Solid Citizens

by David Wishart

  Yeah, right; I’d forgotten that our erstwhile sleazy scumbag of a gossip trader had been working seriously at his social transformation from plebeian duckling on the make into upper-class swan. Even so. ‘“Small” isn’t what I heard, pal,’ I said. ‘We’re talking major renovations here, on top of the original purchase price. And that wouldn’t’ve been peanuts, either. Where did you get the cash?’

  He sniffed. ‘That is none of your business.’

  True. And I probably wouldn’t want to know, either: Crispus’s private sources of income were murky at best, and if the guy hadn’t made sure that he was triple-ring-fenced life insurance-wise he would’ve been drifting down the Tiber with a knife in his back years ago. Several knives, all with aristocratic crests on them. The Satellian villa with all the improvements to it that Clarus had mentioned probably represented the profits from a whole warehouseful of family skeletons prised from their cupboards and kept under wraps for a consideration mutually agreed on between Crispus and their owners.

  Pontius set the cup of Alban down on the counter, and Crispus sank it in a oner. Yeah, well, seeing me away from the context of the praetors’ offices in Rome where he usually hung out must’ve come as a shock, at that, but at least he was looking a bit brighter now. Or a bit less grey, at least. I motioned to Pontius to give him a refill: his best Alban wasn’t cheap, but Crispus was a guest, in a way, and he needed it. Besides, it was the festival.

  ‘So, pal,’ I said. ‘How’s the department? Keeping you busy, are they?’

  ‘Busy enough, thank you,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘Work for the government, do you, sir?’ Pontius hefted the jar of Alban. ‘There’s nice. Finance, would it be?’

  ‘Crispus here’s attached to the foreign praetors’ office,’ I explained. ‘Travelling rep.’

  ‘It’s good to have friends,’ Gabba said. He pushed over his cup. ‘Especially if they’re buying.’

  ‘Nice try, Gabba.’ I reached for my own cup and took a swallow. ‘Bugger off.’

  ‘You’ll be involved with the murder case, then,’ Pontius said, sipping his own drink. ‘When they catch whoever’s responsible.’

  ‘What murder case?’ Crispus said suspiciously.

  ‘Over in Bovillae. They’ve got Corvinus here looking into it for them. That’s right, isn’t it, Corvinus?’

  ‘Yeah, well, I …’

  ‘Nothing to do with me.’ Crispus set the empty cup down. ‘And I’ll tell you now, you conniving bastard –’ this to me – ‘it won’t be, either. You won’t get me mixed up in one of your investi-gations, not this time. It’s the festival, I’m on holiday, and moving in or not, now I know you’re here if you and that fury of a wife of yours even think about dropping round for a housewarming I’ll set the dogs on you. In fact, I’ll buy in an extra lot just in case. I might even invest in a leopard.’ He stood up. ‘Clear?’

  ‘Oh, come on, pal! Aren’t we overreacting just a tad?’

  ‘No.’ He made a move for the door. ‘Thanks for the wine, have a good Festival, give my regards to the hellcat. And now just stay out of my life until hell freezes, OK?’

  Well, I’d tried to be nice. Perilla would’ve been impressed. The wine hadn’t been cheap, either. ‘Suit yourself,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you around.’

  ‘Not if I see you first.’

  I turned back to my drink. The door opened.

  ‘So, Corvinus,’ Gabba said. ‘What about this Quintus Caesius, then?’

  The door closed, slowly.

  ‘Caesius?’ Crispus said from behind me. ‘That who the dead man was?’

  I turned round again. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘You know him?’

  ‘If it’s the same person.’ He was looking sick. ‘It’s not a common name. Oldish guy? Silver hair, mid-sixties, thereabouts?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Jupiter! We were talking just a few days ago. Well, maybe a bit longer now. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  He came back over to the counter and sat down.

  ‘Where was this?’ I said sharply.

  ‘Rome, of course. At one of the clubs I use. The Crimson Lotus.’

  Yeah, well, it added up. Anthus had told me that Caesius went through to Rome pretty often on business, and if he was in the habit of using the local brothel in Bovillae then the odds were he wouldn’t be averse to putting his feet up and letting his hair down in the far more salubrious fleshpots of Rome. The fact that he shared a club with Crispus, mind, came as a bit of a surprise, given Crispus’s predilections, but there again any self-respecting Roman club of that nature would cater to a fairly wide clientele. Particularly in these experimental days, when said clientele as individuals would have pretty catholic tastes.

