Food for the Fishes (Marcus Corvinus Book 10)

by David Wishart

  ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘Anything you’ve got.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but there really is nothing more. After all, it’s been almost thirty years. Your father and I were abroad at the time when...whatever it was...happened, and when we got back to Rome the thing was well past the gossip stage. Still, I do remember a trial of some kind being mentioned, and that Licinius Murena was not considered altogether’ - she hesitated - ‘welcome any longer socially, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. The hairs on the back of my neck were definitely stirring now: we could be onto something here. ‘Yeah, I know.’

  I did; anyone from a purple-striper family would. In the circles Mother was talking about, you either fitted or you didn’t, right from birth. On the other hand, even for the ones who fitted, there was a line that was clear and precise as the sacred city boundary; cross it, and the Great and Good might still be polite enough to your face but socially and otherwise you were dead meat. Not that we’re necessarily talking actual crime here: indulging in some crimes, such as peculation, embezzlement, vote-rigging and even treason, is just a good old-fashioned upper-class-Roman tradition, hardly even in the minor peccadillo class: getting yourself exiled or being told to slit your wrists may prove inconvenient personally, but they don’t lead to loss of status, not in the opinion of the people who matter, anyway. Try cheating a partner over a business deal or welshing on a bet, though, and you’re really in shtook. In fact, as Mother put it, you’re no longer welcome...

  Interesting, right? Especially so because, if my theory re Tattius held good Licinius Murena must’ve made his decision to up sticks and move to Baiae shortly afterwards.

  ‘Marcus, you’re not listening!’ Mother snapped. ‘Pay attention, dear!’

  ‘Hmm?’ I brought my eyes back into focus. ‘Sorry. What was that?’

  ‘I was saying that if you’re really interested you could have a word with Quintus Saenius.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Quintus Saenius. If anyone remembers the details then he probably will. He has a villa on the Bauli road, just past the shrine to the Graces, if I recall. He’s getting on a bit now, and almost completely blind, but before he retired to Baiae he had a very extensive forensic practice. If you think it’s all that important, of course.’

  ‘Uh...yeah. Yeah, I do.’ Gods! ‘Thanks, Mother.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ Mother finished shelling the prawn. ‘He’s quite a dear. Do give him my regards when you see him.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I’ll do that.’

  I settled back to my dinner, brain buzzing.

  16

  I slept on my back that night; rolling over wasn’t an option unless I didn’t mind a little excruciating agony, which I did. The lady wasn’t sympathetic, either:

  ‘Marcus, if you will get yourself mixed up in barroom brawls you’ll just have to take the consequences. Now don’t groan too loudly, I want to sleep.’

  Oh, great.

  When I crawled out of bed the next morning with gritted teeth and feeling like six kinds of vice-squeezed hell the only consolation I had was that after the belt on the noggin Zethus had given him Happy Horace wouldn’t be all that chipper either. I swigged down my dose of Diodotus’s powder in a cupful of wine-and-water - the stuff tasted like fermented mouse-droppings, sure, but I had to admit it was effective - got Bathyllus to retie the bandages and give me a leisurely shave, grabbed a quick crust and set off for Quintus Saenius’s place. Walking: the Shrine of the Graces on the Bauli road was a fair trek, but in my present state I wasn’t going to risk a horse. On foot was bad enough.

  I went careful, mind. Of course, it was sod’s law that the day after someone had had a crack at me with a sling I should be having to give the bastard a second shot at the nuts by taking a walk across open country, but that couldn’t be helped. Short of kitting myself out in full legionary armour or putting a bucket over my head, there wasn’t much more I could do than keep my eyes skinned and my fingers crossed. In any case, the risk of another attack didn’t just go one way. The bugger had been lucky, last time, that I hadn’t caught a glimpse of him. Now I was forewarned the chances of that happening a second time were pretty slim. If he tried and missed again then I’d have him by the short hairs.

