No Cause for Concern

by David Wishart

  ‘You know them at all?’ I asked.

  ‘Can’t say I do, not as such. They’ve been in here for a drink now and again, some of them, over the years. Just the evening of the play, though, because they move straight on. And they never make a night of it, either, because it means an early start in the morning.’ He was beginning to give me curious looks. ‘What’s your interest, sir, if you don’t mind me asking? Not in that line yourself, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m just doing a favour for an acquaintance. The widow of the last guy to head the troupe.’

  ‘Ah. Is that so, now. Carrying a message, then, would you be?’

  That’s another thing about these small towns: a stranger’s an event in himself, to be milked for information and gossip. It isn’t nosiness as such, just another way of passing the time and putting a little much-needed sparkle into an otherwise humdrum life. Still, I didn’t mind, and I might even learn something.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘The lady thought her son might be with them. She asked me to check, that’s all.’

  The landlord chuckled. ‘Run off, has he?’ he said. ‘Aye, well, youngsters’re like that. My eldest did the same, ran off to Arretium without a word said and signed up for a legionary. He’s on the Rhine now and liable to stay there for the next twenty years if some bastard of a German doesn’t hack his stupid head off first. You can’t tell them at that age, can you? Still, if the lad’s with his uncle he’ll come to no harm.’

  ‘You didn’t hear of him, did you? Name’s Titus.’

  ‘No, sir, I’m sorry.’ He drained his cup and got to his feet. ‘Can’t help you there, I’m afraid. Like I said, the troupe’s only through here once a year, and if the boy’s with them this time round you’ll just have to see for yourself tomorrow. Now, if you’ve finished your stew I’ll get the wife to show you a room and then if everything’s agreeable maybe I could point you towards the town baths. You’ll be wanting a bath badly if you’ve come all the way from Rome.’

  I did, at that: sitting on the bench hadn’t been a good idea, and I was stiffening up nicely. A leisurely steam in the bath-house, followed by a stroll round the town, another half jug of Graviscan and an early night would suit me fine.

  We’d see what tomorrow would bring.

  * * *

  It brought a bloody rooster, for a start. The thing went off just before dawn, right under my window, seven times, and at full volume. Obviously a bird who scored high on job satisfaction and made sure everybody knew it. Ah, the joys of country life. Maybe I should ask my landlady what the chances were of a boiled chicken dinner.

  The bath the day before had done its best, but moving quickly was still not an option. I gritted my teeth, gradually levered my pain-shattered and board-stiff body off the mattress, and stood up slowly. Then there were the hazards of the chamber pot that the management had thoughtfully provided and the struggle with tunic and sandals. Finally, I inched my way to the door, through it, and downstairs. Bugger. I’d still got the return journey to Rome to look forward to. If I ever got the chance I’d slit Eutacticus’s throat with a rusty sawblade, and whistle while I did it.

  There were half a dozen other punters round the kitchen table, tucking in to their hot porridge and – in one case – raw onion and bread. They gave me a nod and/or a grunt each as I crept to the end of the bench and sat down...

  Or tried to. Bad idea. Bad, bad idea. I got up again with what in my present condition was alacrity. Hell. Yeah, well, I’ve never been much of a breakfast person anyway.

  The punter with the onion sniggered.

  ‘Porridge, sir?’ The lady of the house, coming through from the kitchen with the pot in her hands. ‘Or I could do you some eggs.’

  So the rooster took the other part of his duties just as seriously. ‘No, thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll pass.’

  ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’ I had, at that: the straw mattress had thankfully been free of bugs and fleas, I’d gone out like a light and woken – been woken – unbitten and without the frantic desire to scratch most of your skin off that tends to go with mornings in your average provincial-Italian inn. This place was definitely a find. ‘I think I’ll take an early walk. Freshen up a bit.’

  ‘As you like, sir.’

  I went outside. The sun was up, just, and it looked like being a fine mid-October day. The woodsmoke from the kitchen stove drifted across the courtyard, adding a tang to the earth-and-greenery smell carried by the breeze from the fields outside the town walls. Nice. I’m no countryman, but mornings in the country can have their good points, too. You wouldn’t want to live there, mind.