  ‘So where’s this Crimson Lotus, then?’ I said.

  ‘On Pallacina Road. Mars Field end.’

  Between the Quirinal and the Pincian. Right. Good address. ‘You, uh, knew him well?’

  ‘Hardly at all. I only met him a couple of times. We chatted about property here in the Alban Hills; in fact, he was the one who put me on to the Satellian estate originally. Nice man. Civilized. A cut above some of the riff-raff you get in these places.’

  The barest sniff; there spoke our wannabe swan.

  ‘Did you know he was from Bovillae? Or that he was a magistrate?’

  ‘No. That he was only visiting Rome, certainly. But he didn’t say, and of course I didn’t ask.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Certainly not. No more than I’d’ve acknowledged prior acquaintance with him if we’d ever met on his home ground, or he with me on mine. The club does have rules, you know, Corvinus, and some things just aren’t done. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be getting along.’

  Gods! This pillar of respectability was the Crispus we knew and loved? Yeah, well, tolerated, anyway. Evidently, he’d joined the milk-and-water, poker-rectumed Establishment with a bang. He’d be giving up muck-raking next, and we’d be looking up at herds of flying pigs.

  ‘Come on, Crispus,’ I said. ‘Truce, OK? It’s the festival. We’ll split a fresh jug and I swear to you that neither me nor Perilla will go anywhere near your property. Especially when you’re entertaining prats like the foreign judges’ panel. Deal?’

  He fizzed for a bit. Then he shrugged and held out his hand.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Deal. But only because it’s the festival. And it doesn’t apply outside the town limits.’

  ‘Fine with me,’ I said. I shook, and made a top-up sign to Pontius.

  ‘That’ll be a jug of the Alban, then, will it, Corvinus?’ Pontius said.

  I groaned. Bugger. Well, I couldn’t weasel out without tarnishing the image. And he had given me a lead. Of sorts, anyway.

  It might be an idea, for completeness’ sake, to get a picture of Caesius off his home ground. I had to talk to Opilia Andromeda again, sure, but I didn’t have much else planned where the case was concerned at present, and Rome wasn’t far. Maybe a quick visit to the big city wouldn’t go amiss, at that.

  The Crimson Lotus it was.

  FIFTEEN

  Given decent weather and a lack of heavy traffic, once you hit the Appian Road it doesn’t take long to get from the Alban Hills to Rome or vice versa – which, of course, is why the area’s so popular with well-heeled businessmen and high-ranking public sector employees like Crispus who can afford to pay the increasingly ludicrous prices that property agents are asking for a rural retreat away from the stresses of urban life. Even travelling by snail-pace carriage, if he knocks off work early in the afternoon by the time the lamps are lit for dinner your lucky second-home owner can be sinking his first cup of Alban in situ and listening to the crickets chirping amid the bosky silence. Which meant that having left the villa on the stroke of dawn I was edging my horse through the minor traffic jam at the Appian Gate by just shy of mid-morning.

  As ever, it was strange being back in the big city after the peace and quiet of the countryside, particularly in the r
un-up to the festival. Not unpleasantly so: maybe it’s my imagination, sure, but from about the beginning of December onwards the streets of Rome seem much more crowded than they usually do, and whatever the weather – it was filthy that day, as it happened, mild and wet, with some of the narrower roads covered with half-liquid mud up to the top of the horse’s hooves – there’s a sort of deliberate, cheerful bustle about the place that you don’t get at other times of year. Friendlier, too: even the juggernaut septuagenarian bag-ladies homeward bound from the market with the day’s shopping will give you a cheery smile as they mow you down or force you into the gutter. Nearer the actual day, if you’re lucky, they might even throw in a ‘Happy Festival’ over their shoulders for good measure.

