‘So, uh, if I could just have a word with the boss?’ I went on. ‘Discreetly, of course.’
‘You’ll have to hang on until I’ve asked, won’t you? You can wait in the common room.’
I followed him through a marble arch. They hadn’t tried to recreate the bucolic conditions of the fresco, but this was the urban equivalent: a large room that must’ve covered most of the club’s ground floor, with a high coffered ceiling and a railed balcony running round creating a mezzanine level. There were two or three big chandeliers fitted out with crystals that spread the light of the beeswax candles at their centre – candles, unusually, not lamps – but the lighting mostly consisted of bronze candelabra scattered throughout the room, creating little islands of brightness, each with its own couch or group of couches. Some of these – not very many – were occupied by the real-life equivalent of the fresco’s lotus eaters, wearing not mantles or tunics but loose woollen or silk kaftans, and I noticed on most of the low tables beside them the little dish of smoking qef that was probably responsible for the soporific atmosphere that seemed to be the place’s main feature. Soft-footed slaves padded from island to island, tending the burning qef or exchanging a few murmured words with the punters. As I looked, one of these got up and followed the slave towards the staircase at the end of the room leading up to the mezzanine.
‘If you’d care to make yourself comfortable, then, sir, I’ll tell the owner that you’re here.’ ‘Rhadames’ was back in character, I noticed. Half the trick in these places is the razzmatazz, and it’s what the customers are paying for, after all. ‘Can I get you some refreshment?’
‘A large cup of wine would be good, pal,’ I said. It’d probably cost the earth, but what the hell, case or not I was on holiday. ‘Straight wine, nothing fancy.’ I could feel my head spinning with the qef fumes already. Passive smoking’s always a drawback where qef’s concerned.
‘Certainly. I’ll have one of the boys bring it to you.’
He left, and I lay down on the nearest couch. Oriental luxury there as well: in addition to the thickly padded upholstery there were half-a-dozen cushions that felt like they were filled with lambs’ wool. One of the peripatetic slaves brought over a dish of qef, but I waved him away.
The wine came a couple of minutes later: a small silver flask, bedded in snow, with a matching cup and a plateful of stuffed dates and miniature pastries. I poured and sipped. It went down like liquid silk: echt Caecuban, and top of the range.
I was on my third pastry – they were as good as Meton could make, which is saying something – when ‘Rhadames’ came back.
‘The owner will see you in his office, sir,’ he said. ‘If you’ll come this way? The boy will bring your wine.’ He snapped his fingers, and one of the ministering slaves came over and picked up the tray.
I followed him through another arch, this one hidden behind a curtain, and down a short corridor to the door at the end. ‘Rhadames’ knocked and opened it. No oriental luxury here, just a standard office with document cubbies and behind the desk a greying business type busy with a wax tablet and stylus.
‘I’ll be with you in a moment,’ he said without looking up. ‘Come in and make yourself comfortable.’
There was a chair beside the desk; not a stool, one of these Gallic wickerwork things you sometimes get. I pulled it up and sat. The slave with the wine tray moved a small table over, set the tray down on it, and went out, closing the door behind him. The guy wrote down a few more words, closed the tablet and raised his head.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t given your name.’
‘Corvinus. Valerius Corvinus.’
He was still holding the pen. ‘And what is it precisely that I can do for you, Valerius Corvinus?’
‘I’m looking into the murder of one of your members on behalf of the senate down in Bovillae. A Quintus Caesius.’
‘Yes. So Publius told me.’
‘Publius?’
‘Rhadames.’ Not the trace of a smile; it didn’t look like I was going to get his name in return, either. ‘That may well be. I can’t see, though, that it’s any concern of mine. This is Rome, not the Alban Hills.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I know. I’m just covering the angles. I was hoping you might be able to give me some information about him.’
‘Such as what?’
‘Was he a regular? He was back and forward on business quite a lot, so it would seem likely.’
