Foreign Bodies

by David Wishart

  ‘He was a business rival?’

  ‘Oh, no; I don’t think he has any business interests, or indeed any interest in business, whatsoever. In fact, he rather despises businessmen like my husband. That was the root of the problem, really.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  She straightened a fold in her over-tunic. ‘I said: Oppianus belongs to one of the oldest families in Gaul. A hundred years ago they owned half the countryside for twenty miles around, and naturally they provided most of the tribal leaders. Then, of course, when you Romans came the world changed completely, and unfortunately they – Oppianus’s grandfather and father – didn’t change with it. Land had to be sold, and by the time Oppianus came into the estate when his father died twenty-odd years ago there was very little left. Enough for him to live on, certainly, but only a shadow of what there was before. And things haven’t become any easier in the interim. Quite the reverse.’

  ‘So where did the bad feeling between him and your husband come in? Specifically, I mean?’

  ‘It didn’t, not at all, not on Tiberius’s side. But Oppianus can be very … How to put this?’ She thought for a moment, and I waited. ‘You must have the same situation in Rome, particularly nowadays when the old order of things is changing, and it’s even more common here, where things have happened so much faster. Some members of the old aristocracy feel that they’ve been bypassed. Supplanted. They find that men whose fathers and grandfathers used to be their fathers’ or grandfathers’ clients or dependants have moved up the financial and social ladder and consequently expect to be treated as equals, even superiors. People like Tiberius, who’ve made their money by trade, are the worst of all, particularly since the new system positively encourages them to become involved in the civic government side of things, which the old families consider their personal preserve. In Tiberius’s case the situation was made even worse by the fact that, as I said, we were comparative newcomers to Lugdunum, and privileged clients of the imperial family, at that. When Tiberius was first elected on to the board of local magistrates ten years ago, Oppianus found it very hard to accept; and, of course, the fact that he was chosen to represent Lugdunum at this year’s Pan-Gallic Assembly was the last straw.’

  Yeah; that was another thing that Claudius had mentioned; the governor, too. ‘That’s quite an important event, isn’t it?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, goodness, yes! Being Roman, you wouldn’t appreciate just how much, but being elected as the representative is the greatest honour the city can give. And what made matters worse was that Oppianus’s grandfather had been the officiating priest at the original ceremony, when the emperor’s father dedicated the altar sixty years ago.’

  Uh-huh. ‘So with your husband dead there’ll have to be a new appointment made, yes?’

  ‘Naturally, and under the circumstances it may well be Oppianus. But that’s no reason to think he’s a murderer.’

  ‘You know where I’d find him?’

  ‘He owns one of the properties on the Hinge, opposite the theatre.’ She gave me a straight look. ‘I’ll tell you once more, Valerius Corvinus, just so that it’s clear: the gods know that Julius Oppianus was no friend to my husband, or to our family, but he did not kill Tiberius. That I will not believe. The man hasn’t got it in him.’

  Fair enough; me, I’d suspend judgement, at least until I’d met him myself. Even so, in my book he had sufficient motive to be at least one of the front runners, if not the only option going. ‘And your brother-in-law? Where does he live?’

  She frowned. ‘Quintus? Why would you want to talk to Quintus? He wasn’t here at the time.’

  ‘No specific reason. I’m just putting information together at present, getting different angles.’

  ‘Well, you might find him at home – his house is outside the walls, on the Rhone Road just beyond the Arar Gate – but during the day he’ll more likely be at the office over in the Canabae.’

  ‘Across the Rhone?’

  ‘That’s right. The other side of Rhone Gate Bridge. His – our – office is in the south part, by the river itself and facing the port. I’m afraid I can’t give you more detailed directions, because it’s mostly warehouses around there, but anyone you ask should be able to point it out to you.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Now I wonder if I could have a look at—’

  ‘Who’s this, Mother?’

  I turned. A youngster – from his adult tunic he must’ve been in his mid-teens, at least, although he looked about twelve – had come into the room from the inner part of the house.

