Old Bones (Marcus Corvinus Book 5)

by David Wishart

  'Aternius?'

  She was sharp, but then I'd always known that. And the way she said the name suggested she didn't like the bastard at all and never had. So much for the conspiracy theory.

  'Yeah,' I said. 'Yeah, I think so.'

  That got me a long level stare. Then she said:

  'Come into the house.'

  I followed her inside. She set the bowl of eggs on the kitchen table and disappeared through the door at the back. She was away so long I thought she might have done a runner, but ten minutes later she came back holding something wrapped in a cloth. She handed it to me without a word. I unwrapped it.

  It was a drinking cup chased with a hunting scene: that guy whatever-his-name-is being torn apart by his own hounds while Artemis-Minerva watches. The goddess had those lozenge-shaped eyes and that smile you see on really old carvings. And it was gold; solid gold, from the weight. I whistled silently and turned the thing over. There was an inscription on the base, but it was in Etruscan and I couldn't read it. Another job for Priscus.

  'Clusinus give you this?' I said.

  'He left it with me for safe keeping.' She wasn't looking at me. 'If it'll help you can take it. I don't know anything else.'

  'You sure this time?'

  'I'm sure. And Corvinus?'

  'Yeah?'

  'What you said. That hurt. I'm no whore. I told you once that I only took one lover at a time, and I meant it. And none of them's been Gaius Aternius. So watch your mouth in future, understand?'

  'Yeah. Right. Thanks, lady.'

  I went.

  . . .

  Mother and Priscus were still at breakfast when I got to Nepos's villa, although Nepos himself was out supervising the first stages of the grape harvest.

  'Marcus, dear.' Mother put up her cheek to be kissed. She was wearing a light green mantle and a perfume that would've corrupted an octogenarian Chief Priest. 'What on earth are you doing here? I thought you'd all gone to Rome.'

  'We did.' I lay down on the third couch and cut myself a piece of cheese. 'We got back last night.'

  She stared at me as if I'd grown an extra head. 'But that's silly,' she said. 'No one can spend less than ten days in Rome when they've been away as long as you have, even at this time of year. I mean, really!' She turned to Priscus. 'I'm right, aren't I, Titus?'

  'Mmmma?' Priscus was sogging his way through a crust: the guy had perfect teeth, but from the way he ate you wouldn't know it. 'Good morning, my boy. What's that, dear? Marcus going to Rome?'

  Mother closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and reached for an olive. 'And I suppose you've dragged poor Perilla and the child back too?' she said to me. 'You have no thought for other people, Marcus, none at all. Sometimes I look back on your upbringing and wonder where I failed.'

  Gods! 'Mother,' I said, 'I only have four days before I'm due in court to defend Larth Papatius on a murder rap. I haven't got fu– I haven't got time to mess around in Rome.'

  'Oh.' She carefully cut the olive stone out with the point of her knife. 'So that's it, is it? Forgive me. I thought perhaps it had something to do with that silly decision of yours not to go back after Sejanus's family were executed.' I said nothing. 'And it was silly, Marcus, that's the only suitable word. There's no earthly reason for you not to live there. Quite the reverse, in fact, because now the pushy little so-and-so has got his just desserts you're in no danger at all. As for the senate, I can appreciate your feelings, but they can't help it if they're a pack of vacillating, self-serving, vicious-minded idiots. Your father was just the same, if we except the vicious-minded, which for all his faults the poor dear wasn't, and stress the other three qualities.' Ouch. 'And although I do have my reservations about young Gaius Caesar he is almost certain to be our next emperor and you seem to have made quite a hit with him.'

  Oh, hell; there had to be a conspiracy here. Everybody I talked to seemed desperate to get me back to Rome. 'Yeah, yeah, right,' I said. 'Look, Mother, do you think we might just bypass the ticking off and get round to why I'm here?'

  'If it pleases you.' She sniffed. 'I suppose you must have some reason beyond simple filial courtesy.'

  'Fine.' I'd brought out the bracelet and the cup. I handed the bracelet over first. 'Priscus, you want to cast your eye over this for me?'

  It was like a rose unbudding. The gods knew what particular plane of reality the guy had been on up until now, but he snapped back as soon as the thing cleared my pouch. He reached across and took it like it was made of gossamer.

