Solid Citizens

by David Wishart

‘Yeah. Agreed.’ That was part of the tragedy: even the Gratillus affair was at least understandable, given the social and moral code the guy had been brought up with. That we’re all brought up with, to be fair: slaves aren’t real people, they’re property, and like Galla had said, he had genuinely believed it when he’d claimed he’d been merciful. ‘No argument there. So. That’s the background. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? What happened that night was that he died elsewhere and Andromeda and Mettius brought him here, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did they know? That he’d been murdered, I mean?’

  ‘That was Dossenus. He’s—’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I’ve met Dossenus.’ Fuck; another piece of the puzzle slipped into place. ‘The vagrant, right?’

  ‘Yes. My mistress kept an eye out for him, saw he didn’t starve. He had a soft spot for her. Dossenus was the one who found the body. He came and told her.’

  ‘This would be inside the old wool warehouse, or what’s left of it, further down the street, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. It’s where he sleeps, usually.’

  ‘Did he see the actual murder?’

  ‘That I don’t know. Very probably, but he didn’t say. He was frightened to death, barely coherent.’

  ‘So then Mettius and your mistress went and collected the corpse and brought it back here?’

  He hesitated. ‘The mistress, no, sir. That was no job for a woman. She stayed here, to keep watch, and Mettius and I carried it between us. Caesius was still wearing his cloak and hood, and we made sure his head was covered. If we’d met anyone we’d have said he was drunk, but fortunately that didn’t happen.’

  ‘Fair enough. You took him into Andromeda’s sitting room?’

  ‘Yes. It was just after sunset. The mistress told us to wait for an hour so she could pretend later that he’d been with one of the girls, then to carry him out the back door and dump him in the alleyway. Which is what we did.’

  ‘Lydia. The girl he was supposed to be with. How did you square her?’

  Carillus smiled. ‘Oh, Lydia wasn’t any trouble, and she was glad to help. She’s a very intelligent girl, the brightest we have, and the mistress coached her carefully. I don’t think she would’ve told you much. Did she?’

  ‘No. No, she didn’t.’ Right; well, that would teach me not to go by first impressions, wouldn’t it? ‘So in effect Andromeda created a scenario from whole cloth that she could give when the body was found the next day: not only had Caesius been tomcatting that evening, but he was a regular customer. She couldn’t kill him herself now, because he was dead already, but she could destroy his reputation. Or at least give it her best shot.’

  ‘Yes, sir. That’s it exactly.’

  Ironic, really, that she’d had to go for a fake way of doing that when there was a genuine one to hand, and after the business with her brother she must’ve at least suspected the truth. But there again Caesius had been careful to save that side of things for his trips to Rome; where his life in Bovillae was concerned he was as squeaky clean as everyone thought he was. Andromeda would’ve had to make the best use of what she’d got within the time available, and she’d managed that pretty well. Like I said, she’d been a smart cookie, that lady.

  ‘What about the figurine?’ I said.

  Carillus frowned. ‘What figurine, sir?’

  ‘The little bronze Caesius had with him. The runner.’ He was still looking blank. ‘Aulus Mettius didn’t take it?’

  ‘He picked something up from beside the body and put it in his cloak pocket, sir. But I didn’t see what it was.’

  ‘Never mind, pal. It doesn’t matter.’ Sure it mattered: it had killed him, and Andromeda too. But Carillus didn’t need to know that. I stood up. ‘Thanks. Oh, one more thing. Dossenus. Your mistress – or Mettius, possibly – warned him against talking, right?’

  ‘Yes. It was hardly necessary, because as I said he was frightened out of his wits, or what he has of them. But Mettius told him that if the news got out that Caesius had died inside the wool store he would be the obvious suspect. That was quite enough.’

  Yeah, I thought grimly, it would be: when he’d talked to me as the guy officially empowered to point the final finger the poor bugger had desperately wanted to make it absolutely clear that he hadn’t been involved. It did mean, though, that we had another witness to what happened, if we needed one. And he might just have seen the murder, after all, which would be a definite plus.

  Which brought me to the next part, the nasty bit. I’d have to pay a call on Silius Nerva, explain the situation, borrow a couple of the town’s rod men for muscle, and then confront the murderer.

