'That seems to cover it, I'm afraid.' She paused. 'Apart from your mother and Priscus, of course.'
We looked at each other. I took a morose swallow of wine.
'Oh, yeah,' I said at last. 'Mother and Priscus. Let's hear it for desperation.'
Unfortunately Mother and Priscus were dining in that evening and would be delighted to feed us. Perilla put on the mantle she least minded getting gravy stains all over and we whistled up the litter for the Caelian.
'As a matter of interest, little guy,' I said to Bathyllus as we prepared to set off, 'what are your plans for dinner tonight?'
'The kitchen staff at the neighbour's have rallied round, sir.' Bathyllus straightened our cushions. 'Their master is having a birthday banquet, and the leftovers should be sufficient for both households.'
'Is that right?' I kept my voice neutral. 'A birthday banquet, eh? You, uh, happen to know what's on the menu?'
'Sturgeon was mentioned, sir. Roast sucking pig stuffed with dates and pastry. And, I think, a sweetbread fricassee with forcemeat dumplings. Plus the sundries, of course.'
'The sundries. Great. Great. Sounds nice. Well, enjoy yourselves.'
'You too, sir. Have a very pleasant evening.'
Bastard. Still, it was Mother's or starve, if you can call that a choice. Off we went.
'Marcus! Perilla! Do come in, we were just going to start without you.' Mother kissed the air beside my right cheek. 'Something to drink?'
Uh-uh. I'd been caught out on that one before. 'Some plain ordinary wine'd be nice, Mother,' I said. 'If you've got it.'
'Nonsense, dear!' Mother looked shocked. 'You must try Phormio's spiced wine surprise. He made it specially for this evening from his own recipe.'
'In that case no. No thanks.' Phormio was Mother's chef, and he was even crazier than she was. One day he'd finally manage to poison someone, and I didn't want it to be me, whether it meant offending his professional susceptibilities or not. 'I'll pass. Perilla?'
'Just a fruit juice, please,' Perilla said firmly.
'Very well.' Mother frowned. 'Suit yourselves.'
We went through to the dining room. Priscus was on the host's couch. He hadn't changed since I'd seen him last. He still looked like a cross between a sheep and a dried prune.
'Mmmmaaa!' he bleated. 'Good to see you both. Perilla, you're beside me as usual, my dear.' Well, she'd got her sauceproof mantle on this time, anyway.
'Hi, Stepfather,' I said, taking the last couch. 'How are the joints now?' They were the reason he'd missed the funeral: a bout of galloping arthritis caught in a damp Caerean tomb.
'I can't complain. I can't complain. Lartia Tarchna was worth a few twinges. A lovely woman in her day, Marcus, lovely.' Yeah, if you like five hundred year old funerary statues. 'Beautiful breasts. And we're having celery soup with watercress tonight. That should help.'
Jupiter, that sturgeon! Those suckling pigs! Bathyllus would be tucking in to them even now. Never let anyone tell you that a slave's life is the pits.
'Celery soup with watercress, eh?' I said. 'Yum. Delicious. I can't wait.'
The spiced wine surprise arrived. I was glad I'd passed it up: from the smell and the colour it seemed that the surprise was that it wasn't wine at all; but then I hadn't ever thought it would be, and faking things was part of Phormio's bag. I could still remember how, the last time we'd eaten at Mother's, he'd served up a dish of pickled anchovies that had turned out to be caramelised radishes. I'd swallowed one before I realised and been off fish for a month.
The soup came next, together with a plate heaped high with what looked like green worms. I goggled.
'Hey, great!' I said. 'Baby eels with fennel!' This was more like it: good plain Roman cooking for a change. Maybe we were going to be lucky after all.
Mother gave me a brittle smile. 'No, dear. Not eels. Not even close.'
Hell. This sounded bad, even by Mother's standards. 'You want to tell us what they are?'
'Not until after you've had a taste and told me what you think.'
'Ah.' Bad was right.
'A trader I met told me about them and I had Phormio recreate the recipe with my own adaptations.' Mother held out a spoon. 'Go on, Marcus. They won't bite you.'
From the look of the things I wouldn't've bet on it. Still, it looked like the worms were all we were getting. Dubiously, I let her spoon some onto my plate. They slithered off again.
'Uh...a trader from where, exactly?' I asked. Britain. It had to be Britain.