  Not that my phantom slinger was likely to be identical with the murderer, though; that was too much to hope for. Oh, sure, any kid worth his salt can throw a pebble a few yards without smacking himself round the ear with it, but if he’s a townie - especially a well-born townie - then that’s usually his lot, and by the time he’s into his teens he has other skill priorities. To find a real expert you’ve got to look to the country, among the sheep- and goat-herders, where using a sling well is an essential part of the job. Certainly, as far as the extended Murena family were concerned, I doubted if any of them could hit a barn door at thirty yards more than three times out of five, which just wasn’t good enough for chummie.

  So. My bet was that whoever wanted me out of the way had done a bit of judicious hiring. Baiae might not be like Rome and have a thriving sub-population of knifemen willing to take on a commission, but there’re always guys on the fringes ready to make a silver piece or two. And if he (or she) could find them, then I might be able to as well.

  The villa was tucked into a fold of anonymous ground just off the main road. It was pretty typical of the houses you get inland of the bay: Baiae and Bauli themselves are rich districts, and waterfront properties tend to be flashy, OTT and only for the seriously-moneyed, but the area’s also popular with not-so-wealthy city types who’ve made their modest pile and want to retire to where the air’s fresher and there’s more green than grey. Saenius was obviously one of them. There were no impressive gateposts, sweeping carriage drive or ornamental fountains, but it was a tight little place with a long frontage and quite a bit of plain white marble on show.

  I went up the steps. The door-slave - he looked like Tithonus’s grandfather, eighty if he was a day - was sitting on a stool outside, eyes closed, dozing in the sunshine.

  ‘Uh...excuse me, pal,’ I said. There was no reply. I tried again, louder, and the guy woke with a snort. ‘I’m sorry. I’m looking for Quintus Saenius. This his house?’

  ‘Eh?’ He cupped an ear.

  I raised my voice another notch. ‘Quintus Saenius?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to shout. I’m a bit deaf.’

  Gods! ‘Quintus...bloody...Saenius! This where he lives?’

  ‘You want to see the master?’ The hand still hadn’t moved.

  We have contact! I pressed my aching ribs. ‘Yeah, if –’ I began, then nodded instead; it was quicker and less painful.

  ‘He’s in the rose garden.’ The guy stood up, slowly. I swear I could hear the creak. ‘What name, sir?’

  Oh, hell; round two. ‘Corvinus. Marc-’ Shit. ‘Marcus...Valerius...Corvinus.’ Nothing. ‘I SAID MARCUS...VALERIUS ...’

  Ouch!

  ‘Ah.’ He gave me a myopic stare. ‘Perhaps you’d just like to follow me. I’ll show you.’

  He set off along the portico at an arthritic hobble. Yeah, well, the rose garden couldn’t be all that far away, but I just hoped he didn’t croak before we got there. Me, I wouldn’t take any bets.

  We reached it, eventually: a walled garden, opening off the portico’s far end, planted out with more roses than I’d ever seen growing in one place. The air was heavy with scent. Modest villa or not, Saenius was obviously a rose fanatic.

  He was sitting on a bench set against the far wall. If I’d thought the door-slave was old, Saenius was ancient: a little, dapper man in a very formal broad-striper mantle, with about three strands of white hair carefully combed over a scalp bald and gleaming as a bronze mirror. His eyes were closed, but he can’t’ve been sleeping because when we were still a dozen feet away they opened.

  ‘Marcus Veranius Curtinus, master,’ the slave said.

  ‘Ah...that’s Marcus Valerius Corvinus, sir.’ I was looki
ng at his eyes. The eyeballs were almost completely covered by cataracts. Yeah: Mother had said he was blind.

  ‘Valerius Messalinus’s son?’ He was staring at a point just to the right of my ear. His voice was thin and reedy, like I’d imagine a ghost’s might be. Jupiter, he must be ninety, easy!

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ I said.

  ‘He was a fine lawyer, your father. I heard him speak many a time.’ He chuckled, with a sound like dry leaves rustling. ‘Often, to my discomfiture, on the opposing side, which does not make his son any the less welcome. Sit down, Corvinus. You don’t mind sharing a bench? As you may have noticed, Paulus isn’t really up to fetching chairs these days.’

  I sat. ‘Nice garden. The roses are beautiful.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been collecting them for many years. They were always a passion of mine even before this.’ He indicated his eyes. ‘Now, of course, because of the scent aspect of things I’m very grateful to myself for my original choice of hobby. I spend most of the day out here in summer.’

