Finished Business

SEVEN

I started, though, with Surdinus’s ex: mornings aren’t the best time to go visiting clubs, so I’d put that off until later in the day.

Cornelia Sullana had a house up on the Pincian, between the Gardens of Pompey and those of Lucullus; prime hillside property, in other words, although not in the Vatican league. From the looks of the place — old, detached, rambling, in its own grounds and with a well-established garden around it — I’d guess it was part of the family estates, going back at least to her ancestor the dictator’s time. Which, of course, made complete sense: belonging, as she did, to a long-established patrician family like the Cornelii, she’d have property in her own right spread throughout the city and far beyond. Rome’s ultra-pukkah patrician families have always been a hard-headed bunch where making and keeping money’s concerned, and being banned from trade they’ve put all their efforts over the past five hundred years or so into land, stone and mortar. Or rather, in most cases, into the cheap lath, rubble and cement that the city’s tenements were built from, that bring a huge return in rents for a very modest outlay, and keep on bringing it year after year. Particularly if the expense of minor concerns like repairs and renovation is kept to a minimum, which it usually is. Even though she was no longer part of the Naevius ménage, Surdinus’s widow, or whatever you liked to call her, wouldn’t exactly be short of a sesterce or two.

I gave my name to the door slave, and after half an hour or so spent kicking my heels in the vestibule, I was shown into the atrium, where the lady herself was waiting to grant me an audience.

Cornelia Sullana was comfortably into her fifties and dolled up like a woman twenty years younger. Not that it had much effect on her basic appearance, mind: she was bony and angularly ugly, with an expression on her sharp-featured face like she’d just swallowed a pint of neat vinegar. An image of a discontented parrot in moult eyeing up a particularly recalcitrant nut came to mind. I could see, given their avian similarities, where Surdinus Junior had got his looks from.

‘Valerius Corvinus,’ she said. ‘I assume, from the communi-cation I received from Naevia Postuma, that you are here in connection with the death of my former husband.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s right,’ I said. I glanced at the couch opposite her — she was sitting on a chair — but if I was expecting an invitation to use it, I didn’t get one.

‘Then I’m not sure that I can help you in any way. Nor am I aware of any need or reason to do so, since the death was a complete accident.’

‘It was no accident,’ I said. ‘Naevius Surdinus was murdered.’

‘So Postuma claims, of course, but that is complete nonsense. The tower was unsafe. Everyone told him so, I told him myself, but Lucius never did listen to reason. The silly man deserved all he got, and there’s an end of it.’

‘He was murdered, Cornelia Sullana,’ I repeated. ‘I checked for myself. The whole thing was deliberate, and it was planned in advance. Someone climbed to the top, pried the stone that killed him loose from the parapet above the entrance, waited until he was directly below and pushed it free.’

She stared at me. ‘You’re sure about this?’

‘Absolutely certain. The tool the killer used left marks in the cement, and there was cement dust on the plank below where the stone had been.’

‘But that’s …’ She frowned. ‘Who on earth would want to kill Lucius?’

‘Yeah, well,’ I said, ‘that’s the question I was hoping you might help me with.’

‘Frankly, I can’t see anyone bothering.’

Ouch. She meant it, too. How many years had they been married? It had to be thirty-five, at least, given her age and the age of Surdinus Junior. ‘As far as the actual killer is concerned,’ I said, ‘one of the garden slaves saw a freedman moving through the grounds at about the time when your husband-’

‘Ex-husband.’

‘When your ex-husband died. Shortish, probably in his forties, with a distinctive mark on his cheek. A large scar or a birthmark. Any bells?’

‘No. Certainly he’s not anyone I recognize. Oh, you might as well sit down, Valerius Corvinus. I suspect this is going to take rather longer than I anticipated.’

I sat. ‘Did your … Did Naevius Surdinus have any enemies?’ I asked. ‘Anyone who’d want him dead?’

‘Of course not,’ she snapped. ‘I told you. Lucius wasn’t effective enough to make enemies, as any decent man would in the normal course of events. All he cared about was his silly philosophical studies.’

‘I know he wasn’t involved in politics, but …’

‘Certainly he was not.’ Clearly, from her tone, this was a sore point, which was understandable: not to be involved in politics, for a woman with the background of Cornelia Sullana, was unthinkable. ‘Not since his suffect consulship ten years ago. And the trouble I went to, the strings I pulled, to get him that and properly on the ladder you would not believe! Wasted, completely wasted, all because that fool Bassus was forced to kill himself.’ So, Leonidas had been right about that. ‘Bassus may have been guilty of treason, Corvinus, and so justly condemned, or he may not; the truth of the matter is immaterial. These things happen, one shrugs them off and forgets. I told Lucius as much at the time, but as I said, he never did listen to reason. A most exasperating man.’

Exasperating. The same adjective Tarquitia had used. Well, they had that much in common, anyway. ‘How about his business interests?’ I asked.

‘What business interests? Lucius didn’t have a single businesslike bone in his body. Where his investments were concerned — and he had a considerable number, over a very wide range, mostly inherited from his father and grandfather, who were proper businessmen — his bailiff had complete charge of these. I, of course, made any necessary major policy decisions and kept a very close watching brief on the man himself. Gallio has been the family’s bailiff for over thirty years, as his father and grandfather were before him, and I have no doubt he is perfectly honest, at least as honest as that class of men usually are. Nonetheless, you cannot be too careful, and I’ — she sniffed — ‘most certainly am. Or was, I should say, until Lucius and I parted company. Gallio, now, can do as he likes.’

‘You don’t have any connection with the rest of the family, then?’