‘Hmm.’ The sharp, abacus eyes rested on me for a good half minute, assessing. Then he put the pen down. ‘We’ve only been open for two or three months,’ he said, ‘so the question doesn’t really arise. But in any case, I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you much. That’s couldn’t and wouldn’t, by the way. The gentleman may be dead, but that doesn’t mean I can breach confidentiality. Particularly since, as I say, his death is totally unconnected with the Lotus.’
Yeah, well, I supposed that was fair enough, and not unexpected, either. ‘So what can you tell me?’
‘Only what you know already, and only because you know it: that he was a member. Fairly typical of the clientele we get here, well-off, good background, not particularly young any more.’ He hesitated. ‘Let’s be clear about this, Corvinus, because given the circumstances as reported to me by Publius I’m sure you’re thinking along those lines. The Lotus is emphatically not a brothel. Oh, yes, of course, we can and do cater for our members’ sexual interests. But we are, primarily, what we say we are: a gentlemen’s club, providing a home from home, especially for businessmen from out of town. Most of the customers, as you no doubt saw, come here simply to relax. As I said, Quintus Caesius was fairly typical in that regard.’
‘He have any particular friends here? Among the rest of the members, I mean?’
A long silence. ‘That I don’t know, and if I did I’m afraid I wouldn’t tell you,’ he said. You could’ve used his tone to replace the snow in the wine cooler.
I blinked. ‘Uh … come again?’
‘You saw our common room, of course?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, very nice.’
‘We pride ourselves on it. Our members are a mixture, very much individuals. Some are more gregarious than others, and the common room is designed deliberately to allow someone to circulate freely but anonymously as much or as little as he pleases, with the proviso that any exchanges of personal details that result be confined within the walls of the club. But that is emphatically their concern, not mine or my staff’s.’
‘Come on, pal! It was a harmless question!’
That got me another long, cold stare. ‘Was it, indeed?’ he said finally. ‘That may be. Nevertheless, I can only repeat: any member, while he is within these four walls, is guaranteed absolute anonymity. That is the Lotus’s strongest selling point. He can be totally sure that what he does or says while he is our guest here will go no further. And that stricture, as I said, is binding on our members as well as us. Which, incidentally, raises the issue of your own presence here.’
‘Yeah? In what way?’
‘You were told originally, I understand, that Quintus Caesius belonged to this club by a friend of yours.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Uh … Caelius Crispus. Not so much a friend as—’
‘Then I’m afraid under the first and most important rule of the club we shall have to reconsider Crispus’s own membership.’
‘What?’
‘“No member shall for any reason divulge the name or personal details of a fellow member to a third party, or give any account of transactions between them outside club premises, subject to the summary removal of their own name from the club’s membership roll.”’ He picked up the stylus again and reached for another tablet. ‘Perhaps you could inform your friend the next time you see him. And now I’m afraid I’m extremely busy. Publius will show you out and under the circumstances your entry fee will be returned. Just tell him that I have so instructed.’
‘Now wait just a minute!’
‘
That’s all, Valerius Corvinus. A pleasure to have met you. Have a nice Festival.’
He opened the tablet and began to read. Interview, obviously, well and truly over.
Bugger! Crispus would kill me! Still, it was done now, and he wouldn’t find out until our pal Rhadames gave him the bum’s rush the next time he dropped by. I’d just have to hope our paths didn’t cross in the remotely foreseeable future.
On my way through to the lobby, escorted by the gentleman in question, I happened to glance over towards the far wall of the common room, just as a ministering slave bent over to talk to the punter lying on the single couch next to one of the candelabra. The man turned his head, and the light caught his face clearly.
It was Quintus Baebius.
Well, well, well.
SIXTEEN
When I checked on the weather for the ride back next morning it had taken a turn for the worse: a gusting wind with snow on its boots straight out of the north, with a mixture of rain and hail thrown in for good measure. Me, I’m no masochist – there’s no fun in spending three or four hours on horseback getting soaked to the skin and frozen – so I put off going until the day after in the hopes that things might settle down.