  'Oh, now,' he said. 'Mmmaaa! This is really rather...' He turned it in his hand. 'It's not from Caere, or not originally. I would guess it was made in Clusium, the work of one of the court goldsmiths, perhaps Velthar Fufluna. Not an apprentice, either; the master himself. Porsennine, of course, in any event. The treatment is quite distinctive. A beautiful piece of work.'

  'Porsennine?' I said. 'You mean Porsennine as in Lars Porsenna?' Jupiter in spangles! The thing was five hundred years old!

  'Certainly. The uniformity of the granulation, in conjunction with the–'

  'Could it have come from one of the Caere tombs?'

  He blinked. 'Yes, I suppose so. But no ordinary tomb. This is a very fine piece, very fine indeed. Uniquely so, in my opinion. Where did you find it?'

  Instead of answering I handed over the cup. 'There's an inscription on the bottom,' I said.

  'Marcus, dear, what..?' Mother began. Then she stopped.

  We were both looking at Priscus. The guy had set the bracelet down, taken the cup and turned it. His mouth opened in an O that should've been comical but wasn't. It closed, then opened again.

  'Titus?' Mother said. No response. 'Titus!'

  'Mmmaaa!'

  Whatever the whacky writing was it'd produced one hell of an effect. The guy's mouth was waggling like a manic sturgeon's and he was the colour of plaster. I hadn't seen him look like this since he'd drunk a quarter pint of fish sauce thinking it was tamarind juice.

  Mother was looking as seriously worried as I felt. 'Marcus, do something!' she snapped. 'He's having a seizure! Titus!'

  'Mmaaaa!'

  I got off the couch, picked up a couple of fingerbowls and threw the contents into Priscus's face. He stopped bleating and blinked at me like a constipated owl.

  'Marcus, if you've..!' Mother began.

  Priscus waved her down. The water was running off his face onto his mantle, but he ignored it.

  'Marcus, my boy, where did you get this?' he said. His voice was quiet and level, not like Priscus's at all.

  'Uh, it came out of a tomb,' I said.

  'And where is this tomb exactly?'

  Gods! For the first time since I'd known him the guy sounded almost rational. It was as if someone had clouted him from behind with a blackjack and he hadn't actually realised it yet. 'I don't know. Somewhere in the Caere cemeteries.'

  'I doubt that,' he said. 'I doubt it very much, unless the records have been lost, and that is most unlikely. The bracelet, yes, but not this.'

  I felt the first prickle of excitement. 'Yeah? So what does the writing say?'

  'It says "I was made for Lars Tarquinius, king of the Romans".'

  I didn't take it in at first, in spite of Mother's gasp. Then I did.

  No wonder Bubo had built himself a special cellar.

  Clusinus had found the tomb of Rome's last king.

  40.

  I left Nepos's with my head swimming. So; Tarquin the Proud's tomb. I didn't know where it was supposed to be, and nor for a wonder did Priscus, but it sure as hell wasn't Caere, Priscus had been adamant over that. Still, there wasn't any doubt that that was what Clusinus had found, and if the grave goods had hit the black market then illegal operation or not he and Bubo could've written their own ticket: it isn't every day you auction off a king of Rome's dinner service. Sure, I could see Clusinus's reasons for claiming that it was somewhere in the Caere cemetery complex, because anyone trying to pull a fast one on him would have their work cut out fi
nding it before they started; but if it wasn't there after all then where the hell was it? Tombs tend to stick together, and an isolated one was queer as a three-legged cat. Also queer was the fact that no one seemed to have noticed it. Even in death – especially in death – there's such a thing as cutting a social figure. When you go you like to leave something behind somewhere prominent, to remind the passing punters what a rich, powerful, well-respected guy you'd been, and if you're a king that applies in spades. Only this time, obviously, it didn't. Why not? That didn't add up, either.

  Another thing was, it had to be close: close enough for Clusinus to get to it in his free time. That was queer too, in a different way; the guy was no farmer, he had free time by the barrow-load. If for some inexplicable reason the tomb was out on its own in the hills somewhere pretending to be a lump of earth then why couldn't he just have foregone the pleasure of hunting hares for a month or so and cleaned it out?

  It didn't make sense; none of it.

