Food for the Fishes

18

Chlorus’s place wasn’t far from the centre, in a cul-de-sac that opened off a small square with plane trees and a public water-fountain. I identified it straight off from the funereal cypress branches draped round the door.

‘Ah…I’m sorry to disturb the household,’ I said when the door-slave opened up to my knock, ‘but I was wondering if maybe the mistress or somebody would have a word with me. Valerius Corvinus.’

The guy was no spring chicken, fifty if he was a day. The sparse condition of his forelock showed that he hadn’t stinted the dead his due, and he looked genuinely upset; which having met Chlorus and knowing at least by hearsay how he treated his slaves surprised me. ‘The mistress is in, sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t know whether her grief will allow her to talk to you, but I’ll ask. If you don’t mind waiting.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘No problem.’

He disappeared inside.

Interesting: had there been the barest smidgeon of sarcasm? It was pretty well-hidden by the dead-pan delivery, but I could’ve sworn it was there, all the same. I remembered Mother saying that Titus Chlorus and his wife — what was her name? Catia, right — didn’t exactly hit it off together. If the friction between them had gone to the lengths of being commented on to a stranger, albeit indirectly, by the family’s door-slave then it must’ve been pretty considerable.

There wasn’t any doubt where the door-slave’s sympathies lay, either. Considering Chlorus’s reputation, that was interesting, too.

The guy came back. ‘The mistress will see you, sir, but only for a few moments. Come in, please.’

She was lying on a couch in the atrium, dressed in a mourning mantle that satisfied the conventions as far as colour was concerned but was so sheer and tight-fitting that at its most strategic points of coverage what showed was Catia. Grief-stricken the lady might be, but she hadn’t let it spoil her appearance. Or her makeup. Even in deepest mourning, Titus Chlorus’s widow was a stunner, and she knew it. The look she gave me was frankly assessing.

‘Valerius Corvinus,’ she said. ‘Gellia told me all about you. I’ve been expecting to meet you for several days. A shame it has to be under such tragic circumstances.’

‘Yeah.’ Well, tragic circumstances notwithstanding I’d seen more genuine grief on a face for the death of a pet sparrow. There was a stool opposite the couch, next to a very nice bronze of Actaeon, half man half stag, being ripped apart by his hounds. I sat down. ‘My condolences.’

‘Thank you. It was quite a shock.’ She said the words like you might say, It was a very disagreeable party. ‘Hebe and I are quite devastated.’

‘“Hebe”?’

‘My daughter. Licinilla, really, but that’s such a mouthful that we don’t use it. She’s marrying young Manlius Torquatus, you know. Terrible tragedy for the poor girl.’

‘Why? No chin and a nose like a trireme’s, eh? Yeah, you get that in these old families.’ I couldn’t help it; it slipped out and the woman was beginning to grate on me already.

She glared at me and tugged at the mantle, obscuring a couple of the more pertinent curves. ‘I meant,’ she said, ‘Titus’s death. Murder.’ The last word was breathed with relish. ‘He was murdered, you know. But then I expect that’s why you’re here. To question me.’

‘Uh…right.’ Well, she might not be the typical grief-stricken widow, but that was all to the good. I couldn’t help drawing parallels with her pal Gellia. The loving family motif evidently extended sideways. ‘Maybe you could tell me what happened.’

‘Certainly.’ She tugged at the mantle again; I noticed that she wore her fingernails long, and the fingers themselves were covered with rings. ‘Titus went out last night just after dinner saying he had to meet someone. That was the last I saw of him until the local Watchman called round this morning with the news that he’d been found in an alleyway about two hundred yards off, with his throat cut.’

I waited. There was nothing else. ‘Uh…is that all you know?’ I said.

‘Yes. That’s all. I was totally distraught, of course.’

‘He — I mean Titus — didn’t say where he was going? Who he was meeting and why?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t have expected it. He never does. Titus is very secretive.’ She caught herself. ‘Was. I suppose I’ll have to start using the past tense when I speak of him now. It’s very annoying.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, right. Ah…the alleyway. Which direction was it in?’