  ‘Ah, Publius.’ Diligenta smiled. ‘This is Valerius Corvinus, the gentleman we were expecting from Rome.’

  ‘Hi,’ I said.

  The kid didn’t answer, just gave a brief nod, and the look I was getting was … wary? Suspicious? I couldn’t place it, exactly, but it certainly wasn’t friendly. Diligenta turned back to me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You were saying. You wanted to see …?’

  ‘Oh. Yeah. Just the inside of the summer house, briefly, if that’s possible.’

  ‘Of course it’s possible.’ She hesitated. ‘But perhaps … if you don’t mind going down there by yourself? I’m still a little—’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I said quickly. ‘No problem. Or perhaps Publius here could show me?’ It’d give me a chance to talk to him, at least.

  ‘Of course,’ she said again. ‘Publius? If you wouldn’t mind, dear?’

  He shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  Without another word, he went out into the lobby, heading for the front door. I stood up. Before I could follow, Diligenta said quietly: ‘You must forgive him, Corvinus. He’s at an awkward age, and very sensitive. He found Tiberius’s death very upsetting, perhaps even more so than any of us.’

  ‘No, that’s OK,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Such as it was. And naturally anything else I – we – can do, please don’t hesitate to ask.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ I said, and followed the kid outside.

  He was waiting for me in the porch. Still no smile.

  ‘It’s down here,’ he said, and set off down the path, with me a step or two behind.

  ‘So you were upstairs in your room when it happened?’ I said.

  ‘That’s right.’ He didn’t turn round, or slow down.

  ‘You didn’t see or hear anything?’

  ‘I was asleep.’

  ‘Yeah, so your mother said. Fair question though. Your window overlooks the garden, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ We’d reached the summer house. He stopped shy of the open door and turned back to face the house. ‘Here you are. Help yourself.’

  I went past him. There wasn’t much inside, although the place was fitted out more like a small study than a summer house: reading couch, small table, a single book-cubby against one wall with two or three books in the pigeonholes. I pulled one out at random: Columella’s Treatise on Agriculture, or part of it, the section on vine-growing and wines. From the wear on the lace fastenings and the general shabbiness of the book itself, it looked well-used.

  There was a dark patch of what could have been blood on the upholstery of the couch. Or it could’ve been just an old stain: if the guy had been stabbed through the heart there probably wouldn’t’ve been much actual blood. Certainly there wasn’t much else to show the place had been the scene of a murder. Which was fair enough, given that it had happened over a month ago.

  I came back out. Publius hadn’t moved, his back to the open door and his eyes still on the house.

  ‘Your father spent a lot of time here?’ I said.

  Another shrug. ‘No. He did most of his business work in his study. He only used this for his afternoon naps in good weather.’

  ‘You involved on the business side of things yourself?’

  ‘Dad would’ve liked me to be.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t?’

  ‘Don’t have all that much choice, do I?’ He still hadn
’t looked at me.

  ‘You got on well together?’

  ‘He was OK.’

  Jupiter, this was heavy going! ‘Look, son,’ I said, ‘all I want to do is to find out who killed your father, right? That’s not a particularly pleasant job, but it’s what I’m here for. You want that too, don’t you?’ Silence. ‘Come on, give me a break. I’m no ogre, and I don’t ask trick questions.’

  He turned round, slowly and reluctantly. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Anything that’ll help. Only I don’t know what that is yet. You’ll have to tell me.’ More silence, and still no eye contact; I’d have to back off here if I wanted any sort of cooperation at all, because the kid obviously had issues somewhere along the line. ‘So if you’re not keen on the wine trade, then what do you want to do?’

  His shoulders lifted. ‘I don’t know. Not many options around here.’

  ‘You got any hobbies? Anything you’re interested in?’

  ‘I make models.’

  Yeah, well, not much mileage there, right enough. Even so, for the first time he was volunteering.

  ‘What kind of models?’

  ‘Ships. Temples. That sort of thing. I’m making one of the local theatre, to scale. With all the backdrops and so on. I’ve got a—’ He stopped.