'Syria, dear. But the recipe itself came from much farther away. Somewhere along the silk route, I think.'
Perilla was already digging in. 'They're lovely. Most unusual. Go on, Marcus, try them.'
With some difficulty I picked up two or three of the worms on my spoon and bit.
'Gods!'
'Interesting, aren't they?' Mother said. 'Thin strands of flour and egg paste, dried and then boiled, with a sauce of oil, pounded cheese, garlic, pine nuts and rue. I'm not sure about the rue. Perhaps something else might give a less astringent flavour.'
'Yeah. Yeah, I'd go along with that.' Jupiter in a bucket! It was like having your mouth scraped out with a gorse bush. I turned to the slave behind me. 'You got any common-or-garden fish sauce there, pal?'
With a barely-concealed sniff –Mother's got her whole staff brainwashed – he passed me the small jug. I poured it on lavishly. Thank the gods for plain fermented anchovies.
I didn't even touch the soup.
Priscus was tucking in to both like there was no tomorrow. Well, maybe there was something to be said for a diet of boiled celery and rue-worms, because dried prune or not the guy was wiry. And he had to be seventy, at least.
'You're enjoying your holiday, Marcus?' He sucked up a recalcitrant worm. A droplet of sauce flew off the end and landed on Perilla's tunic. She sighed and dabbed at it with her napkin.
'Titus!' Mother snapped.
Priscus gave her a look of mild-eyed surprise. 'You know what I mean, my dear. I've already extended my condolences.'
Yeah, well. I didn't blame the old bugger. He had one foot in the grave himself, or he ought to have by his time of life, and he'd raked around cemeteries for so long he must've looked on death as the only worthwhile reason for existence.
'It's okay,' I said, surreptitiously pushing my plate aside. 'I keep myself busy.'
'Doing what?' Mother asked. She'd noticed the plate. Mother never misses anything.
'This and that. Looking up old friends. Passing on messages.' There were some plain ordinary bread rolls on the table; at least they looked plain and ordinary. I broke one and tasted it carefully. It was edible, if you ignored the green bits. 'Speaking of which, you don't know of a guy called Sextus Marius, do you by any chance?'
I was looking at Mother; I doubted if the offhand tone would fool her for a minute, but she was my best bet because Priscus never knew anybody.
'Ah, yes,' Priscus said. 'The Carthage man.'
I choked on a crumb. 'You know him?'
'Of course. Not that he actually comes from Carthage, mind. He's Spanish.' Priscus spooned up more worms. Sauce flew. 'And he has a lovely daughter, I understand.'
Spanish fitted, anyway. But I couldn't see anyone who was a mate of Priscus's being involved in a treason scam. Most of that crew only got worked up about issues like an aberrant use of the genitive in early Oscan. As for politics three of them out of every five might know who Tiberius was, but beyond that was stretching things.
'Ah...the Carthage man?' I said cautiously.
Priscus nodded, chewed and swallowed, while Mother looked on fondly. I was grateful: she'd obviously never heard of Marius herself, and if Priscus knew him then ipso facto my question couldn't be all that out of line.
'Yes, Marcus,' he said. 'His special area of interest is Carthaginian seal-rings. Marius is quite a collector. We often meet in Phlebas's.'
'He's here in Rome?'
Priscus stared at me like it was the stupidest question he'd ever hear
d. 'But of course he is! He has been for several years. The Carthaginians have never been favourites of mine. A crude race, but artistic in their way. Take their sculpture...'
Oh, shit! No, no digressions, not now! I had to head the old guy off before he went chasing after one of his esoteric rabbits.
'You happen to know where I can find him?' I said quickly.
'Marius?' Priscus looked surprised at the name, as if we'd been discussing someone completely different. 'He has a villa on the Janiculan, if I remember rightly. Quite a nice one. I've never been there myself, but Phlebas would know, if you think it's really important.'
'Yeah, I do.' I glanced at Mother. She was beginning to look suspicious. 'You...ah...know anything more about him?'
'Not a great deal, no. Apart from his antiquarian interests he isn't really my type. Not a true...mmmaaa!...afictionado.'
'I see.' I took a gamble. 'Didn't he, uh, get into a bit of trouble at one time?'
'Marcus...' Mother began. Perilla glared at me.
Priscus was beaming, and blossoming like a shrivelled rose: it wasn't often he could keep his end up in a man-of-the-world conversation and he was obviously enjoying himself. 'Oh, yes! Yes, indeed! Something to do with Gaul, wasn't it?'
