Family Commitments (Marcus Corvinus Book 20)

by David Wishart

  FAMILY COMMITMENTS

  David Wishart

  Copyright © David Wishart 2017

  www.david-wishart.co.uk

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical or photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  (Only the names of characters who appear or are referred to in more than one part of the book are given. The names of historical characters are in upper case).

  Corvinus’s family and household

  Alexis: the gardener

  Bathyllus: the major-domo

  Clarus: Marilla’s husband

  Marilla: Corvinus’s adopted daughter, now living in Castrimoenium in the Alban Hills

  Meton: the chef

  Perilla, Rufia: Corvinus’s wife

  Phormio: Priscus and Vipsania’s chef

  Priscus, Titus Helvius: Corvinus’s stepfather

  Vipsania: Corvinus’s mother

  Imperials, senators, civil servants and the military

  CLAUDIUS, Tiberius: the current emperor

  Crispus, Caelius: an expert in scandal, currently employed in the Foreign Judges’ office

  GRAECINA, Pomponia: Julia Livia’s closest friend

  Helena (Sentia): Secundus’s wife

  JUSTUS, Catonius: co-commander of praetorians. Condemned and executed.

  LIVIA, Julia: daughter of the Emperor Tiberius’s son Drusus. Condemned and executed.

  LIVILLA, Julia: the Emperor Gaius’s sister, and Vinicius’s late wife. Executed in exile.

  MESSALINA, Valeria: Claudius’s wife. Their infant son is BRITANNICUS

  NARCISSUS, Claudius: the emperor’s freedman secretary and one of his chief advisors

  RUFUS, Publius Suillius: Perilla’s ex-husband

  SCRIBONIANUS, Lucius Arruntius: Dalmatian governor who instigated an abortive revolt against Claudius. Committed suicide

  Secundus, Gaius Vibullius: a friend of Corvinus’s, currently in military admin

  Sentius, Gaius: Scribonianus’s aide, and Helena’s younger brother

  SILANUS, Junius: ex-consul and senator, executed for attempted assassination

  VINICIANUS, Lucius Annius: Marcus Vinicius’s nephew

  VINICIUS, Marcus: an imperial; a poetry friend of Perilla’s, once married to Julia Livilla

  Other characters

  Caprius: a wineshop owner

  Damon: Bathyllus’s brother, and Oplonius’s slave

  Eutacticus, Sempronius: a five-star crook

  Ligurinus: a thug

  Lydia: a waitress/prostitute in the Aventine wineshop

  Meleager, Rullius: the owner’s agent for the Rullius tenement

  Oplonius, Gaius: the murdered man

  Polyxene: the proprietrix of a curio shop

  Pudentius, Lucius: the Aventine district Watch commander

  Satrius: one of Eutacticus’s heavies

  1.

  Murders, mayhem, political intrigue, and general skulduggery I can take in my stride, more or less; domestic problems involving the bought help, now, they’re another thing entirely. And to be faced with the Mysterious Case of the Disappearing Comestibles, especially when I’d just got back from a relaxing afternoon in town and was looking forward to a quiet cup of wine before dinner, was something I could really do without.

  ‘Meton came and told me about it just after you left,’ Perilla said after she’d broken the glad news. ‘He was quite upset.’

  I shifted my weight on the atrium couch, reached for my wine cup and took a morose swallow. When the lady understates things she doesn’t do it by halves; reading between the lines and knowing our surly, foul-mouthed, egotistical bastard of a chef as I did, I’d bet good money that quite upset would’ve involved turning the air a deep shade of blue over the course of several minutes and without either hesitation or repetition. The discovery that someone had clandestinely helped themselves from his larder, in his myopic, Cyclopean view, would equate with Parthia invading Syria. Trouble didn’t cover it, nowhere near; a seriously-unchuffed Meton meant that until the perp was nailed our domestic routine was really up the spout.

  Bugger. Double bugger. Mind you, still, and to be fair, he would’ve had some justification: in the Corvinus household the food and provisions side of things is Meton’s province, and he guards it as jealously as Bathyllus does his major-domo’ing. You trespass at your peril.