  So, anyway, there I was, back in the Queen of Cities and Pride of the Empire. There was no point in heading for the Crimson Lotus much before sundown: these places, catering as they do for the better-off professional with daytime commitments, tend to keep late hours. Bread-and-butter stuff first. I went round to the Caelian to unpack my overnight bag and seriously piss off the bought help, who with the family away – and more important Bathyllus, who ruled the place with a rod of iron – had no doubt loosened their collective corsets, got out the booze and nibbles, and put their feet up for the duration.

  Which, naturally, involved breaking the glad news of my tem-porary return to our chef Meton, the grump’s grump who if there’d been a competition for Mr Abrasive Personality of the Year would’ve won it hands down. Given the anarchic bastard’s pathological insistence that, where meals were concerned, any change to the current arrangements should be communicated at least a day in advance, preferably in writing and accompanied by a grovelling apology, I wasn’t looking forward to it. Nor had I any intention of making the first move by going through to the kitchen: the first rule of warfare is never to meet the enemy on his home ground, and that would really have been taking my life in my hands. I had one of the skivvies roust me out a jug of wine, carried it through to the atrium, put my own feet up on the couch, took the first welcome sip, set the cup down, and closed my eyes for an hour or two of much-needed R&R …

  ‘Corvinus?’

  Oh, bugger. The joys of life are fleeting, and quickly sped; evidently, the skivvy had tattled. Well, it had to happen sometime, I supposed. I opened my eyes again.

  ‘Uh … hi, Meton,’ I said cheerfully. ‘How’s the lad?’

  ‘You’re supposed to be in fucking Castrimoenium.’

  ‘True. True.’

  ‘So what’re you doing back in Rome?’

  Direct and to the point: not a sunny bunny, our Meton, at the best of times, and currently the guy could’ve posed for an artist’s sketch of Polyphemus coming home to his cave and finding Ulysses in residence. He was glaring at me under his shaggy eyebrows, his huge hairy paws flexing spasmodically.

  ‘Ah … slight change of plan, pal,’ I said. ‘Nothing to worry about, it’s only temporary. I’ll be heading back tomorrow.’

  ‘Sod that. What about dinner? Got nothing in, have I?’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘No problem. I’ll make do with something from the store cupboard. Or I could eat out.’ The glaring and flexing went up a notch: to a simple soul like Meton, patronizing cookshops was only a small step up from rooting through the garbage heaps. And even then it’d have to be a pretty good cookshop, one with named meat, for a start. ‘There again—’

  ‘Fuck that. Only it means I have to go all the way over to the market, doesn’t it? And all the best stuff’ll’ve disappeared by this time. Some people really have no fucking consideration.’

  ‘Uh … right. Right.’ I was beginning to sweat. ‘Well, I’m sure you can manage to whip something up. I’m not fussy, pal, keep it simple. In any case it’ll have to be something quick because I’ll be going out this evening.’

  ‘You’ll be what?’

  ‘Ah … yeah. Just before sunset, in actual fact. So I won’t have much time for …’

  But I was already talking to his back.

  Hell. That had gone down like a fart at a funeral. Still, I hadn’t expected anything else. Maybe I should just’ve camped out under Tiber Bridge and saved myself the hassle.

  Domestics.

  Dinner, when it came, was lavish: a wide range of starters, broiled pork liver with bacon slices and a reduced wine sauce, truffles with lovage, and a honey omelette to finish; evidently we were talking coals of fire here. Still, I wasn’t complaining: with Meton in seriously-put-upon mode, I’d been expecting bread and cheese – yesterday’s bread, and cheese liberated from the mousetrap, at that – while after several days of Euclidus’s adequate but pedestrian cooking I reckoned I could overlook the display of artistic temperament. Surly, foul-mouthed bastard the guy might be, but Meton was a professional to his badly pared fingernails.

  It was past sunset when I set out for the Lotus. I took a couple of skivvies with torches along with me, plus one of the heavier well-muscled bought help. Pallacina Road’s a good neighbourhood, sure, but the stretch between it and the Caelian can get pretty hairy after dark, particularly when the weather’s bad and there aren’t too many punters on the go barring opportunist muggers, and I’d stocked up my belt pouch from the strongbox in the study in case – as was very probable, because anywhere Crispus patronized was bound to be exclusive – the admission charge cost me an arm and a leg. Upmarket clubs aren’t cheap.