'Yeah, that's right.'
'Marcus,' Mother interrupted firmly, 'I don't know what you're after here, but this is all horribly familiar and I want you to stop it now.'
'I agree,' Perilla snapped. 'Marcus, behave!'
'Oh, tush, tush, my dears!' Priscus waved a hand and shifted on his couch. I'd never actually seen a louche sheep before, but he must've come pretty close. 'It was during the Latin Festival. Tiberius was away and Drusus was standing in. Marius was accused of treason or some such nonsense.'
'Who by?'
'I really can't recall, my dear fellow. In any case, the charge wasn't even...countenanced? Is that the word?'
'It'll do.' That would explain why there'd been no mention of Marius in the senate records: the accusation hadn't got that length, or it had been deliberately struck out. 'So what–?'
'Marcus!' Mother's eyes flashed. 'That's all! I forbid you to continue with this! And Titus, you've indulged the boy quite enough for one evening!'
There was no arguing with Mother in this mood. I held my hands up.
'Okay, okay!' I said. 'So what's for dessert?'
It was puréed plums with an elderberry and mint sauce. Mother made me eat two helpings as a punishment.
We left shortly afterwards, in frigid silence. I felt sorry for Priscus: he was obviously in for it as soon as the door closed behind us, and it hadn't been his fault.
Perilla wasn't too pleased with me either.
'You want to stop in at that cookshop on Tuscan Street?' I said finally, when the silence had dragged on just that bit too long. 'The one with no rats?'
'If you must, dear.' Shirty as hell. 'It's out of our way, of course. And personally after that meal I'm feeling quite full enough already.'
Yeah, well, Perilla might classify what we'd just had as a meal, but I didn't. My stomach needed an honest sausage and half a dozen meatballs. Even if they did turn out to be dog they'd at least be recognisable. I opened the litter curtains and got the leading litter slaves' attention.
'Hey, guys, take us home by Gratus's place in the Meat Market, okay?'
'Okay, boss.'
A good idea, but it came to nothing. When we got there there was a note on the door that said: 'Closed due to family illness'. Clearly it just wasn't my night.
12.
When we pulled up outside Bathyllus had the door open for us as usual. The little guy was grinning like a drain, he looked well fed, and I could swear there was a streak of lovage-and-cumin sauce on his chin.
'How was your meal, sir?' he asked.
'Don't talk about it.' I started to strip off my mantle. 'Just don't talk about it. Ever.'
'Very well, sir.' He took Perilla's cloak.
'How's the Meton situation?' I said. 'Any change?'
'He's out, sir.'
I stared. The mantle slipped to the floor. 'Out?'
'Out of the kitchen. Since shortly after you left, sir.'
'Since shortly after we left.' My empty stomach rumbled. I pushed past him. 'Just let me get my hands on the bastard!'
'Certainly. But perhaps you should see your visitor first.'
I stopped. 'Visitor?'
'Flavonius Lippillus. He's in the dining room.'
Lippillus was on the guest couch with a jug of Setinian beside him. And on the table –spread across the whole length and width of the dining table – was...
My jaw dropped. Food. Real food.
'Hi, Corvinus.' Lippillus waved a canapé. 'You don't mind, do you? I'm sorry, I got tired waiting.'
'Yeah. I mean, no.' I was heaping a plate. Jupiter in spangles! Roast stuffed guinea-fowl! Snails! Mushrooms in wine! 'Did Meton make all this?'
'Sure. He's been slaving away like a demon for hours.' He looked up. 'Hi, Perilla.'
'Good evening, Lippillus.' Perilla had followed me in. She was staring at the table too. 'Marcus, what is going on here?'
'I don't know.' I bit into a leg of guinea-fowl: marinated, if I didn't miss my guess, in cherry juice and juniper. Delicious! 'And frankly at the moment I don't care.'
Lippillus poured me a cup of wine. 'I think it's a peace offering,' he said.
'Meton's wasting his time. When I get my strength back I'll beat him to death with his own omelette pan.' Gods, though, that guinea-fowl was good! I chased it down with a throatful of Setinian and reached for the mushrooms. 'What happened? He come out voluntarily?'
'Oh, he was no trouble. Not after I pitched in the smoke bomb.'
'The which?'