‘With my elder son, you mean? Only as much as I have to. He may be my son, Valerius Corvinus, but Lucius has always been a grave disappointment to me. In a different way, naturally, to his father, but there you are. As a boy he was sullen, secretive and spectacularly unintelligent. As a man, he has retained and developed these traits. Oh, I admit he’s tried to make something of himself in life, but if he’s succeeded to some small degree it has not been on his own merits but by the doing of others, not least of myself, and without my guiding hand he will no doubt sink to his natural level. My elder son is nothing but one long talentless scowl.’

Gods! So much for the son and heir. No love lost had been right. ‘How about your younger one?’ I said.

‘Marcus?’ She sniffed again. ‘Or Hellenus, rather, as he prefers to be called. That says it all. Marcus, I could indeed have made something of. He was intelligent, personable, an excellent talker. Unlike his brother, prime material in every way. But it was not to be, unfortunately, and the choice was his. No, I have no connection whatsoever now with Marcus. I have no idea, even, where he lives.’

‘What about your husband’s bailiff? Where would I find him?’

‘Gallio?’ She looked at me in surprise. ‘Why should you want to talk to him?’

‘No reason.’ There wasn’t: that aspect of things seemed well above board. But at this point in the investigation I couldn’t be too picky, and it was always best to get more than one viewpoint.

‘Very well, then. He has an office on Iugarius, near the Carminal Gate. I call him Lucius’s bailiff, as indeed he is, but not exclusively so. These days, the firm is quite large, and it has other clients besides the Naevius family.’ A third sniff. ‘A sign of the times, Corvinus, and not a change for the better. His grandfather was Lucius’s grandfather’s freedman and knew his place, but these days it seems that where preserving or ignoring class distinction is concerned, anything goes. We’ll have freedmen running the empire very soon and the old families letting them do it, encouraging them, even. You mark my words.’

‘Uh … moving on,’ I said. ‘The divorce and, ah, related aspects.’ We were on delicate ground here, I knew, but I couldn’t go without broaching the subject of Tarquitia. ‘Maybe I could ask you about them.’

That got me a long, cool stare. ‘You mean my husband’s mistress, I suppose?’ Sullana said. ‘The nightclub girl.’

‘Yeah. More or less.’

‘You think she had a hand in Lucius’s death? It wouldn’t surprise me, of course; she had him wound round her little finger, and if she features in his will …’ She stopped. ‘Does she?’

‘Ah … yeah. Yes, so I believe, anyway.’

‘Substantially?’ I said nothing, which I suppose was an answer in itself, because she went on: ‘There you are, then. You don’t have to look any further.’

‘Maybe not, but-’

‘She’s a gold-digger, first to last. Not that that aspect of things concerns me, apart from rousing the natural anger that anyone would feel in those circumstances; as I said, I no longer have any interest in the family whatsoever. In fact, I was quite pleased when I heard that Lucius had more or less handed her the Old Villa as a gift, because our dear son will be absolutely livid.’ A twisting of the sour lips into what was almost a smile. ‘How dreadfully embarrassing for him. But although I had very little time for my husband, that does not mean that I can sympathize with his killer.’

‘She was his first? Mistress, I mean.’

‘As far as I’m aware, yes, although it’s much more likely than not. Lucius had many failings, but philandering was not one of them. In fact, I was quite surprised when he took up with the girl, and frankly I believe — despite the obvious untruth of the belief — that his interest in her was fatherly rather than sexual. He certainly talked of her more as a favourite daughter than a mistress.’

‘He talked to you about her, then?’

‘Oh, yes. Right from the start of their relationship, which was — as you probably know — just over a year ago. He was quite open about it.’

‘And you didn’t mind?’

‘Valerius Corvinus, my husband could have slept with half of Rome and I would not have minded one bit, so long as he did not advertise the fact and observed the proprieties. Knowing he did so with a nightclub slut far less than half his age meant nothing to me. Absolutely nothing. If we were still married after thirty-seven years it was by no doing of mine. Had he told me any time these thirty-odd years that he wanted a divorce, I would have agreed without a thought.’

‘But he didn’t. Not until a month ago.’ I hesitated. ‘Ah … forgive me for asking this, Cornelia Sullana, but why did he do it then? Not so he could marry Tarquitia, if that were possible, because he didn’t marry her when he could. And she didn’t claim that marriage in future was on the cards. So why the divorce?’

She was quiet so long that I didn’t think she would answer. Finally, though, she said: ‘Because I goaded him into it.’

‘Goaded?’

‘Made him angry. By telling him about my own affair.’

‘Uh …’ This I just didn’t believe: the lady, as I said, was well past fifty and looked like the back end of a cart into the bargain. Yet there she sat, like a dowager-matron who could’ve posed for the mother of the two Gracchi, confessing to screwing around behind her husband’s back. ‘Come again?’

She must’ve noticed my expression, because that sour smile was back, fleetingly. ‘Oh, not recently. It was twenty … no, twenty-five years ago. With a man called Cassius Longinus.’

That name rang a faint bell: I remembered Naevia Postuma mentioning it. ‘Surdinus’s colleague in the consulship?’

‘Yes. Although of course that was much later, and pure coincidence, when the affair was well and truly over. Longinus was everything that Lucius wasn’t, and still is. He’s governor of Asia at present, so I hear.’

‘Surdinus never knew?’

‘He never even suspected. We were very careful, and in any case I doubt if someone like Lucius would have noticed anyway.’

‘But he would’ve minded.’

‘Of course he would. And did, even twenty years after the event. That was the whole point of telling him.’ She stood up. ‘And now, Valerius Corvinus, that is about all I can tell you. I’ve answered your questions as frankly as I can.’ Jupiter, she’d done that right enough, latterly! ‘And I wish you every success. I may never have got on with Lucius — despised him, in fact, if the truth be told — but I bore and bear him no animosity, certainly not now he is dead. You can find your own way out, I think.’

I did.