  The door-slave was still hovering. ‘Should I bring some wine, master?’ he said.

  ‘Corvinus?’ Saenius looked at me, directly this time. I wondered if he had at least some vision left or if he’d taught himself to gauge distance and direction from the sound of a voice. ‘I don’t drink wine myself at all now - doctor’s orders - but I have a passable Latian in the cellar if you’d care to try it.’

  ‘No. No, that’s okay,’ I said. ‘I’m fine.’ After walking all the way from Baiae I could’ve murdered a cup of Latian, but I wasn’t going to risk being responsible for Gerontius here keeling over into the flowerbeds under the weight of a wine tray. ‘Which doctor?’

  ‘A young chap, name of Diodotus. He’s very good.’

  Well, it was probably chance; the guy was a high-society doctor, there weren’t all that many around, and he had a large practice. He certainly got around, though. ‘My mother told me to give you her regards, by the way,’ I said. ‘She was the one who suggested I call.’

  He nodded. ‘Vipsania, isn’t it? She’s well?’

  ‘Very well.’ Fit and punching.

  ‘A splendid woman; beauty, brains, character and a sense of proportion. You don’t get that combination very often. Your father - no offence meant, Corvinus - made a great mistake when he divorced her. One among very few. Give her my best wishes. Now.’ He adjusted a fold of his mantle. ‘That’s quite enough of the civilities. You’ve come for a reason, of course.’

  ‘Uh...yeah,’ I said. ‘Mother thought you might remember something about a trial in Rome thirty years back. To do with the death of a lady called Fadia.’

  His chin came up. Old man or not, I could see he was no pushover. ‘Licinius Murena’s wife?’ he said sharply.

  I felt the first brush of excitement. ‘Yeah. That’s right.’

  He didn’t speak at once. Then he said: ‘Corvinus, I am - or was - a lawyer, and I neither believe in nor trust coincidences. So before we continue let’s have one thing clear. Would this interest of yours have any connection with Murena’s own recent...death?’ I noticed the pause before the last word, like he’d selected it carefully and deliberately from a range of options. Lawyer was right.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, it would. I’m, uh, sort of looking into it.’

  ‘Officially?’

  ‘I’ve got official permission, sure. And the guy who a lot of people think was responsible has asked me to represent him.’

  ‘In court? Do you have any legal training?’

  ‘No. I’m, ah, rather hoping it won’t go that far. Which is why I’m here.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He was frowning. ‘And you believe...Young man, I may live quite an isolated existence here, but I do keep up with the news. I’m not unwilling to help, especially if as you say you have official blessing, but I do have my own curiosity to indulge. I’m sorry, but what possible bearing can Murena’s first wife’s death have on his own six days ago and that ne’er-do-well Trebbio’s arrest for his murder? ’

  Well, I ought to have known that he’d make the link: old and blind or not, Saenius was still a sharp cookie. I gave him the truth. ‘I don’t know, sir. Maybe no bearing at all. But I’ve a gut feeling that it does. I don’t trust coincidences either, and there’re too many connected with whatever happened thirty years back for comfort.’

  The frown relaxed. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Are there indeed? Well, curiosity aside it’s not my case and perhaps under the circumstances it would be unethical to press you.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘You’ve got a lot of your mother in you, my boy. Did you know that? Your father, too, although from what I heard of your relationship with him you may not think so, or welcome the comment. He was a digger as well, in his way. Now.’ He shifted on the bench. ‘It wasn’t thirty years ago, it was twenty-eight, the year Silanus and Silianus were consuls. The trial, I mean. Fadia had died the year previously.’

  ‘It was a murder trial?’

  ‘Yes. Not before the full Senate, though, very much in camera. Murena managed things to that extent, at least. The accusation was brought by Fadia’s family. Murena was the defendant. I wasn’t involved personally, and I won’t burden you unless you wish it with the names of the prosecutor and defender. In any event, the case for the prosecution collapsed on the first day, so the term “trial” is rather a misnomer.’

  ‘You remember the details?’