'Smoke bomb. A little something I learned once from a Greek army engineer.' Lippillus scooped olive paté onto a crust. 'I borrowed the ingredients from your neighbour, mixed the thing up, lit it and chucked it through the outside window. Bathyllus and his lads were waiting to grab Meton at the other end. Don't worry, there's no damage.'
'Screw the damage.' If Lippillus had managed to winkle Meton out without calling in the City Guard he'd performed a minor miracle. Even for him it was impressive. 'Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.'
'If you'll excuse me I'll just go and change into something that doesn't smell of rue sauce,' Perilla said. She disappeared upstairs.
'Rue sauce?' Lippillus stared after her. 'Rue sauce?'
'Believe it.' I de-shelled a snail.
'Bathyllus said you were out to dinner at your mother's.'
'Out, yes.' Gods, the snails were even better than the guinea-fowl: boiled in wine must with the barest touch of caraway. 'Dinner...'
Lippillus looked at me, then shrugged and poured us another cup of wine. 'So. Business. You left a message to say you wanted to see me. Or was it just that you needed help with your domestic problems?'
My stomach was quieter now. The rumbles had settled to a contented purring. 'You know anything about a man called Sextus Marius? Reported to Drusus for treason?'
Lippillus frowned. 'A Spaniard?'
'Yeah. That's him.' I evicted a second snail.
'Accuser Calpurnius Salvianus. The case was thrown out unheard and Salvianus was exiled.'
I nearly choked. 'He was what?'
'Exiled. Tiberius gave him a public reprimand and packed him off east.' Lippillus was still watching me closely. 'I'd forgotten about Marius. Where did you dig him up?'
I told him what Celsus had told me. He nodded.
'That would fit. Salvianus was none too bright by all reports. Sejanus used him to kill the two birds with the one stone.'
He was ahead of me. 'Hold on. I understand why the Wart threw the case out, sure; as Sejanus's agent against the Julians Marius would have his protection. But who's your other bird?'
'Drusus himself, of course. Who else would it be?'
'Yeah?' I took a swallow of wine. 'You mind explaining why the Wart's accredited deputy sh
ould get himself into trouble by sitting in for his dad on the first stages of a treason trial?'
'Corvinus.' Lippillus sighed. 'You've got hold of the wrong end of the stick somewhere. We're not talking about Tiberius's son. This only happened five years ago. It was the other Drusus. Agrippina's boy.'
I sat back. Gods! My own fault, of course; Priscus hadn't given an exact date, and I'd assumed when he told me the story he'd meant the Wart's Drusus. Five years ago, that Drusus had been dead. If the judge concerned had been the Julian kid then that was a different thing entirely, and what Lippillus was saying made sense. A lot of sense.
'Sejanus used the same scam as Serenus did,' I said slowly. 'Only he was more successful. He had Marius accused on his own terms, and the case collapsed. Better, it never got started.'
'Right.' Lippillus nodded. 'Marius was charged during the Latin Festival, when Tiberius and the senior magistrates were out of Rome. Leaving the boy as a very junior City Prefect.'
'And if Salvianus was no mental heavyweight he wouldn't realise he was being used as a political cat's-paw until it was too late.' I pulled off another guinea-fowl leg and chewed on it while I thought over the implications. Yeah. Clever. Real clever. Sharp-as-a-brick Salvianus must've thought he was on to a sure thing, especially if he knew nothing about the Julians' involvement with the Gallic revolt: he was lodging a public-spirited accusation, and as a judge the inexperienced Drusus would be a walkover. Drusus was just as culpable, but in his case, like I said, it would've been through inexperience, not stupidity. During the Latin Festival no important business is conducted because none of those authorised to conduct it are in the city; so by agreeing to preside over a case of treason he was inadvertently laying public claim to the full powers of an imperial deputy. Given the Wart's fear of the Julians, it was no wonder he'd reacted as he did and thrown the case out the window. As a piece of slick political manoeuvring on Sejanus's part it was beautiful: his agent got off, the Julian faction lost another brownie point with the Wart and Tiberius's own popularity slipped a further notch because rapping squeaky-clean young Drusus across the knuckles wouldn't go down well with the Roman public.
'So Marius is our man,' I said.
'It seems that way. He's not a straight Julian, that's for sure. Like Serenus. Only Sextus Marius was protected.'
Sejanus (Marcus Corvinus Book 3) Page 9