  ‘He’s absolutely, hundred-per-cent, cast-iron certain?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, dear,’ Perilla said. ‘Certain of the items were quite substantial. A whole roast chicken and the best part of a cured ham.’

  Gods, it didn’t make sense! Oh, sure, you turn a blind eye to a few household bits and pieces going walkies; the bought help, with the possible exception of Last of the Titans Meton himself, are only human, after all, and they view them as perks in an otherwise largely thankless job. The occasional jar of pickles or a few sausages taking an unauthorised hike are par for the course, but joints of ham and whole roast chickens are another matter. To a mind like Meton’s – and I use the word loosely – we were talking grand larceny here.

  The big question, apart of course from whodunnit, was why? Meton might have his faults, but starving his co-slaves wasn’t one of them, and I wouldn’t’ve backed him for a minute if it was. There was no valid reason for any of the staff to steal food, none at all. And the dangers if they were caught, particularly by Meton, were huge.

  ‘He’s no idea who’s responsible?’ I said.

  ‘No, none at all. The obvious culprit is one of the kitchen skivvies, but they all swear blind it isn’t them, and frankly none of them would dare.’

  That I’d believe: those lads and lasses weren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer by a long chalk, and trying to put one over on Meton on his home ground would’ve been about as safe as playing tag with a qef-stoned gorilla. Which, as an analogy, given Meton’s physiognomy and general behaviour patterns, wasn’t all that much of an exaggeration; it might even be unfair to the monkey.

  I sighed. I didn’t often play the pukkah Roman head-of-household, but sometimes you have no option. I yelled for Bathyllus.

  There was an appreciable pause, which there never is, and he came in, fast as an arthritic tortoise.

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’ he said. Murmured: old Homer could’ve used his voice as a model for one of his bat-squeaking Underworld ghosts.

  ‘Yeah, Bathyllus,’ I said. ‘It’s about this kitchen crisis. I want you to –’ I stopped. ‘Ah...you feeling all right, pal?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  He didn’t look it, not by half: I’d seen less grey dish-rags, and the usual zip and zing was completely missing. For a guy who, when he felt the situation warranted it, could dismiss you with a single sniff, he was a mere shadow of himself.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘A slight stomach-ache. Nothing of any consequence.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I felt a twinge of worry: Bathyllus wasn’t getting any younger, and I could count the times he’d been ill – even with so much as a head-cold – on the fingers of one hand. ‘Fair enough. But if it gets no better I want you to tell me and we’ll send for Sarpedon, clear?’ Sarpedon was our family doctor, and one of the best in Rome.

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you. That won’t be necessary.’

  ‘Just remember, and do it. And have an early night. Meanwhile I want you to gather the staff together for me. All of them, in here, after dinner.’

  A pause. ‘Certainly, sir. I’ll arrange it. Meton says that dinner will be slight
ly earlier than usual, if you’d like to go through now.’

  Well, at least it’d seem that the bugger hadn’t gone into seriously-put-upon mode yet, which was a huge relief. Boiled turnip as a main course I could do without.

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  ‘Will that be all, sir?’

  ‘Yeah, sunshine. That’s it for now.’

  Bathyllus left. Perilla and I exchanged looks.

  ‘Perhaps we should send for Sarpedon anyway, Marcus,’ she said. ‘He really doesn’t look well, whatever he says. And he hasn’t been completely himself for two or three days now.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I frowned and got up from the couch, taking the wine cup with me. Domestic worries, obviously, weren’t coming singly at present. ‘Give it until tomorrow. If he isn’t any better I’ll get Sarpedon to check him out.

