Finished Business

TWENTY-FOUR

Like I said, Lentulus lived only a few hundred yards upslope from us, not far from Mother’s and Priscus’s place, in a rambling old property that predated most of the ones on the hill. It was fortunate that it was close, since I’d been right about the weather, and the road was a muddy river overflowing its central guttering. I wondered how Perilla was getting on; not a wet-weather fan, either, that lady, and although she’d be snug and dry in the litter, I knew there’d be hell to pay when she got back. Especially if she hadn’t found anything to suit.

Ah, well, it wasn’t every day we got invited to an imperial dinner party. Luckily. Not that I was looking forward to it, mind.

I gave my name to the door slave and he took me through. Not to the atrium: Lentulus was holed up in his study, on a couch big and hefty enough to take half a squad of Praetorians, and the room was heated like an oven.

‘Ah, Marcus,’ he said when the slave had closed the door behind me and left me cooking. ‘Come to visit the invalid on his bed of pain, have you? Good of you, my boy!’

Yeah, well, whatever was wrong with him didn’t look too serious: the table beside the couch was laden with goodies, and his ancient major-domo was in the process of topping up his wine cup.

‘Hi, Lentulus,’ I said, pulling up a stool. ‘You’re ill?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing much. Just a cold. A complete stinker, mind; I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.’ He sneezed. ‘Bugger! Desmus, get Valerius Corvinus a drink. Not this muck, Marcus, it’s hot honey wine. Poisonous stuff, but my doctor says it’s the best thing for me. Hot and dry to counter cold and wet, or some such Greek nonsense. The Falernian, Desmus, if you will.’ Another sneeze; he reached for a napkin, blew his nose and tossed the napkin aside. ‘Excuse me. What’s it doing outside, weather wise? Still pissing down hard?’

‘Yeah, more or less.’

‘Good. No fun being snug as a bug in a rug in here if the poor bastards outside aren’t suffering. How’s Perilla?’

‘Blooming. And we’re grandparents now. As of the Winter Festival.’

‘Clarus done his duty and young Marilla’s popped, then, has she?’ It always amazed me that Lentulus had people’s names at his finger-ends: the last time I’d seen him had been two years before, when Marilla and Clarus were first engaged, and I’d only mentioned our son-in-law’s name to him once. Still, among his erstwhile senatorial cronies, Lentulus’s nickname was ‘the Elephant’, and it wasn’t just because of his size, either. ‘What is it? Boy or girl?’

‘Boy. Marcus Cornelius Clarus.’

‘That’s good. Girls’re too much trouble, in my admittedly limited experience. Give them my congratulations and best wishes.’ Desmus was at my elbow, handing me a cupful of Falernian. I sipped: beautiful. Lentulus knew his wines; he ought to, he’d swallowed enough of them in his time. ‘Help yourself to nibbles.’

‘No, I’m OK, thanks.’ I looked at the table: the ‘nibbles’ included quails’ eggs, marinated chicken legs, bean rissoles and a selection of dried fruits and nuts. ‘I’m sorry, Lentulus, I’m disturbing you. Early lunch, is it?’

‘Nothing of the kind, as you well know, you sarcastic young bugger. Just a mid-morning snack. Feed a cold, starve a fever. Didn’t your old grandmother teach you anything?’

From what I remembered of Grandma Calpurnia, she’d’ve told the slaves to remove the whole boiling and replace it with a bowl of nourishing barley gruel. Still, maybe medical theory had moved on in the past thirty years. ‘Obviously not,’ I said.

‘Clearly.’ He grinned, coughed, and selected a chicken leg. ‘Right, boy. Social civilities dispensed with, we can get down to business. You’re here to pick my brains again, yes? So what’s it about this time? Another conspiracy?’

Straight to the point as usual. Another thing I liked about Lentulus. ‘Ah …’

‘Hmm. That bad, eh? Well, in that case don’t bother telling me because I don’t want to know. At my time of life, the less anxiety I have the better. Or so the doctor says, and this time I’d agree with the po-faced old bugger.’ He bit into the chicken leg and chewed. ‘Fire away, then.’

‘Just some background information on a few names. Starting with Valerius Asiaticus.’

