a healthy man open just to see how his liver went about doing whatever the hell livers do. Even if the man was a condemned criminal. I struggled into my tunic.

  ‘That should feel better now.’ Diodotus went back to his chair behind the desk: consultation over, evidently. ‘I’ll send my bill round later. Keep the bandages on for a few days. You have a slave who can retie them? It’s not a skilled job, just so long as they’re firm enough to give support but not too tight to be uncomfortable.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘No problem.’ Bathyllus could do that; or, at a pinch, Perilla. It’d have to be a real pinch, mind, because the lady was no gentle-handed nurse at the best of times, and on this occasion sympathy wouldn’t figure too strongly. ‘Uh...as long as I’m here...’

  He’d picked up his pen and turned his attention away from me to whatever he’d been working on when I came in. Now he looked up again, frowning.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Maybe I could just sort of check on a few things that’ve come up since I saw you last. That be okay?’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘I was told you owned a half share in one of the bath houses.’

  Not an eyelid did he bat. ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘Of course. Much of the treatment I prescribe - the treatment any doctor would prescribe - involves bathing, massag
e and specific exercises. Having a direct link with a bath house means that I can send patients somewhere I can be sure they’ll be treated exactly according to their requirements.’

  Yeah, and the referrals would turn a nice profit, too. Still, that side of it was fair enough. ‘Your partner’s Licinius Philippus.’

  The frown deepened. ‘Yes, he is. So?’

  ‘His name came up the last time we spoke. You didn’t think to mention the connection?’

  He laid the pen down again and turned to his assistant. ‘Aristias, leave us alone now, please,’ he said quietly. ‘I think Valerius Corvinus would like to talk private business.’ He waited until the young guy had left. ‘Now, Corvinus. No, I did not mention the connection. Nor did I volunteer the address of my banker or for that matter information on what I had for dinner the night before because none of the three were relevant. I ask you again: so?’

  ‘Did Murena know?’

  ‘He may have done, but I doubt it. The subject never, to my recollection, came up in conversation, but if it had it would’ve caused no embarrassment to either of us. Murena certainly wouldn’t have minded, nor would he have any right to say so even if he did.’

  ‘Philippus’s bag is rented rooms, girls and gambling. He steers clear of anything else, or so he told me. How come he was willing to go shares with you in a bath house?’

  ‘The place was part of his wife’s dowry. A family property of long standing. Two years ago I cured him of a chronic bladder infection and as a result he was very grateful. I happened to mention that I’d been thinking of investing in one of the Baian baths and he offered me a half share at a price too tempting to refuse. Does that satisfy you?’

  ‘That your only connection with him?’

  He gave me a long look, and I got the distinct impression that he was counting slowly to ten before he answered. Finally, he said: ‘Yes. Yes, it is. We’re not exactly kindred spirits, as you’ll understand if you’ve met the man. Our “partnership”, as you call it, doesn’t go beyond two signatures on a deed. He takes no interest in the everyday running of the place, which I do where it falls within my sphere, and as long as he gets his part of the profits each month there’s no reason for us to meet.’

  I shrugged. ‘Okay. Second question. What happened at Drepanum? With the old guy and the young wife.’

  That one got through, seriously. He coloured up like a beetroot. ‘Corvinus, if your intention is to goad me into –!’

  ‘I was told you left there in a hurry. That you were treating the man for the stone and he died suddenly.’

  ‘That had nothing to do with me! Or my treatment! Holy Asclepius, how you have the nerve to come in here and –!’ He stopped himself, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he said more calmly: ‘The man went to a dinner party where - against my specific instructions - he ate and drank far more than his constitution could decently stand. As a result, and not surprisingly, he collapsed and died of an apoplexy in the litter on his way home. And I did not “leave Drepanum in a hurry”. If you really want to know, I’d already bought this house in Baiae and was only waiting for a colleague to arrive and take over the practice. All of this, Corvinus, if necessary, and the gods know why it should be, I can prove, and certainly I’m ready to swear to the truth of it if you ask me to. Now. I won’t ask where you got your sordid little scraps of information from, because I can hazard a good guess. Was it Chlorus who told you or Nerva?’

  ‘Ah...Chlorus.’

  He grunted; he was still looking pretty angry, but he’d got himself in hand: coldly furious would about cover it now. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, it would be. Not that the other wasn’t as good a possibility. I should never have had anything to do with that bloody family. They’re all vipers.’

  ‘Including Gellia?’

  ‘Gellia more than –’ He stopped himself again and stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Corvinus. This conversation is becoming most unprofessional. Let me just remind you of what I said the last time we talked: I am a doctor, I have sworn certain oaths and I keep to them strictly, as my family always have done. I had, despite what Titus Chlorus and his ilk may say, no relations whatsoever with Licinius Murena’s wife outwith what was proper; nor, of course, was I involved in any way in his death. And, incidentally, should you require an alibi for that evening Aristias will confirm that he and I were attending a difficult childbirth in Bauli which kept us out until early the next morning. That is another fact which I didn’t happen to mention at our last interview, again because I didn’t deem it relevant. Aristias will provide you with details, if you wish corroboration. Now, if you’re satisfied, and even if you aren’t, that’s all I have to say.’