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled again. ‘I told you, I’m a lawyer. When I start forgetting things I’ll go into my study and slit my wrists. Or do it out here, most probably. I’m assuming you know the circumstances of the woman’s death? Do you?’

  ‘Yeah. Or at least I know what I was told. She was sleepwalking at the time, the slave who was supposed to be watching her was asleep, and she fell downstairs and broke her neck. Murena and his daughter Penelope were witnesses.’

  ‘Penelope? That would be young Licinia, wouldn’t it?’ I nodded, then remembered and said : ‘Yes.’ ‘Correct. Only there was another witness. That in the event proved to be very important.’

  My guts went cold. ‘Another witness?’

  ‘Oh, indeed. We’ll come to him later. Fadius - Fadia’s brother - claimed that Murena had pushed her downstairs intentionally. He based the claim on two factors; one, that the marriage had been no marriage at all for a period of several years, and two - the main factor - that Murena’s own daughter said she’d seen him do it.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Pretty damning, in fact, or so it seemed to me. And, of course, it matched with what I already knew. ‘So why did the case fold?’

  ‘That was due to the third witness I mentioned. Murena’s door-slave. He was downstairs at the time, in the door-slave’s cubby, invisible to the other two; he came forward of his own volition, just prior to the trial. The young man confirmed that Murena had indeed stretched his arm out towards his wife when she was on the top step, but - this was important - that his clear intention had been to stop her falling.’ Saenius frowned. ‘Naturally, being a slave, his evidence was only admissible if confirmed by torture, and the prosecution insisted this should be administered to the full letter of the law. It made no difference: he refused categorically to change his story. That, of course, would fit the known facts equally well, and since the prosecution had no further actual evidence to offer the judge exercised his prerogative and dismissed the case.’

  ‘Uh...hang on.’ Sweet gods alive! This didn’t add up! ‘It was still a slave’s word against a citizen’s. I’m sorry, sir, but things like that just don’t happen. The judge would’ve believed the girl, even if the slave was tortured.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Saenius said quietly. ‘There were, however, unusual circumstances. First of all, as I say, no one suspected at the time that he had witnessed the incident. Secondly, a month or so before Fadia’s death Murena had had the boy’s father, who was also a slave in the house, flogged to death for some misdemeanour and his corpse thrown into the tank where he kept his moray eels.’ My brain went numb.
‘Naturally, that put any question of the slave’s lying out of loyalty to his master beyond the pale, especially since he had come forward - so he insisted, again under torture - purely in the cause of truth and justice. Any slave, the judge reasoned, who would voluntarily submit to torture to save a master who has just had his father killed when he could easily have ensured his condemnation either by confirming his guilt or simply keeping silent altogether could not possibly be lying.’

  ‘So what about the girl?’

  ‘She was just that; a girl in her mid teens. Scarcely more than a child, and easily capable of a mistake. She saw her father stretch out his hand towards her mother - no one denies he did that - and misinterpreted the action. End of the prosecution’s case and collapse of the trial. Murena was sent home without a stain on his character.’

  Except where it mattered, I thought: whatever the verdict, where Rome’s social Movers and Shakers were concerned the guy wasn’t welcome any more. Which was why he’d had to leave Rome and move permanently to Baiae. ‘The slave,’ I said. ‘That’d be Philippus, right?’

  Saenius nodded. ‘Yes. He’s done very well for himself since, I hear. And I understand he still drags his left leg, even after all this time. The praetor’s torturers weren’t gentle, and as I say the prosecution insisted on thoroughness.’

  Well, it all fitted in, sure, but even after thirty years - twenty-eight years - you could just smell the rotten fish. Me, if I’d been the judge, I would’ve dug a bit deeper. The guy must’ve been mentally impaired, which wouldn’t be a first in a praetor. ‘Philippus got his freedom shortly afterwards. Didn’t that strike anyone as suspicious at all?’

  The old guy shrugged. ‘Oh, yes. Of course it did. But the trial was over, the verdict was given and the young man was Murena’s to do as he liked with. And, after all, he had saved his master from exile or a very hefty fine. Besides - and I’m speaking now from hearsay, mind, not personal knowledge - Philippus bought his own freedom, he wasn’t given it gratis.’