  Not a job for the day before the start of the Winter Festival, but it had to be done.

  I knocked on the front door, and Baebius’s young slave opened it. He frowned when he saw the two rod men – one of them, by an ironic twist of fate, was Manlius’s pal Decimus – but said nothing.

  ‘You think we could see the master?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course.’ He stepped aside. ‘He’s in the study. If you wouldn’t mind waiting, I’ll—’

  ‘No, that’s OK. We’ll go straight through.’

  The frown deepened. He opened his mouth to speak, but then obviously thought better of it.

  ‘As you wish, sir.’

  He led us through the atrium, stopped outside a panelled door, and knocked.

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘That’s fine, pal,’ I said before the slave could open the door. ‘We can take it from here. Just leave us in private, right?’

  He gave me a scared, sideways look and went back down the corridor.

  I went in. Baebius was sitting at his desk, writing. His eyes narrowed when he saw the rod men, and he put the pen down.

  ‘Corvinus,’ he said. ‘This is a surprise. And why the lictors? I didn’t know you’d been promoted to aedile.’

  ‘They’re just helping out,’ I said. ‘Forget they’re here.’

  ‘Rather difficult, but I’ll do my best.’ He sat back. ‘Well, no matter. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Let’s start with the bronze,’ I said. ‘The Runner. You have got it, haven’t you?’

  He stared at me, his face expressionless. Then he stood up, went across to a cupboard in the wall and opened it.

  ‘There you are,’ he said, taking out the figurine inside and holding it up. ‘I’m sorry for lying to you, but you can understand why I did it. If I’d admitted that Caesius had actually turned up for our rendezvous it might have placed me in a very difficult situation.’

  ‘So you had it all the time?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I said: the agreement was that Caesius would exchange it for a similar piece plus a sum of money. Everything happened as I told you, except for the fact that the exchange was made after all.’

  ‘In that case, what happened to the replacement and the cash?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. He certainly had both when he left me. Presumably they were taken from him by whoever killed him.’

  ‘Behind the brothel.’

  ‘Naturally. Or inside it, or wherever.’

  ‘There’s only one problem with that, pal,’ I said. ‘Caesius wasn’t killed behind the brothel. He didn’t go near the place. He was killed where you met him, at the wool store. And he was killed much earlier than everyone believed, around sunset, at the time you said you were meeting him.’

  The silence lengthened, and I heard the two rod men shifting their weight behind me. Baebius glanced at them, moved back to the desk, carefully set the figurine down, and resumed his seat.

  ‘Is that so, now?’ he said.

  ‘You want to tell me what actually happened? Or shall I tell you?’

  ‘Go ahead. I’d be most interested.’

  There was a stool next to the desk. I pulled it up and sat down.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘First of all, there was no exchange. Or at least, you never got your hands on the bronze. Not then, a
nyway.’

  ‘So when did I, if I have it now?’

  ‘My guess is that you set the meeting up intending to kill Caesius from the start. Only when you’d done it something went wrong. You found that you were being watched, by the vagrant who sleeps there, a guy by the name of Dossenus. So you panicked and ran, leaving the bronze behind.’

  ‘Corvinus, please! The thing’s worth, what, twenty thousand sesterces, yes? A large amount of money, agreed, but I’m a wealthy man with a position to think of, and beautiful though it is, it’s scarcely a unique piece. I’m hardly likely to plan and commit a murder for a trivial reason like that, am I?’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ I said. ‘As far as motive’s concerned, we’ll leave that side of it for now. But that’s the way it happened; like I said, there was a witness who saw the whole thing.’ I gave him the lie straight, without blinking – it might even be true. ‘Anyway, Dossenus goes to Opilia Andromeda and tells her the whole story. Her boyfriend Mettius, who’s spending the night in her flat, picks up the body and takes it inside, together with the statuette. Then, sometime over the next couple of days, being the crook he is and having no particular reason to see his uncle’s killer brought to justice, he decides to do a bit of business on his own account. Just for the fun of it rather than the actual profit, although where Andromeda’s concerned the cash’ll be very welcome. He comes to you, tells you he knows what you’ve done, and promises to keep his mouth shut for an appreciable consideration. He’s an honest crook, though, as crooks go, and not a proper thief per se, so he says he’ll throw in the Runner as a gesture of good faith. You agree to meet him in the pine grove above his villa to complete the deal. I’m not sure about this bit, but the chances are that Andromeda was waiting close by, to see how things turned out, and she was the one to find her boyfriend’s body, well before Quintus Roscius happened along.’ Baebius hadn’t moved, or reacted in any way since he’d last spoken, but now he smiled. ‘Anyway, when Mettius turns up carrying the bronze to fulfil his part of the bargain you kill him instead. Then, the following night, just to make sure your secret’s safe, you go to his girlfriend’s flat above the brothel and kill her as well.’ I paused. ‘OK. So how am I doing?’