  I checked on the mare – she’d been comfortably housed, with plenty of clean straw and a full manger – and set off towards the centre of town. Not a long walk – you can see all that Bacanae has to offer inside a quarter of an hour and still have plenty of time to spare – but I needed to get my legs working again. I was planning on an easy morning: a shave at the barber’s booth in the square, followed by a bath. Afterwards, another leisurely stroll back to the inn, some more of the Graviscan, or maybe I’d try the Statonian for a change, and a plate of cheese and olives, then over to the theatre to see if Luscius and company had arrived. A quiet day, in other words. Well, I may as well treat this as a holiday. Like the landlord had said, if young Titus had run off to join his uncle then he was safe enough, and no problem of mine. I’d be very surprised if the truth was anything different and the kid didn’t send me away with a flea in my ear. Still, you had to go through the motions.

  * * *

  I got to the theatre just after noon. Obviously, the actors had arrived: I could see their wagon in the field next to it, and there were two or three leather tents pitched. The doors of the theatre were open, and I went inside.

  There was a rehearsal going on, or at least the guys were going through a few key passages and bits of business on the stage sans masks and costumes. I slipped in as unobtrusively as I could and parked myself (painfully) at the end of one of the rows.

  I knew what the play was, because it had been advertised on one of the walls in the market place: Maccius Plautus’s ‘Ghost’. Not the world’s greatest comedy, but Old Flatfoot always goes down well with your average lowbrow audience just out for a good time, and I reckoned Sextus Luscius knew his Sutrians. The plot’s simple: old father arrives home from abroad unexpectedly, interrupting his young son’s romantic idyll with his no-better-than-she-should-be girlfriend. Desperate to keep him out of the house until the youngsters can tidy things up and the lady can make herself scarce, the smart-as-paint slave (there’s always one of these) intercepts the old man and tells him he’s got ghost problems: the house is haunted and has had to be shut up for the duration. Cue complications and a story line that’s about as believable as a whistling rhino with feathers. Ah, the magic of theatre.

  We were at the bit where the young hero’s best pal reels in stewed to the gills and propped up by his own lady-friend. Occusia hadn’t given me a description of her son, but the guy playing the male part of the duo looked a distinct possibility: right age, at least, early to mid twenties, and from what I could see of his face from this distance – I was right at the top of the house – there might even be a family resemblance. I sat up and took notice.

  He’d got about half a minute into his scene when the older man standing in front of the stage watching things and making the occasional comment – Sextus Luscius himself, I assumed – waved his arms in a ‘Stop, stop, stop!’ gesture.

  ‘Titus, you’re supposed to be drunk, lad!’ he shouted. ‘Pissed out of your bloody skull! Come on, boy, let’s have a bit of acting here! Start again!’

  Titus, eh? Yeah, well, that was enough for me: we’d found our stray lamb right enough. I waited until the lad and his ‘girlfriend’ had gone through their scene to the boss’s satisfaction, then stood up and came down the walkway.

  I don’t think anyone had noticed I was there up to then, certainly not Luscius, w
ho’d had his back to me all the time. Now he turned round scowling.

  ‘This is a private rehearsal,’ he said. ‘Come back in three hours with everyone else.’

  I’d reached the VIP seats in the front row. I held up a placatory hand. ‘Marcus Corvinus. And I’m sorry for interrupting. This won’t take long, and it’s no big deal. You’re Sextus Luscius, right?’

  ‘That’s so.’

  ‘And you’re’ – I looked up at the young guy on the stage – ‘Titus Luscius?’

  He nodded. He looked puzzled, and just a bit wary.

  ‘I’ve come from Rome,’ I said. ‘Your mother sent me. She was anxious about you and she wanted to know where you were. She told me to tell you she wants you back.’

  ‘But –’ Sextus Luscius said.

  ‘Also, there’s a private message from someone else. She says she’ll meet you any time, anywhere, to, ah, do what you were planning to do before you left. Okay?’

  ‘“She”? What she?’ The kid looked down at Luscius Senior. ‘What’s this about, Dad?’