‘Towards the centre, I think. I’m really not sure. I always use a litter when I go out.’

‘He know anyone in particular that way, do you know?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. Although of course it would take him to the main road, and from there he could go anywhere.’

‘How about Ligurius? He lives near here, doesn’t he?’

‘Ligurius?’ She frowned. ‘Why Ligurius, especially?’

‘Your husband told me he often went round to his place on business in the evening to save going all the way out to the fish farm. It’d be an obvious possibility.’

‘Yes, I suppose it would. And yes, he did. But I think Ligurius lives in the other direction. In fact, I’m sure he does. Over a fuller’s establishment, on the outskirts. Not a very salubrious address.’

‘And he didn’t give any indication at all?’ Catia was still frowning; not Baiae’s greatest brain, obviously. ‘I mean, that the appointment was unusual. Or that it was business, rather than social.’

‘No. I said. He didn’t say anything about it. He never does, just that he’s going out and not to wait up.’ She sniffed. ‘Not that I would. Mind you, it wouldn’t’ve been social. Titus isn’t — wasn’t — a very social person. We didn’t go out together half enough, or have people round to dinner. I had to manage that side of things practically single-handed.’ She gave me a slightly bitter look. ‘He could have been visiting a mistress, I suppose, but I very much doubt it. Titus wouldn’t have either the interest or the energy for an affair. And no woman with any scope for choice would’ve bothered starting one.’

‘He didn’t have any particular enemies? Anyone who’d want him dead?’

‘Who’d want Titus dead? I’ve just told you, Corvinus: he was the blandest, most boring man imaginable. His work was his life. It was all he was interested in, and all he ever talked about. Oh, I’ve no doubt he had enemies, the usual business sort, but no one who’d actually go the length of killing him.’

‘Someone did.’

She blinked; maybe she’d suddenly realised that she wasn’t behaving quite how a dutiful wife whose husband has just had his throat slit down an alley was expected to, and it was getting a little too obvious. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, I suppose that’s true. How awful; poor Titus. But really I haven’t the faintest idea who, or why.’ She gave the fold of the mantle another tug: a fiddler, Catia, I decided; her fingers hadn’t been still since I came in. Unless it was nerves. ‘Now I’m afraid that’s all the time I can give you. I have to arrange the funeral, of course, and all that unpleasantness, and I really must write a long letter to Manlius’s father telling him what’s happened. The wedding may have to be postponed, which is absolutely dreadful but it can’t be helped: there are conventions about these things, and Torquatus Senior is a very conventional man. So nice to have met you, Valerius Corvinus.’

So that was that. A few moments was right. Gods! You’d think even a bubblehead like Catia would’ve shown a bit more respect for her dead husband than she had done. Or even interest in how the poor sod had died. And the interview hadn’t left me much wiser than when I started, except for the fact that I’d got a bit more of an insight into Chlorus’s family life, or lack of it, than I’d bargained for. I almost felt sorry for him. Still, like I say, it was par for the course as far as the family were concerned. Maybe Catia and Hebe were all he deserved.

The door-slave let me out and I started back for home. I’d gone about a hundred yards when I heard hurrying footsteps behind me.

‘Sir! Valerius Corvinus!’

I turned. It was the door-slave. ‘Yeah?’ I said.

‘Wait a moment, sir, please. Until I get my breath back.’ He was beetroot-red and panting: whatever the guy’s name was it wasn’t Pheidippides. ‘I couldn’t let you go, sir. Not without telling you.’

‘Telling me what?’

‘The master was always good to me, sir. He had his faults, but he was good to me. It isn’t fair.’

‘What isn’t fair?’

The guy was practically weeping. ‘The mistress didn’t tell you, did she?’ he said. ‘About the note. She knew about it; I swear she knew!’

My guts went cold. ‘What note was this?’

‘A man brought it round last night, sir, for the master. Just after dinner. The seal was broken; the man said he’d done it accidental when it caught against his belt. I’m afraid I read it — I can read, sir, and I like to get what practice I can — and…’

Jupiter in a basket! ‘Look, sunshine, I said. ‘Forget the excuses. Just tell me what this note said, okay?’