  ‘You’re interested in the theatre? Acting?’

  ‘No. Production. Masks, costumes, stage machinery. The technical side of things.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Are your friends—?’

  ‘I don’t have any friends.’

  Delivered absolutely dead-pan. I sighed, mentally; this was like pulling teeth. ‘OK. So tell me about your brother.’

  That did get me a quick, sideways look. ‘Titus? What’s to tell? He’s my brother, that’s all.’

  ‘He’s older than you, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Three years older.’

  ‘So I’d’ve expected him to be involved in the family business before you. Is he?’

  ‘No. Titus is even less interested in business than I am. Soldiering, that’s his bag. That and—’ He stopped again. ‘He’s with the procurator’s guard, but he wants to move on to the proper auxiliaries, maybe even the legions. Dad doesn’t – didn’t – mind that. It’s respectable.’ That came out flat, with a twist to the word. ‘So it had to be me, didn’t it?’

  ‘You don’t get on, you and Titus?’

  That brought his head round sharply, and for the first time he looked me straight in the eye. Defiantly, if that wasn’t too strong a word.

  ‘Titus is OK,’ he said. ‘And like I say, he’s my brother. Why shouldn’t we get on?’ He turned away again. ‘Now if you’ve seen all you want to see and asked all your questions I’ve things to do, and you’ll want to be going.’

  Yeah, I might as well, at that; I certainly wasn’t making much headway here.

  Gods!

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Nice to talk to you.’ No answer. ‘Titus is still living at home, isn’t he?’

  He turned back. ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s on duty now?’

  ‘Until sunset.’

  ‘Where would I find him?’

  ‘Depends what he’s doing, doesn’t it?’

  I held on to my patience. With difficulty. ‘You like to give me a possibility or two to work on, maybe?’ I said.

  ‘He could be at the procurator’s headquarters on the Hinge, or he could be at the barracks. Or there again the procurator might’ve sent him off on an errand somewhere.’

  ‘And the barracks are where?’

  ‘Further down the Hinge, just before the Narbonensian Gate. Now, like I said, I’ve things to do. I’ll see you around.’ Without another word, he turned again and walked away towards the house.

  I watched his retreating back. Shit, kids! Well, I supposed I’d been like that myself, once, and Diligenta had warned me. Still, it didn’t make it less exasperating.

  So; what now? I’d got the names of three people I’d have to talk to, for a start, at least, and it didn’t particularly matter which order I took them in. Assuming he was at home, though, Julius Oppianus, with more than a smidgeon of form and a house on the Hinge, was the most sensible option. I set off in the direction of the city centre.

  The house wasn’t difficult to find, with a bit of asking. Like Diligenta had said, it was one of the older properties, a two-storey building in its own grounds set back from the road opposite the theatre: neat enough in its way, but definitely run-down compared with the Cabirus place, especially the garden, which had more or less been left to do as it liked. I went through the gate and up past beds of unpruned roses and scabby-looking fruit trees to the front door. This time, there was no one around, but the door itself was ajar. Peeling paint, and the handle hadn’t been polished for months. Bathyllus would’ve had a fit. I knocked a few times. No answer, so I went inside.

  Whatever Oppianus’s priorities were, impressing visitors didn’t seem very high on the list: the front porch was obviously used as a sort of storeroom, with boxes and crates piled up one on top of another along the inside wall, nets of root vegetables and onions hanging from pegs, and a general air of shabbiness, damp and mould. A chicken came strutting towards me, stopped, fixed me accusingly with a beady-eyed stare, and then carried on out through the open door.

  ‘Anyone at home?’ I shouted.

  There was the sound of movement from inside the house proper, and an old woman came out. Plainly a slave or a servant, in a shabby tunic that matched the condition of the porch.

  ‘Who are you?’ she said.

  ‘Valerius Corvinus.’ I closed the door behind me. ‘The master at home? Julius Oppianus?’

  ‘He’s in his study.’