  Dad?

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Luscius snapped at me. ‘My wife knows perfectly well where we are, so her being anxious about Titus is nonsense. And what’s this business about a private message?’

  I was feeling seriously adrift here. ‘Hang on,’ I said to the kid. ‘Ah...your name is Titus Luscius, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But you’re not Occusia’s son?’

  ‘No. Of course I’m not. She’s my aunt.’

  Oh, bugger. Yeah, it made complete sense; there was no reason why both the Lucrii brothers shouldn’t’ve named their respective kids Titus. Even so...

  ‘Look,’ I said to Luscius Senior, ‘I’m sorry. I’ve obviously made a mistake. Your nephew Titus disappeared from home a few days ago, and his mother thought he might’ve gone to join you. You haven’t seen him?’

  ‘No. No, I haven’t seen him.’ He gestured round at the other four members of the group: two middle-aged men in the wings, the prepubescent kid on the stage playing the girlfriend, and the fluteplayer. They were all standing gawping at me, even the fluteplayer, who’d been well off to one side practising his arpeggios. ‘What you see is what you get. You’ve had a wasted journey, pal.’

  ‘So it would seem.’ I gave young Titus another look. ‘Well, I can only apologise again and ask you if he does turn up to pass on the message.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ Luscius didn’t sound too friendly. ‘Can’t say he’d listen, though, and I’ll tell you now I won’t be twisting any arms. Titus is his father’s son, and he’s old enough to make up his own mind. If he’s decided to get shot of that crooked bastard up on the Pincian then good luck to him. You tell Occusia that from me, right? Now. The show starts mid-afternoon. You’ll hear the trumpet. Meanwhile if you don’t mind I’ve got a rehearsal going.’

  He turned away.

  That was that, then. I went back to the inn.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘He could still be our Titus,’ I said.

  Perilla shifted on her couch. ‘Oh, really, dear!’ she said. ‘Isn’t that needlessly complicating matters? Why should the boy lie to you? More to the point, why should his uncle? If he is his uncle, not his father after all. From what you told me Sextus Luscius made it quite clear where his sympathies lay, and that he was quite willing to shelter his nephew. He need only have said, “Yes, this is my nephew. He’s a responsible adult and he’s decided where he wants to be. Now go away.”’

  I sighed and topped up my winecup. ‘Maybe they – he and the youngster – were the ones who wanted to complicate matters.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Luscius obviously has no time for Eutacticus, but he must know that the guy swings a lot of weight, one way and another. I know our Titus left a note saying his stepfather’d never see him again if he set his people out to look for him, but what’s that worth? Particularly if his whereabouts aren’t a secret any longer. What’s to stop Eutacticus from using strongarm methods? Send his boys to lift him, take him back to Rome by force, then threaten to be very unpleasant to his uncle and mother if the youngster doesn’t co-operate?’

  ‘He wouldn’t do that! Surely!’

  ‘Believe it, lady. Besides, he’d have nothing to lose, would he? So why should Luscius go through all that hassle? All he has to do is convince Eutacticus’s messenger that he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of young Titus and he’s off the hook. Said messenger has to look somewhere else. And Titus isn’t anywhere else, so the search can go on forever.’

  ‘Surely it all depends whether there’s actually another Titus Luscius who’s Sextus’s son.’

  ‘Yeah. Of course it does. That’s the only bit of light I’ve got here. If I go to Occusia – as I will tomorrow – and ask her if she has a nephew Titus the same age as her son, and she says no, then that’s the game over and me out of things because my job’s finished.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it all have been a little pointless then? I mean, as far as Titus and his uncle are concerned?’

  I shrugged. ‘They’d’ve had some time to think and plan, which is more than they had yesterday when I walked in on them out of nowhere. Apropos of which, if that young guy was our Titus then switching things round convincingly on the spot like he did was a pretty neat move. On Luscius’s part as well.’

  ‘They are actors, Marcus. Both of them.’

  ‘Yeah. Still, if it was a performance then it was an impressive one, and totally off the cuff. Of course, they could’ve agreed on the father/son ploy as a failsafe, in case someone like me did turn up.’ I took a swallow of wine. ‘Anyway, leave it for now. We’ll know for sure tomorrow. One way or another.’