  ‘It wasn’t murder,’ he said quietly. ‘Not the first death. You were wrong about that. Caesius’s death was an accident.’

  Joy in the morning!

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘You want to tell me?’

  ‘Why not? You have most of it. You may as well get your facts right. And I’m no killer, not by nature. Mettius and the woman – well, they were necessary. Besides, as you say, one was a crook and the other was a whore.’

  Delivery cold as hell. If I’d had any sympathy for him – which I didn’t, really – that’s when it would’ve vanished.

  Baebius picked up the statuette and turned it over in his hands. He didn’t look at me.

  ‘I was in Rome halfway through last month,’ he said. ‘There was a new club I’d heard of which had recently opened, and I wanted to look it over. A gentleman’s club, very private, very expensive.’

  ‘The Crimson Lotus. In Pallacina Road.’

  His eyes came up, and for the first time they showed genuine surprise. ‘Now how the hell did you know that?’ he said.

  ‘You were there a few days ago. I saw you myself.’

  There was a long silence. Baebius’s eyes were still locked with mine. Then he shrugged and dropped his gaze.

  ‘Evidently you’re a darker horse than I took you for, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Interesting. But it’s of no great matter. As you’ll no doubt know, then, if you’ve been there, the Lotus … specializes. Young slaves like Clitus, who let you in. Anyway, as I say I was there about a month ago and I happened to bump into Quintus Caesius. He was with a little Ethiopian boy of no more than nine or ten. With being the operative word. I was shocked.’ He smiled. ‘I didn’t know, you see. Up to then, I’d never even considered the possibility. No one had, no one did. Like me, he’d been very careful to keep that side of his life a secret, by indulging his inclinations only in Rome, and with slaves whose job it was to cater for him. Unlike me, though, to him the secrecy mattered. I hide things only out of politeness. Bovillans are very provincial, in all the senses of the word. If they discovered that I consorted with young men – rather than, as at present, simply suspected it – my friends and acquaintances would find the fact at the very least embarrassing, and although I’m not at all ashamed of what I am I have no wish to cause them pain. However, to me, personally, it would not be of great importance.’

  ‘But to Caesius it would,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘Very much so. Particularly since his penchant was for the pre-adolescent variety. He was a highly respected public figure who had just been elected censor. A position in which he would be exercising moral judgement over the citizen body. Even the rumour that he was a practising paedophile would have ruined him completely.’

  ‘So you decided to blackmail him.’

  He was still holding the bronze. He set it down carefully before answering.

  ‘I’d put it differently,’ he said. ‘For all he was no friend of mine, I had the utmost respect for Quintus Caesius. He may have played rough at times as a rival collector, but we were both self-confessed fanatics in that field; you must expect these things and exercise a certain give-and-take. Also, he was an extremely hard-headed businessman, one possibly not too averse to cutting corners, so long as he was acting within the law. However, as far as I know, in his public dealings he was scrupulously honest. Uniquely so, in fact. I’d no wish to damage him there.’

  ‘So asking for the Runner in exchange for your silence was a one-off?’

  Baebius nodded. ‘There was a certain element of pique involved, I admit: when he’d stolen a march on me and bought it in advance of the auction it had been going a little too far, and I resented it out of all proportion to the thing’s worth, both monetary and aesthetic. But that would’ve been the end of it; there would have been no later demands, I give you my word on that, as I gave it to him. As I saw it, he had cheated me and I was rectifying the situation. I even offered to give him back the money he had paid for it.’