‘Asiaticus?’ The eyebrows went up. ‘Not a star performer, that one, young Marcus. Fella’s one of the Johnny-come-lately Gallic crowd. Allobrogian, from Vienne. Good local family, had their citizenship originally from one of your lot about a hundred years back. Valerius Flaccus, that would be, the Transalpine governor. Consul suffect in the old emperor’s last year, resigned before his six-month stint was up. Rich as Croesus, owns a house and gardens the other side of the river that used to belong to Lucullus. Wife Lollia Saturnina, our Gaius’s ex-wife’s sister. Silly woman, too fond of jewellery, thinks that it and good looks make up for brains, and she’s possessed of conversational skills that would disgrace a parrot. He’s technically a senator, but lazy as hell. Doesn’t turn up for meetings very often and steers clear of committee work. Not that I blame him there; it’s the bane of existence and boring as hell. That do you?’

‘No, I knew all that. Barring the bit about the jewellery.’

‘You’re hard to please today, you young sod. What, then?’

‘His reasons for resigning his consulship, for a start. The emperor told me it was because he couldn’t take the pressure.’

That got me a straight look. ‘Been talking to Gaius, have you? This must be important, right enough.’ I said nothing. ‘Well, it’s none of my business. Or rather, I don’t want it to be.’ He downed some more of the wine, tore off another mouthful of chicken and took his time chewing it, not taking his eyes off me all the while. Finally, he swallowed and shrugged. ‘Very well, young Marcus Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Pressure isn’t exactly the word I’d use, although I can see why Gaius chose it.’

‘What, then?’

‘See if you can get there yourself. What was happening, politically, that last year of Tiberius’s life?’

‘Uh …’

‘Come on, Marcus, you’re being slow! Put your thinking cap on! I’ll give you a whopping great clue. Gemellus.’

Shit. ‘Tiberius altered his will. Or the part affecting the succession, anyway.’ He was right; I should’ve thought of that myself. ‘Up to then, Tiberius’s grandson Gemellus had been his only principal heir, in effect his named successor. Only now he named Gaius and Gemellus as joint heirs.’

‘Right. And we’re anticipating matters slightly here, but it’s relevant. Tiberius died in March the following year. Gemellus being underage and several tiles short of a watertight roof to boot, Gaius became emperor. Come December or thereabouts, what happened?’

‘Gaius had Gemellus executed. For conspiring against him while he was ill.’ Fuck; we’d been through all this the last time I’d talked to Lentulus, regarding the Macro business: the whole Gemellus plot had been a sham, from start to finish. ‘What’s this got to do with Asiaticus’s resignation?’

‘Evidence of intelligent planning, boy, and a nose for the way the wind was blowing. He’s a smart cookie in that respect, Asiaticus, always has been. Oh, there was no skulduggery involved on his part, quite the reverse, and at the end of the day it probably saved his life.’

I frowned. ‘I’m sorry, pal, you’ve lost me completely here.’

‘Marcus, Marcus!’ Lentulus tossed the remains of the chicken leg on to the table. ‘Use your brain! We’re talking factions. Julians against Claudians, the way it’s always been ever since that bitch Livia’s day. Asiaticus was and is a protégé and supporter of the old emperor’s sister-in-law Antonia, right? Gemellus’s great-aunt by marriage, and definitely on the Claudian side of the fence. In fact, he’s been a close friend of her son Tiberius Claudius for years. Gaius, of course, is a Julian through and through. So between Gaius and Gemellus, where would his sympathies lie as far as the question of Tiberius’s successor went, hmm? Or rather, where would Gaius assume they lay?’

I was beginning to see light here. ‘With Gemellus, naturally.’

‘Correct. Like I say, Asiaticus isn’t stupid, far from it; he could see the way things were going better than most, and a whole lot earlier. It was getting too hot for him, so he cleared out of the kitchen while he still could. Jacked it in completely and went off to prune his roses on the other side of the Tiber. Which is what he’s still doing.’ He held up his cup for Desmus to fill. ‘At least, that’s his story.’

‘You don’t believe him?’

Lentulus chuckled and coughed. ‘Now don’t you go putting words into my mouth or taking me up wrong just because it happens to suit you, you over-suspicious young bugger,’ he said. ‘I don’t have an opinion one way or the other, and nor should you. All I’m saying is that the man’s a survivor, but whether that comes about through deliberate craft or inbuilt nature, I don’t know. He was a close friend of Junius Silanus, too, and that wasn’t a safe thing to be when the emperor decided he was conspiring with Gemellus and ordered him into suicide. Asiaticus was left alone because he kept a low profile. Head well below the parapet. Best policy to adopt when you’re dealing with a paranoid bastard like Gaius, hey?’ He caught himself and tutted. ‘As you were, Marcus, forget that, I didn’t say it. It was the wine talking, right? Or maybe this cold. I’m not at my best.’