  At which point Bathyllus shimmered in. ‘Dinner, sir. Madam.’ He paused. ‘Served in the dining-room.’ The last bit was heavily stressed.

  ‘Well, naturally, sunshine,’ I said. ‘Where else would it be?’

  But I was talking to his retreating back. I looked at Perilla.

  ‘What’s wrong with Bathyllus?’ I said.

  ‘I can’t think,’ she said. ‘I really don’t know.’ Interesting: those two gems had come out with a noticeable squeak embedded, and there were sudden spots of colour high on her cheekbones. The lady was lying. There was guilt there, too.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said. I eased myself off the couch with what nonchalance I could muster – I’d had a bath as soon as I got back, but I was still pretty stiff and saddle-sore – and carried the winecup and jug through to the dining-room...

  Jupitergodsbloodyalmighty!

  ‘Ah... What do you think, Marcus?’ Perilla said nervously. She’d cannoned into my back when I’d stopped at the dining-room door. ‘Very...striking, isn’t it? Of course, it’s only sketched in at present. Daistratus said it’ll take him another –’

  ‘What the hell is it supposed to be?’ I was goggling. Only sketched in or not, the full horror that would be the finished article was already pretty obvious.

  ‘It’s...well, it’s...architectural. You said you wanted architecture.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’d sort of expected an actual building to be involved somewhere.’ Gods, the more you looked at it the worse it got. My brain had gone numb. ‘Which way’s up?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, dear, it’s...’ Perilla paused. ‘Oh. I see what you mean. Those arches on the right. And the staircase joining the first and second floors.’

  Bloody hell! I didn’t even want to look at the staircase joining the first and second floors. I was having enough trouble with the normal three dimensions without bothering with a fourth. Or – I glanced at the arches, and my brain reeled afresh – a fifth and sixth. I wrenched my eyes away before the thing drew me in and swallowed me altogether.

  ‘What does he call it?’ I said.

  ‘Er...Fantasy Architecturescape Seven,’ Perilla said.

  ‘You mean there are six more of these bastards somewhere?’

  ‘Presumably. You said to surprise y
ou.’

  ‘Yeah. Right. And you’ve succeeded. Congratulations.’ Well, it explained Bathyllus’s grump. If you sliced him into wafer-thin layers you’d find ‘traditionalist’ lettered all the way through. Life for the foreseeable future was going to be hell. ‘I think a bucket of lime wash is in order. Or we can just ask this Daistratus to rub it out and give us something decent.’

  ‘But we can’t do that, dear! Everyone agrees that he’s an artistic giant, a genius. And you have to admit that it is clever.’

  ‘So’s a fucking tightrope-walking elephant, but that doesn’t mean I want one in my dining-room. Come on, Perilla! That thing’s bad enough now. When it’s finished, two or three days staring at it while we eat and our brains’ll be mush!’

  ‘Nonsense. It just takes a little getting used to.’ She sniffed, but I noticed that she didn’t look back at the picture. ‘We can always do things gradually. Alter the seating arrangements. Move the dining couches so that they’re sideways on. Marcus, it’s a masterpiece! Besides, it wasn’t cheap. And I paid in advance.’

  I groaned.

  Bathyllus came in. You could’ve used the little bald-head’s expression to slice marble.

  ‘Shall I bring the starters, sir?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, you do that. And, ah, move these couches round through ninety degrees, will you, pal? There’s a bit of a draft from the door this evening.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Certainly. Would you be wanting another jug of lime?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Wine, sir. I meant wine. I’m sorry. A slip of the tongue.’

  ‘Right. Yes. Sure. Oh, and Bathyllus?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Make it the Special, will you?’

  ‘The Special it is, sir.’

  I reckoned if I was to get through this meal with my sanity intact I’d need all the anaesthetising I could get.

  * * *

  Next morning, I went back up to the Pincian to make my report. I’d scarcely given my cloak to the door-slave – the weather had turned colder – before Sempronia came out of the atrium and hurried towards me.