  ‘Ah...right. Right.’ Well, if the alibi checked - and there was every reason that it should - then that was that: Diodotus was seriously off the hook. Bugger.

  ‘Good. If there’s nothing else –’

  ‘One thing.’ Hell; I might as well ask while I was here, even if I did get my head bitten off, and if he knew both Murena and Philippus he might have the answer. ‘Philippus’s background. There any information you can give me on that?’

  He checked and frowned. ‘In what way?’

  ‘He’s Murena’s freedman, right? So why did Murena free him? And why, when he did, didn’t they have the usual patron-ex-slave relationship?’

  Diodotus didn’t answer at first, and I thought we’d come up against the ethical stone wall again, or he was going to hand me my teeth in a bag. However, the guy was calming down, maybe even looking a little shamefaced. He even lowered himself back into the chair.

  ‘About the freeing I know nothing whatsoever,’ he said. ‘The other matter - well, it’s fairly common knowledge locally, and I’m surprised you haven’t heard the story elsewhere before now. Philippus’s father was also one of Murena’s slaves. He offended his master in some way, I don’t know the details; badly enough, however, for Murena to have him put to death. Rumour has it - although of course I can’t confirm or deny the truth of it - that Murena subsequently had his corpse thrown into the eel tank.’ He picked up the pen and dipped it in the inkwell. ‘Now, Corvinus, I really do apologise, especially for my outburst which was completely uncalled for and contrary to my nature, but I have work to do. Aristias will give you your medicine on your way out.’

  I left. Aristias was waiting in the hall, holding out my packet of powder like it was something the cat had dropped. Evidently, the trainee assistant had been listening in, despite Diodotus’s instructions, and he wasn’t looking too chuffed. They stick together, these medical types.

  ‘Ah...about the evening of Licinius Murena’s death –’ I began.

  ‘We were in Bauli, sir,’ the guy said. ‘At the Servian villa. All night, from before sunset onwards. A breech delivery.’ His tone would’ve frozen the balls off a salamander. ‘Take an egg-spoonful, in water or wine, three times a day before meals, until the packet is empty.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Right, thanks.’ I just hoped it wasn’t poison.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  The front door closed behind me.

  So Murena had had Philippus’s father killed and his body fed to the fishes, had he?

  Gods!

  I’d never felt less like walking, but at least if anything Diodotus’s place was on the right side of town for home, and barring the early morning I’d got the best time for it. The streets were almost deserted, smelling of soup, frying fish and boiled greens: we were well into the late afternoon/early evening dip here, when most ordinary punters have shut up shop at least temporarily for the dinner break while the social butterflies are lounging about at the baths or being primped and painted for another hard evening’s partying. The sun was only about a finger’s-breadth above the horizon, so the heat was off the day, and there was a cool breeze off the sea. Perfect walking weather. If it hadn’t been for my aching ribs I’d’ve been enjoying myself.

  I was past the town gate and heading down the track that led off the main
road for the last half mile or so to the villa when it happened. The gods alone knew what had warned me - maybe a movement in the rocks to my right that caught my eye and sent a message to my brain - but it was enough to save my life. Just. I stopped and half-turned, and something went past my left ear with the whine of an angry gnat.

  Oh, shit. A sling may not look much of a weapon, but if the guy holding it knows his business he can knock your brains through the back of your skull easy as winking. I hit the ground fast, almost biting my tongue in half with the pain as my bandaged ribs met the track, and did a rapid crawl towards the safety of the bushes.

  Comparative safety. A second stone whizzed through the undergrowth a scant foot above my head, ripping through the packed twigs and leaves and burying itself in the earth bank half a dozen yards in front of me. The ice settled on my spine. Bugger; we’d got a real crackshot here. If he wanted to kill me - which he clearly did - then he wasn’t doing too badly.

  Okay, Corvinus; panicking won’t get you anywhere, boy. What we needed here, and pretty urgently, was cover. I glanced around. On a proper road there would’ve been a drainage ditch that I could’ve slid into and blown raspberries at the bastard until he got fed up and went away, or came out of hiding to try his luck at close quarters; but this track didn’t have one. All I’d got my side was bushes. They were thick enough to screen me, sure, but they wouldn’t stop a sling-stone. My only chance was to stay flat, keep my head well down and hope that, now he’d lost the element of surprise, the guy over in the rocks would give it up as a bad job...

  Or, of course, until he managed to put a shot through the top of my skull, which on current showing was just as likely. More so. As if to ram home the point, a third pebble went zinging into a stone barely six inches from my ear, shattering as it hit. The fragments stung my cheek. On second thoughts, maybe playing the flatfish wasn’t such a hot idea after all.

  Hell; it was now or never. A good slinger - and this bastard was good - could have another shot in the pouch while the first was in the air, sure, but reloading would still take that two or three seconds. Not much, but it was all I had. And if I stayed where I was it was only a matter of time before he drilled me. I sprang to my feet, gasping at the sharp knife-thrust in my chest, and sprinted towards where he must be hiding. At least if he did try another cast then I’d see who the bugger was before he gave me my ticket for the ferry, and if he missed I was quids in.