Which, for a marvel, they did late in the afternoon, when the wind suddenly died, the sun came out, and Jupiter gave us what was left of a fine December day. Even so, it made for a late start. Worse, I’d only got about half way to Bovillae when the weather changed again with a vengeance. By the time I’d reached it and covered the last four miles to Castrimoenium it was long past dinner and I was long past caring. I had a much-needed steam in the villa’s baths and lugged my shattered carcass upstairs to bed.
Not that I felt too bad next morning; grouses aside, all that riding exercise I’d been putting in between the villa and Bovillae recently seemed to be paying off. When I came down to breakfast – as usual, I’d left Perilla snoring away and dead to the world – the only one in the dining room was Clarus.
‘Morning, pal,’ I said, lying down on the couch. ‘Where’s the Princess?’
‘Been and gone,’ he said. ‘Out with Placida. How was Rome?’
Ah, the joys of owning a pet with a daily need to roll in and then consume the remains and excreta of the local wildlife. ‘Still there.’
‘Successful time?’
‘Not a complete waste, in the end,’ I said. ‘Tell you later.’
Lupercus buttled in. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. ‘Would you like an omelette?’
‘No. Bread and honey’ll do fine, pal.’ Me, I’m not normally a breakfast person, unlike Perilla, who can really shift it, or the Princess who can eat as much as both of us combined, and although I’d missed dinner the night before, a day and a half of Meton’s cooking had set me up nicely. ‘No Bathyllus? I thought that was part of this silly deal of yours.’
‘Ah … Bathyllus is slightly incapacitated this morning, sir.’
‘You mean he’s ill?’
‘Not exactly, no.’
I looked up at him. The guy had an angry-looking bruise on his forehead. ‘You have an accident, Lupercus?’
‘It’s nothing serious, sir. I bumped into a door.’
Clarus’s full attention was focused on his omelette. No eye contact, no reaction. Lupercus might as well not have existed. There was definitely something screwy here.
I sighed.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Wheel him in.’
‘Wheel who in, sir?’ Lupercus said. I just looked at him. ‘Really, there’s absolutely no need to—’
‘Just do it. Spit spot, if you will. Breakfast can wait.’
Lupercus went out.
‘You know anything about this, Clarus?’ I said.
‘Not in any detail, no.’ Clarus was still not looking at me. ‘I was careful not to ask.’
‘Bugger that.’
Lupercus came in with Bathyllus tagging along behind. The little guy had a beautiful shiner which was rapidly turning purple.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. ‘Did you have a good trip?’
‘Never mind the trip, sunshine,’ I said wearily. ‘Let’s get this over with. And I won’t believe a repeat of the door story, either. Who threw the first punch?’
Bathyllus fizzed for a moment. Then he said: ‘Actually, sir, it was a pot of metal polish. I happened to be holding it at the time.’ I goggled at him. ‘In my defence I have to say that he called me a superannuated fossil.’
‘What the hell is a fossil?’
‘Only after he called me a talentless whippersnapper,’ Lupercus said.
‘I did not!’
‘You did!’
‘I did not say “talentless”. The word I used was “incompetent”.’
‘That’s even—’
Gods alive! ‘Will you both shut up!’ I shouted. They subsided. ‘You’re acting like five-year-olds, the pair of you! Bathyllus, you especially. What started all this in the first place?’
‘Your mother, sir. The Lady Vipsania. And Helvius Priscus,’ Bathyllus said stiffly. ‘They’re arriving tomorrow.’
‘Yeah. So?’
‘I’ve always looked after them when our visits here coincide. You know that. They expect it.’
Gods give me patience! I took a deep breath. ‘Sure you have, Bathyllus, so far,’ I said carefully. ‘No arguments. But that was while the Lady Marcia was alive, and only because she sent Laertes down to Baiae to visit his sister for the duration. Marcia’s gone, and so has Laertes. The household’s got its own major-domo now.’
‘That’s exactly what I told him, sir!’ Lupercus said. ‘But he wouldn’t listen!’