‘Yeah, sure. Understood.’ A survivor. Head below the parapet. Yeah, that had Asiaticus to a T: he’d survived this time as well, whether because, as Lentulus had said, he’d planned things deliberately, or because he was quite genuine and what you saw was what you got. Certainly, he’d convinced Gaius, and like I say the emperor was no fool where judging character was concerned. I thought of those snakes that blend in with their background so perfectly that you don’t know they’re there until they rear up and bite you …

OK, so plenty of food for thought there. And it all fitted. Pace Gaius, Asiaticus was definitely in the frame. Move on.

‘What about Julius Callistus?’ I said. ‘You crossed his path at all?’

‘The emperor’s financial secretary? No, can’t say I have.’

‘Know anything about him?’

‘Only that he’s bloody good at his job, like a lot of the freedmen Gaius has been filling the top imperial admin posts with these past few years. Mind you, he’d have to be, especially these days.’

‘Why so?’ I reached over and helped myself to a stuffed date.

‘Because what with one thing and another, Gaius is getting through money like there’s no tomorrow. Publicly and privately. It has to come from somewhere, and even those bloody fancy direct taxes he’s introduced lately aren’t bringing in enough pennies to pay the bills.’ Lentulus chuckled and peeled a quail’s egg. ‘Just shows you to be careful what you wish for, boy. When the emperor started using freedmen, some of my more poker-up-the-arse colleagues down the hill moaned like hell. Ex-slaves with their master’s slap still fresh on their cheeks giving the orders and running the empire? What would Sulla have said? Barbarians at the gates, the end of civilization, grouse, grouse, grouse. You know the sort of thing.’ He dipped the egg in fish sauce, popped it into his mouth and chewed. ‘Only now you don’t hear a cheep from them, do you, because the tossers know that if they moan too loud and Gaius hands the job over to them, Rome’ll be bankrupt inside of a month.’

‘As bad as that, is it?’

‘Well, maybe I’m exaggerating a tad. But if it wasn’t for Julius Callistus and his ilk over on the Palatine doing their financial balancing act and holding things together, the treasury would be looking pretty bare.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Interesting. ‘OK. Last name. Arrecinus Clemens.’

‘Clemens, eh?’ Another shrewd look as he reached for the quails’ eggs. ‘Quite a mixed bag you’ve got there, Marcus, my boy. Praetorians, now, is it?’

‘Yeah, as it happens.’ I kept my voice neutral. Not that I had any illusions about being able to pull the wool over Lentulus’s eyes. He was no Secundus; he’d been involved in the labyrinthine world of politics all his life, certainly long enough to know how many beans made five, and the pattern that was emerging here was pretty obvious. As were the implications, and so my reasons for asking. If he’d decided to play dumb then it was through conscious choice. ‘Anything you’ve got.’

He grunted and concentrated on shelling the egg. ‘Joint Praetorian prefect, equestrian, good provincial Italian family but nothing special — from Arpinum, or thereabouts. Military type to the bone, not a political. Steady, reliable, conscientious. Solid clear through, particularly where his head’s concerned. Which of course was why Gaius appointed him.’

Well, again I’d known most of that, and from Gaius himself. But there had to be more. ‘Happy in his job?’ I said.

Lentulus hesitated. ‘Moderately,’ he said. ‘Chap’s got a bit of an awkward bee in his bonnet, though. About the Jews, of all things.’

Yeah; Gaius had mentioned that, too. ‘The God-Fearer business,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘That’s right. You’d heard?’

‘Not in any detail, no. Why awkward?’

‘Because it’s producing a certain … conflict of interests.’ He still wasn’t looking at me; all his attention was on the egg. ‘You know about the Alexandrian delegation?’

‘No. What delegation would that be?’

‘From the Jewish community there. Led by a chap called Philo. They arrived in Rome a year ago to petition the emperor to give them equal citizen rights with the Greeks. They’re still around, as it happens.’

‘After a year?’

Lentulus laid the egg aside and looked up. ‘Gaius is in no hurry, boy,’ he said. ‘That’s the point. Or partly the point. Philo and his cronies have spent the past twelve months twiddling their thumbs on the other side of the river, and they’re likely to stay there indefinitely. Jews haven’t exactly been flavour of the month with Caesar ever since the trouble at Jamnia.’

‘Where the hell’s Jamnia?’