  ‘You think I could talk to him? I’m—’

  ‘I know who you are. Or I can guess. Wait here and I’ll see.’

  She shuffled off back the way she’d come. Another chicken appeared. I opened the front door and got rid of that one, too. Scion of one of the oldest families in Gaul or not, Oppianus didn’t believe in living in style, that was clear. A mansion on the Caelian, this wasn’t. Not even close.

  Five minutes later, the woman reappeared.

  ‘He’ll see you,’ she said. ‘Follow me.’

  I did. The room was a bit more upmarket, with some nice furniture – or rather, I’d guess it had been nice at one time, about fifty years back – but again everything was pretty shabby, and the fine layer of dust and general lack of shine suggested that what should’ve been the house’s principal room wasn’t used all that much. The old woman didn’t pause. She led me through and along a short corridor to a panelled wooden door beyond, knocked, and opened it.

  ‘Valerius Corvinus,’ she said.

  The study looked a lot more lived-in than the actual living room had; at least it was clean and tidy, although the guy sitting in the wickerwork chair next to the desk wasn’t dressed any better than his housekeeper was, in a lounging-tunic that’d seen far better days. He hadn’t shaved, either. He set the book he’d been reading – or at least holding – down on the desktop.

  ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Pull up a chair.’

  There was one beside me, against the wall. The cushions on its seat and back had been plush velvet at one time, but it was so worn in places that the lamb’s-wool stuffing showed through the holes. I pulled it over and sat down while he watched me closely and in silence. Mid-fifties at a guess, but he gave the impression of being at least ten years older, and he put me in mind of a moulting cockerel: scrawny neck, nose like a beak, not much meat on his bones.

  Sharp pair of eyes, though, and I had their full attention.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘this will be about Claudius Cabirus.’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve—’

  ‘No need for explanations. The family have pulled a few strings and had you brought out from Rome to look into his death, yes?’

  ‘Actually—’

  ‘And, wonder of wonders, they’ve got me put down as the p
rime suspect.’ His lips twisted. ‘No surprises there.’

  Less than a minute in, and the guy was seriously getting up my nose. I shifted in my chair. To hell with the niceties.

  ‘Look, pal,’ I said, ‘let’s get a few things clear before we start, right? First off, as far as I know, bringing me out from Rome had nothing to do with the family per se; it was the emperor’s own idea, and he had it because the governor happened to mention Cabirus’s death in a routine report. Secondly, I’ve just talked to the widow, and she is personally convinced you had nothing to do with it; in fact, she went out of her way to make sure there were absolutely no misunderstandings on that score. Thirdly, I give you my solemn word that, whatever I’m told by any third party, be they who they may, I will make up my own fucking mind as to who was fucking responsible, and then only after due careful investigation and a proper objective weighing-up of the consequently discovered facts. Now is that understood, or would you like me to repeat or rephrase any of it?’

  The eyes had widened. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Very well, Valerius Corvinus,’ he said stiffly, after a pause. ‘Perhaps I spoke out of turn. Not that it’s an excuse for bad language on your part, but I’ll let it pass. My apologies. Let’s start afresh, shall we?’

  ‘Fine with me.’

  ‘So. What do you want to know?’

  ‘You didn’t like the man. You care to tell me why, exactly?’

  ‘He was a jumped-up parvenu. A tradesman.’ There was enough venom packed into the final word to have kitted out a dozen self-respecting asps.

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘All? Isn’t it enough?’

  ‘I wouldn’t’ve thought so, personally, no.’

  ‘Indeed?’ He grunted. ‘Well, then, it’s more than enough for me. Claudius Cabirus came from a nothing of a family, and his wife was the same. Merchants and shopkeepers, the lot of them. He wasn’t even local; he only moved here twenty years ago, while my family have been pre-eminent in the region for centuries. If he’d kept to his proper place I’d have had no quarrel with him, but as it was he began trespassing on what should have been the preserve of his betters almost as soon as he arrived, and that I bitterly resented. Does that answer your question?’