‘Hold on, pal.’ I held up a hand. ‘Just leave this to me, OK? Bathyllus?’
‘The Lady Vipsania and her husband are family, sir, and as such according to our agreement –’ he gave Lupercus a fifty-candelabra glare – ‘they fall within my area of responsibility.’
Lupercus glared back at him. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you a dozen times, they are not family, they are fu—’ He caught himself. ‘They are guests. Guests are my affair.’ He turned to Clarus. ‘Isn’t that right, sir?’
Jupiter! ‘Just hang on a minute, Clarus,’ I said. ‘This is easily enough settled. Bathyllus, pack your things.’
He stared at me. ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Toothbrush and smalls, please, straight away. I warned you. Lupercus is absolutely right. If you can’t get along with him – which you obviously can’t – then you can go back to Rome.’
‘But …’
‘No buts. It’s the Winter Festival in a few days, and nobody wants squabbling and temper tantrums then. No doubt there’ll be a cart going through at some time or other today. See that you’re on it. I’ll talk to you when we get back.’
‘But you can’t …’
‘Oh, yes, I can. Watch and marvel.’
He drew himself up for a bit more self-righteous fizzing, then caught my eye. Finally, teeth firmly clenched, he said: ‘Yes, sir. Will that be all?’
‘Yeah, Bathyllus. That’s about it. Put some raw steak on that eye.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You can go too, Lupercus,’ Clarus said.
They left.
Clarus looked at me. ‘Come on, Corvinus,’ he said.
‘Come on, what?’
‘Like you said, it’s the festival in a few days. Bathyllus was looking forward to it. You can’t send him back to Rome now.’
‘Sometimes you’ve just got to be firm. And he is acting like a five-year-old.’
‘Granted. Still, do you want me to have a quiet talk with him? Maybe let Marilla weigh in? And I’ll have a word with Lupercus too. See if I can patch things up.’
‘Suit yourself, pal. But make it clear that it ends now.’ I got up. ‘I think I’ll skip breakfast after all. I can have an early lunch in Bovillae.’
Bugger. First Meton, now Bathyllus. Slaves. They’re as much trouble as kids sometimes.
It was mid-morning
by the time I arrived. I went straight round to the brothel for another talk with Opilia Andromeda.
‘Hi, uh, Carillus, wasn’t it?’ I said when the slave opened the door for me.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The mistress about?’
‘No, sir, not yet. But she’s usually down at around this time, so she shouldn’t be long, if you can wait.’
‘No problem, pal.’ I took off my cloak – it had been raining again, and the ride over from Castrimoenium had been pretty damp – and hung it on one of the lobby pegs. ‘She lives over the shop, then?’
‘Yes, sir. She has a separate flat on the floor above.’ Right; that explained the external staircase on the alley side of the back door. ‘But you can use her sitting room, if you like. I’m sure she won’t mind.’
‘That’d be fine.’ I paused. ‘Just out of interest, have you been with her long? I mean, did you know her before she came to Bovillae?’
‘No, I was the previous owner’s slave, sir. Rutilia Tyche. I came as part of the property when she transferred the ownership. That would’ve been about fourteen months ago.’
‘So you don’t know anything about her? Prior to then, that is?’
‘No, sir. Apart from the fact that she worked in a similar establishment in Tibur.’
‘Right.’ I followed him along the corridor to Andromeda’s room. He opened the door and stood aside. ‘Ah … One more question. Aulus Mettius. He come here often?’
‘On occasion, sir.’ Guarded: well, given what Andromeda had said about confidentiality that was fair enough.
‘Friendly with him, is she? I mean, outside professional contact, as it were?’
‘I’m sorry, I really couldn’t say.’ Guarded had gone up a couple of notches to stiff as hell.
‘So you wouldn’t know whether, for example, he was here the night of the murder?’
‘No, sir, I wouldn’t. Now if there’s nothing else I’ll get on with my duties.’
‘Sure.’ Well, it’d been worth a try. ‘Thanks, pal.’
He left, closing the door behind him.
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