  I was passing the Navius property, where a gang of grape-pickers were at work among the trellised vines by the road. Over to my left, the thunder rumbled in the hills: east, the favourable direction, Vipena would've said. Maybe it was a good omen. I looked up towards the higher ground, behind Vetuliscum. The sky was broken with clouds. Certainly the rain couldn't be long in coming now, and when it did the ditches would have their work cut out. If the pickers on the terraces didn't...

  I stopped as if one of the lightning bolts had strayed a couple of miles out of line and fried my brains.

  Shit. Oh, Jupiter! Jupiter Best and Greatest...

  I knew where the tomb was. Where it had to be. And knowing that, why Navius, Clusinus and Bubo had died. Or at least I knew part of the why.

  And of course I knew who had killed them. That bit was simple.

  But why Hilarion? And why should the guy bother? It wasn't as though he had a vested interest. Still, he had practically told me; told me himself...

  Something was coming towards me. I looked: a mule without a rider, running like the clappers with its tether trailing. My spine went cold.

  Oh, gods, no! Not the Princess!

  As it came closer I stepped into the middle of the road, yelling and waving. Corydon slowed, bared his teeth, then stopped and backed. I jumped forward, grabbed the bastard's nose-rope and pulled. I'd got him reduced to some semblance of docility, which meant that instead of biting me he was trying to turn round and kick my teeth through the back of my skull, when Marilla came charging up behind, red-faced and out of breath.

  'Oh, you've caught him,' she gasped.

  I was still shaking. 'You okay?' I said.

  She took the nose-rope from me and made gentle cooing noises. The change was amazing: Corydon stopped throwing himself around and stood stock still, grinning. That kid really has a way with animals.

  'Of course I am,' she said, looking up. 'Why shouldn't I be?'

  'I just thought maybe you might be lying somewhere with your neck broken, that's all.' I tried to keep my voice light. Jupiter! That had been a bad one! 'Nothing important. What happened? He throw you?'

  'Corydon wouldn't do that. Would you, dear?' She kissed the bastard's nose and he snickered. 'He just ran away. He does that sometimes.'

  'Ran away?'

  'I'd stopped for a...' She hesitated. 'I'd tied him to a branch and gone into the bushes for a minute. While I was busy he undid his tether.'

  I stared at her. 'He what?'

  'Undid his tether. Oh, he's very clever. Aren't you, darling?' She kissed the brute again. Sickening. 'He can unpick knots with his teeth. And of course when I came back he'd gone.'

  'Hey, that's...' I stopped. Suddenly everything went very still and clear as the last piece of the puzzle slipped into place.

  'That's what?' the Princess said.

  'That's quite smart. Very smart indeed.'

  'Corvinus, are you all right?'

  'Sure.' I fondled Corydon's ears; the bugger looked surprised but he didn't object. Lovely animals, mules. 'Sure. Never better.'

  'Only your eyes have gone funny.'

  'Yeah, well.' So. That explained why he'd never been claimed or recognised. And because Alexis had touted the brute round all the neighbourhood farms, including Nepos's, it explained why Hilarion had been killed, too...

  'Are you on your way home?' She was still looking at me like I'd dropped a few marbles on the road. 'I really think you should be. You don't look well. If you want I can –'

  I shook my head. 'No, I'm fine. You can head on there yourself now, though, and tell Perilla I've gone on into Caere on business. I shouldn't be long.'

  'Well, if you're sure.' She swung herself up onto Corydon's back and gave me a doubtful look. 'I'll see you later.'

  I watched the two of them trot back down the road ahead of me. Then I followed them, past the track up to Flatworm's towards Caere.

  There was just one last thing I had to check before I confronted the murderer.

  The guy at the stables where I'd hired Flash for the trip to Pyrgi was mucking out. He put down the fork, wiped his hands on his tunic and came over grinning.

  'Good morning to you, sir,' he said. 'You want to hire a horse? Fulgor's out at the moment, but –'

  'Not today, friend.' No way. I took out my purse. 'You sell mules?'

  'Of course. Mules and donkeys.' The grin widened. 'If you'd like to look over the stock I've got one or two that might suit you very well.'

  'I'm not buying.' I pulled out a silver piece. 'I just want some information.'