‘Palestine. Near Jerusalem, on the coast. The town’s part of the imperial estates. Mixed Jewish-Greek, like a lot of those places. Just after the delegation got here, the Greeks in Jamnia set up an altar to the imperial cult. The local Jews rioted and pulled it down.’ I winced. Trouble was right: Rome’s pretty tolerant where religion’s concerned — as long as you don’t go in for ceremonies involving cannibalism, ritual bestiality or the wholesale sacrifice of virgins, you can worship whatever god you like — but start mixing religion with politics and you’re up shit creek before you can say military intervention. Pulling down an altar to the Goddess Rome and her earthly representative would qualify in spades. ‘When Procurator Capito passed the news on to Gaius, the emperor went spare. He-’

‘Hang on, Lentulus,’ I said. ‘Capito? Herennius Capito?’

‘That’s the fella, yes.’ He was bland. ‘Gaius pulled him back to Rome shortly afterwards. He’s dead now, poor bugger. Blotted his copybook good and proper, so I understand. Anyway, I was saying, Gaius decided that if that was the way the intolerant bastards were going to play it, then he’d give them tit for tat and convert their temple in Jerusalem into an imperial shrine, with a statue of himself as Jupiter as the centrepiece. Not that that came to anything in the end, mind, fortunately, because the Syrian governor deliberately dragged his feet over supplying the actual statue itself. By which time Caesar’s pal Herod Agrippa had managed to persuade him to drop the idea.’

Yeah, I remembered that Secundus had mentioned the statue business. I hadn’t realized at the time that it was going to be relevant. Which it appeared it was.

‘And all this is connected with Clemens, right?’ I said.

‘Naturally. In a way, at least. I told you: Clemens may not be political as such but he and Philo are pretty thick together. Plus he’s a good friend of Agrippa’s. Just as well things panned out the way they did, mark you. Things being as they are, if the emperor had had his way it would’ve caused real trouble. Still might, for that matter, if he’s not careful and pulls his horns in. No fan of the Jews, our Gaius, and they know it.’ Lentulus picked up his wine cup and took a swig. ‘So. There you are, young Marcus. Had enough?’

‘Yeah.’ I took a contemplative swallow of my Falernian. ‘Yeah, that’ll just about do it.’ Gods, it would at that, and with knobs on! I’d seen the trouble messing with Jewish sensibilities caused myself, at first hand, a couple of years before when we were in Alex. That time we’d been lucky to get out of the place in advance of the rioting, but it had been a close thing, and matters had got a whole lot worse before they were finally settled. If an uneasy truce with Jew and Greek still at daggers drawn can be called settlement. And sure, Alexandria might be the second biggest city in the empire, but it wasn’t the only one with a major Jewish population, not by a long chalk. Just the thought that what had happened there could happen on a much wider scale sent a chill down my spine.

If I was looking for a reason for Arrecinus Clemens to be involved in all this, I didn’t have to look any further. Lentulus’s mention of Capito — and it had been deliberate, I was certain of that — was interesting as well.

‘Good. I’m glad. Always pleased to help, so long as you don’t quote me.’ Lentulus had been reaching for another chicken leg — where the guy put it all, big as he was, I didn’t know — and he hesitated. ‘By the by, Marcus. One name you didn’t mention. Fella called Vinicianus. Annius Vinicianus.’

I gave him a sharp look. ‘What about him?’

‘What about who?’

‘Ah … Annius Vinicianus?’

‘Oh. Nothing. Nothing at all. Forget I said it, I was rambling.’ He picked up the chicken leg. ‘Must be going senile. Now, if that’s the morning’s business over to your satisfaction, we can move on to more important matters. Like the new wine my supplier’s trying to foist off on me.’

‘Yeah? Where’s it from?’

‘Place over in Belgic Gaul by the name of Durocortorum. Fizzy stuff, comes in small flasks with the bung tied down. Now don’t look at me like that, boy, he says it has a future, although of course he’s bloody selling the stuff, so he would, wouldn’t he? Probably just a passing fad, but I’d be glad to hear your opinion.’

‘Ah … fizzy?’

‘Full of little bubbles. Jupiter knows how they get them in or why they bother, but there you are. Desmus likes to see how far he can shoot the bung when he opens one of the bastards, don’t you, Desmus? His record so far’s fifteen feet. Ah, well, simple pleasures. Get the rest of that Falernian down you and we’ll give it a go.’

Annius Vinicianus, eh?

Senile, nothing; I was being told.