  The staff filed in like they were going to an execution, which wasn’t far wrong: there’re no secrets below stairs, the bought help grapevine would leave the imperial spy network standing, and they’d all know damn well already what this was about. One of them, especially, because it had to be an inside job: the chances and likelihood of an outsider sloping into Meton’s kitchen and liberating so much as a radish were zilch. Actually, my bet, given the grapevine, was that barring the guys at the top, Bathyllus and Meton himself, most of them, if not all, already knew who was responsible for perpetrating the dirty deed. The problem was, that was where it would stop. I knew enough about slaves to know that their first rule of survival was not to rat on a colleague. If you did, life could get pretty unpleasant subsequently, and when you’re banged up for life in the one household with the same people around you, nowhere to go, and no one to complain to that matters in spades.

  So I reckoned that part of my job was to make sure we didn’t reach that stage. Me, I couldn’t see that the odd chicken or ham going awol mattered a tinker’s curse, but Meton obviously did, and personalities aside he was right: start ignoring the little things and the whole fabric of society would unravel, the empire would collapse from within, and we might as well put up the shutters, douse the lamps and turn the whole business of world government over to the Germans.

  So, like I say, this had to be done, whether any of us, me included, liked it or not.

  I glanced round the assembled faces. Not a smidgeon of expression in any of them, except in the case of Meton who was glowering as usual and Bathyllus who still looked like death warmed up. It was so quiet you could’ve heard a mouse fart.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘No long speeches. You all know what’s going on, and it stops now before someone gets hurt. So long as it does, as far as I’m concerned, and Meton too,’ – I gave the bastard a glare of my own; if he didn’t like it he could go and fricassée himself – ‘then there’s an end to it. No hassle, no follow-up, absolutely none whatsoever. Understood?’ Throats were cleared and feet shuffled. ‘Fine. Off you go.’

  They trooped out again.

  ‘Well done, dear,’ Perilla murmured as the last of them disappeared. ‘You’re improving. Very diplomatic.’

  Yeah, well, we’d have to see, wouldn’t we?

  2.

  Bathyllus was looking a bit chirpier when I came down to breakfast the next morning: not exactly his usual sunny self, but at least the grey dish-rag side of things had lifted.

  ‘Hey, pal,’ I said. ‘Stomach better today?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. A great improvement.’

  ‘That’s marvellous.’ I went through to the courtyard garden where we were breakfasting. Or rather, at that precise moment, I was. Perilla’s no early riser; I’d left her, as usual, flat out for the count, and she wouldn’t be up and around for an hour yet.

  Bathyllus made a great play of straightening the bibs and bobs on the table into their exact pattern. ‘Would you like an omelette, sir?’ he said.

  I pulled up one of the wicker chairs that the lady had insisted on bringing back with us, together with the small round table, from the previous year’s Gallic jaunt.

  ‘No, just the usual.’ I sat. ‘A couple of rolls and the oil dip will be fine.’ He was still hovering. Or maybe ‘dithering’ would be a better word, because the little guy looked nervous as hell. ‘Was there anything else, Bathyllus?’

  ‘Nothing important, sir. But I was wondering if either you or the mistress would be needing me for anything this morning.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’ll be going out shortly, and Perilla’s got one of her poetry klatches arranged over at Cloelia Faustina’s. She probably won’t be back before dinner time. Why? You got any particular plans?’

  ‘We have some loose plasterwork in the slaves’ quarters, sir. I thought I’d arrange to have it redone before it gets any worse. That would mean a trip to the plasterer’s near the Raudusculan Gate.’

  The Raudusculan Gate was right on the far edge of town near the river, south of the Aventine. A fair hike, in other words, there and back, and Bathyllus wasn’t much of a walker as a rule, as well as being very much the stay-at-home-type. Besides, if the little guy wasn’t feeling quite his best at present...‘Can’t you send one of the skivvies?’ I said. ‘I mean, if it’s just a matter of getting a workman to come round then –’

  ‘I’d really rather not, sir. From the look of it it’s quite a tricky job, and I’d like to make sure they send their best man.’

  I shrugged. ‘Fair enough, sunshine. You know best. Take your time, though, and don’t hurry back.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  He left, and I reached for a roll, broke it and dipped one half into the olive oil. I was frowning.

  Odd.