  'No problem.' His eyes went to the coin. 'Ask away.'

  'You sell a mule ten days back? Idiosyncratic bugger with a white flash on the left fore?'

  The grin slipped. 'I might have done,' he said. 'It depends. Some trouble? We're always willing to take an animal back, with a small reduction for wear and tear, naturally, but you have to take into account that –'

  'No trouble, pal. None at all. You happen to remember the customer's name?'

  'Not the name. The customer, sure. Old man from Vetuliscum. He came in early. His mule'd just died and he wanted a replacement.'

  Bull’s-eye! 'Could you describe him, maybe?'

  He could. Five minutes later I was out and heading for home, a silver piece down and up one murderer. I didn't like it, but there you were; you can't pick and choose.

  The guy I wanted, of course, was Larcius Arruns.

  41.

  The only question left was why?

  Oh, sure, part of it was okay: the tomb was on what had been Arruns's land before Navius's grandfather had diddled the family out of it. And Arruns himself had told me, the day I'd given him a lift part-way into Caere, that he wouldn't kill just for a patch of vineyard. That much, at least, had been true; it'd been, in a way, a kind of confession, or a justification, rather, because – again, like he'd said – Arruns was no killer, not by nature. I'd stake my sandals on the truth of that. The land itself didn't matter. What mattered was that Navius – and later Clusinus – had found the tomb; and that Arruns couldn't ignore.

  Still, the fact remained that he'd killed four people. Not being a natural killer made that even stranger: tomb-robbing's a crime, and a word to the authorities would've had the same effect and caused a lot less grief. So why had he done it? Not because he wanted to loot the tomb himself; if he'd known it was there – and he must've done, for all this to make sense – he could've done that any time this past fifty years. And a five hundred year old tomb don't carry no loyalties.

  I spent the walk back thinking about how to play this. Arruns had to be nailed, sure, if only for Papatius's sake, but I'd liked the thrawn old bugger and I wasn't looking forward to pointing the finger. When I turned up Flatworm's drive I still hadn't decided. And I felt sick as a dog.

  Perilla was on the terrace with (surprise!) a book open on her lap. She kissed me.

  'I didn't expect you for hours,' she said. 'Marilla said you'd gone into Caere.'

  'Yeah.' I slumped down in
to my usual chair.

  Perilla paused. 'She also said that you were acting rather strangely. Or at least more strangely than you usually do. The case isn't going well, is it?'

  'The case is solved.' She shot me a startled look but I ignored it. 'Finished, over and done with. All I've got to do now is shop the murderer. What's the book?'

  'Another copy of Aulus Caecina's Etruscan History. I bought it in Rome to replace the one Corydon ate. Marcus, are you sure you aren't ill? If the case is solved – really solved – then who –?'

  I put a finger to her lips. 'Don't ask me. Please. Not just yet, okay? I'll tell you later.'

  Bathyllus soft-shoed over with the tray. I let the little guy pour me a belt of Caeretan – we'd finished the Setinian –, downed it in one and held the cup out for more.

  'I did come across a very interesting passage,' Perilla said brightly; gods, I hate it when the lady tries to cheer me up. 'I thought perhaps it might be relevant.'

  'Yeah?'

  'It's about hurdles.'

  I was just about to ask what the fuck hurdles had to do with anything when I remembered Clusinus's death. We still had the problem of the hurdle. If Aternius had been the killer then sure, it made sense because of the time element. With Arruns firmly in the title role that explanation didn't fit any more.

  'Go on,' I said.

  'It seems that when Tarquin the Proud called his Latin allies to a conference at the Grove of Ferentina –' Perilla stopped. 'Marcus, are you positive you're all right?'

  I'd sat up. 'Yeah,' I said. 'Yeah, I'm fine. The Grove of Ferentina, you say.'

  'Seemingly there was a bit of trouble. A man called Turnus Herdonius tried to stir up a revolt. The king viewed it as treason and had him executed using a method invented by himself.'

  'He was drowned beneath a weighted hurdle, right?' I said.

  'Oh. You've read it already.'

  'No, just an educated guess.' I took a swallow of wine. So. That was that one explained, along with a lot of other things. 'So Tarquin invented the hurdle business himself? A sort of private family punishment for treason.'