  ‘So what went wrong?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I suspect that my continued silence was so important to him that he simply didn’t believe me, or couldn’t take the risk of trusting me. After all, we were long-standing enemies. In the event, at the meeting in the wool store while the transfer was being made he suddenly attacked me with a knife. There was a struggle, I got the upper hand, and he fell backwards, hitting his head on a lump of masonry. When I looked, he was obviously either dead or very seriously injured. I panicked and ran, stupidly forgetting to pick up the statuette. Then I went home. And that’s all I know.’ He looked at me. ‘I didn’t see your witness – Dossenus, was it? I didn’t even know of his existence, until you told me just now. If I had, then I’m afraid I would have had to kill him too.’

  Yeah, well, it all added up, I’d give him that. And whether he was actually telling the truth about Caesius attacking him was academic now. Me, I could see it happening: like he said, the guy must’ve been desperate, and perhaps it wasn’t too much out of character, given the circumstances. The knife might still be there to find, or Dossenus might’ve taken it, which would prove things one way or the other, but that was no concern of mine. Let Silius Nerva and his oh-so-respectable cronies in the senate deal with their own dirty linen from here on in.

  ‘One more thing,’ I said. ‘Not for me, but my son-in-law will be curious. The murder weapon. What did you use to kill Mettius and Andromeda? Presumably you took something with you.’

  ‘Ah.’ He went over to a stand of walking sticks in the corner. My two rod men shifted uneasily, and he glanced at me and smiled. ‘May I?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  He pulled out one of the sticks: ebony, with a silver head. ‘I take it with me on my outings in Rome,’ he said. ‘For obvious reasons, I prefer to be accompani
ed only by a single torch slave on the nocturnal parts of these, and I find this very useful. The top six inches are filled with lead, and I’m quite proficient in its use.’ He put the stick back, and I could hear the rod men relax. ‘So. What happens now?’

  ‘That’s up to the authorities,’ I said. ‘These gentlemen –’ I glanced over my shoulder at the two rod men – ‘will take you to Nerva. Or whoever. Me, I’m out of it.’

  ‘Job done?’ There was just a trace of sarcasm in his voice. I ignored it.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Job done.’ I turned to go. ‘Oh, by the way. That ivory plaque you sold me. Or your freedman did, rather. It was a fake.’

  ‘Was it really?’ He didn’t sound too surprised, or interested, which, given the events of the last ten minutes or so, was understandable. For someone who was looking at either exile or the strangler’s noose, a little minor fraud wasn’t going to weigh much. ‘I’m sorry. Call in at the shop and tell Nausiphanes from me he’s to refund the cost. You needn’t return the plaque. Consider it a Festival gift.’

  I nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re very welcome. Happy Winter Festival.’

  I didn’t answer.

  Like he’d said, job done. Not that the fact had left a very pleasant taste in my mouth, but then it seldom did. I left the rod men to it, and went home.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Winter Festival morning.

  Like I said right at the start, the Winter Festival’s really for the bought help, which is fair enough: the poor buggers have a pretty rotten time of it for most of the year, and it won’t do the empire much lasting harm if they’re allowed to let their hair down – within reason, of course – for three or four days in mid-December. Then, naturally, there’s the tradition aspect, and that’s for everyone to enjoy. Some things like the roast pork dinner, the gambling games, dressing up in party gear and being sick from overeating are pretty standard, but each family has its own traditions. We like to start the day with the presents, and Clarus and Marilla have followed suit.

  So there we were, Perilla and me, plus the two youngsters, in the atrium with the Sack. No Mother or Priscus: Mother’s convinced that if you show your face before the chill’s properly off the morning the crow’s-feet goblin will get you, while Priscus is just plain bone lazy. And, of course, there were the household staff, everyone from the two major-domos to the kitchen skivvy, lined up in the dinky little freedmen-caps that they’re allowed to wear for the duration; faces washed, bright as buttons, hair neatly combed – except for Bathyllus, who as usual had polished his scalp specially for the occasion – and waiting with bated breath for the Sack to be opened.