  I’d finished breakfast and was communing with nature when Perilla came out.

  ‘Good morning, Marcus,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d be off and away by this time.’

  I shrugged. ‘I’m in no hurry.’

  Bathyllus buttled in. ‘Good morning, madam.’

  ‘How are you this morning, Bathyllus?’ Perilla pulled up the chair facing me and sat.

  ‘Quite recovered, madam, thank you. The usual?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Meaning a three-egg omelette, some cheese, olives, dried fruit and honey for the rolls. Rolls plural, and very much so. Gods, the lady could shift it! Particularly at breakfast. Not that she seemed to put on any weight, mind. If it’d been me they’d’ve had to wheel me around in a barrow.

  Bathyllus left, and she poured herself some fruit juice. ‘So what are your plans for today?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing much. It’s a good day for walking. I thought I’d go over to Renatius’s for a cup or two of wine.’ I caught her expression. Bugger! ‘Okay; make that just the one cup, then. Fair enough?’

  She sniffed. ‘What you need, Marcus, is a hobby.’

  ‘I’ve got one. Only nothing seems to be happening in that direction at present.’

  ‘Personally, I’d be quite pleased about that. There’s something ghoulish about waiting around for someone to be murdered.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’

  ‘Actually, if you’re going across town you can drop in at Polydamas’s bookshop and pick up that copy of Timaeus I ordered. It should be ready by now.’

  ‘No problem. Where’s Polydamas’s?’

  ‘In the Subura, on Safety Incline.’ Not exactly an up-market address, but then knowing the establishments that Perilla patronised it’d probably have been there before the Subura as such existed. Was loosely thrown together. Grew, organically. Whatever. ‘I left a deposit, but there’ll still be something to pay.’

  ‘You’ll be out all day at Cloelia Faustina’s place, yes?’

  ‘Unfortunately yes. Faustina’s a lovely lady, but she does have this deep-seated belief that she can write sixteen-syllable Sapphics. Which she can’t. It really does get quite embarrassing at times.’

  ‘Yeah. I can imagine. I mean, who wants to listen to a run of dud sixteen-syllable Sapphics?’

  She gave me a considering look. ‘Some day, Corvinus,’ she said, ‘you are going to wa
ke up with your head beaten in and me standing above you holding a hammer and a copy of Hephaestion’s On Metre. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I grinned, stood up and kissed her; at which point Bathyllus reappeared, sans omelette and wearing his Courier of Doom expression. ‘Yes, little guy. What is it?’

  ‘A message from your mother, sir. She needs to see you immediately.’

  I groaned. Courier of Doom expression was right: so much for the pleasant morning propping up the bar at Renatius’s.

  ‘She say what it was about?’ I said.

  ‘No, sir. Only that it was vitally important, and you were to come at once.’

  ‘Bugger.’

  ‘Quite, sir.’

  Perilla was looking at me anxiously. ‘It does sound serious, dear,’ she said. ‘And most unlike Vipsania. Do you think she’s ill? Or Priscus is?’

  ‘Unlikely.’ They were both fit as fleas, and always had been: Mother looked and behaved like someone half her age, and although my stepfather was a dead ringer for old Tithonus on a bad day he was a wiry old devil. Mind you, there was always the chance that their avant-garde chef Phormio had finally come up trumps and poisoned the pair of them. ‘I’ll go round there now.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the book, if you get caught up. I can collect it another day.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ I kissed her again, and left.

  Mother’s place wasn’t far away, just up the road on Head of Africa. The door-slave led me straight through to the garden where Mother was pacing between the flower beds like an arena cat with the squitters. She rushed over to me.

  ‘Marcus!’ she said. ‘Thank goodness you’ve come! It’s Titus!’

  Shit, Perilla had been right. This sounded Serious with a capital S.

  ‘Uh...he’s not dead, is he?’ I said. Oh, sure, if Priscus had dropped off his perch I’d’ve expected yew branches outside the door, at least, and a lot more funereal pomp and less frontal hair from the door-slave, but still...