  In the end, it wasn’t all that easy to find, which may’ve been deliberate: these exclusive places don’t encourage passing trade. I finally tracked it down to a quiet cul-de-sac off the Road itself, so clean that the flagstones that paved it must’ve been scrubbed. Even so, the only indication that this was the place was a small marble plaque showing the eponymous flower next to an expensively panelled and metal-grilled door whose brass fittings gleamed in the light of the two torches burning in equally highly polished brackets.

  I knocked, and a hatch behind the metal grille slid back.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’ The plummy voice could’ve belonged to a top-notch private major-domo, or maybe a professor of rhetoric. ‘Are you a member?’

  ‘Uh … no. No, I’m afraid not,’ I said. ‘But I’m a friend of Caelius Crispus. He gave me the address.’

  I had the uncomfortable feeling that whoever was on the other side of the grille was vetting me, and I was glad I’d put on a fresh cloak and brought a respectable retinue of skivvies.

  ‘That’s quite satisfactory, sir,’ he said at last. ‘If you’ll just wait a moment?’ The door opened with a rattle of bolts, revealing a big Nubian in a flowing embroidered kaftan. Not so much major-domo or professor of rhetoric as moonlighting Parthian ambassador with all the trimmings. ‘Do come in.’

  I left the bought help to twiddle their communal thumbs – luckily for them the rain had stopped – and went inside.

  ‘Your cloak, sir?’

  I undid the pin, handed it over and looked around. Upmarket was right: large, open lobby with coloured marble panelling and flooring, a pool with an ornamental fountain made up of stone dolphins, and dominating it all on one of the walls a large fresco showing the appropriate scene from the Odyssey of a tastefully manicured garden with figures lolling about on the flower-studded grass, lotuses in their hands, attended by scantily-clad nymphs and satyrs. There were some very nice bronzes, too. I sniffed: the air was perfumed, but there were overtones of what I recognized from past experience as the scent of burning qef. Unusual, sure, but maybe not too unexpected, given the name of the place name and the doorman’s eastern get-up. We were definitely talking Parthian decadence here, and Parthia and qef went together like fish sauce on tunny steaks. Evidently not just an upmarket club, the Lotus, but a themed upmarket club: they were getting more common these days, together with the themed upmarket wine shops. Ah, well, decadent times, right enough.

  ‘I’m Rhadames, sir.’ The guy had folded my cloak over his arm like it belonged to royalty. ‘The prospective members’ fee is five gold
pieces set against the final amount, payable in advance and extra to the cost of any services or beverages enjoyed during your visit. I trust that is in order?’

  I swallowed, opened my belt purse, and handed over the coins. Shit! Prices had certainly gone up since I was last in a place like this. Not that that had been too often, mind, even in my wilder pre-Perilla days: you didn’t get many clubs in Rome of the standard of the Lotus. I was glad I’d raided the strongbox before I’d left. This could’ve been embarrassing.

  ‘Thank you.’ My ambassador pal pocketed the cash. ‘Now. If you’d care to follow me into the common room you can make your wishes known to the house staff at your leisure. Have a pleasant evening.’

  ‘Ah – just a moment, friend,’ I said.

  That got me a poached-egg, jaundiced look.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Actually, I only wanted to ask a few questions about one of your members. A Quintus Caesius?’

  Make that a freezing stare. Well, it was only to be expected. Still …

  ‘Could I enquire where you got the gentleman’s name from, sir?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who told you, sir, that Quintus Caesius was a member?’

  ‘Uh … that was Caelius Crispus. The friend I mentioned before I came in? He’s a member too.’

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid in any case your request cannot be complied with. House rules. We do not discuss any given member with another, let alone with prospective ones.’

  Spoken like a King’s Eye from Persepolis itself. Even so …

  ‘The guy’s dead,’ I said. ‘Murdered down in Bovillae. I’m looking into things on behalf of the senate there.’

  ‘Murdered, sir?’ A smidgeon of distaste; habitués of the Lotus evidently didn’t get themselves murdered. Or if they did they kept it politely to themselves.

  ‘Yeah. He had his head beaten in a few days back behind the town brothel.’

  He closed his eyes briefly. ‘Oh, shit.’

  I blinked: not just at the language, but the accent had been pure Aventine Roman. Ex-pat Parthian, my King’s Eye.