‘Yes, sir.’ He took a deep breath and glanced behind him again. ‘It said, “Come round straight away. We have something to discuss,” sir. Just that.’

‘Was it signed?’

‘Yes, sir. That’s the point. It was signed “Aulus”. The master’s brother.’

Shit. ‘You’re sure it was from him?’

‘No, sir. It had his name on it. That’s all I know.’

‘The man who brought it round. Did you recognise him?’

‘No, sir. He wasn’t one of the Nerva household’s usual messengers, but that don’t mean nothing. The master and his brother aren’t really on social terms, as it were, so the households don’t mix as a rule. Most of his slaves I’ve never seen.’

‘Where does Nerva live?’

‘Near the harbour, sir. He’s got a house near the harbour.’

The other side of the town centre, in other words: the direction Chlorus had been going when he was murdered. Sweet gods! I gave the guy a couple of silver pieces from my pouch and he darted off back to the Chlorus property. The front door closed behind him.

I needed half a jug of wine, and a place to think. Fast.

I found it just round the corner: a small wineshop in another tree-shaded square, with tables outside and a board that didn’t promise the earth, just two or three good local wines; luckily, we were a bit too far from the fashionable part of Baiae for the golden set to venture. I ordered up a half of Gauranum and a plate of cheese and olives — it was getting late now, and what with Bathyllus’s news I’d skipped lunch — and settled down with my back to the wineshop wall.

Aulus Nerva. Oh, sure, he’d been on the cards from the start — the quarrel that evening with his father, the business over the grain barge (I’d still have to go into that one) — but he was still running light as far as hard proof was concerned. Okay; I wasn’t completely gullible, there was always the obvious possibility that someone had used Nerva’s name as a blind just in case things went pear-shaped. All the same, the original note had been sealed against casual eyes, and it had his signature, which presumably had been genuine enough not to cause Chlorus any suspicions, at the bottom. And if he did plan to slit his brother’s throat Nerva wasn’t stupid enough to send the thing round via one of his own slaves: there were plenty of guys, slave and free, knocking around the streets who’d deliver a message for the price of a cup of wine, no questions asked. I’d be equally a fool to assume it wasn’t from Nerva. So. Let’s start with that angle.

First, the most generous scenario: the whole thing was completely innocent. The two men may not have got on all that well, but they were business partners, after all, and there wasn’t anything particularly remarkable about one of them asking for a meeting. Only in this case there was. What could be so urgent, business-wise, for Nerva to write a note to his brother for delivery after dinner, telling him to drop everything and come round straight away? Especially since in the event Chlorus had ended up dead in an alley five minutes out. And Baiae, unlike Rome, doesn’t have a problem with casual knifemen and muggers.

So scratch the most generous scenario.

Second: what Nerva wanted to discuss had something to do with his father’s death. That scenario was pretty interesting, to say the least. The problem was, I’d no idea what the hell the ‘something’ could have been. From my experience of Nerva and Chlorus, what they were really into was planting knives in each other’s backs. Pulling on the one oar in fraternal harmony was something the two bastards just didn’t do. Except…

I stopped and took a thoughtful swig of the Gauranum.

Except on the subject of Gellia. They both hated her, even to the degree of forgetting their differences. It was all, as far as I could see, that they did agree on.

That was another avenue that I hadn’t finished exploring. Oh, sure, Diodotus was off the hook as an accomplice, but where Gellia was concerned he wasn’t the only fish in the sea. There was Aquillius Florus with his lack of alibi, for a start, and I hadn’t forgotten that when I talked to Diodotus he’d implied that, although the whole family were vipers, Gellia was the worst of the lot. The fact remained that as far as motive went the lady had as good a one as any for putting her husband into an urn, and unlike others the opportunity as well, both personally and through lover-boy Florus. So. Let’s say Nerva had found out something definite to link his stepmother with the killing. He’d want to consult with Chlorus first before going public with it, because although Chlorus might not be exactly sympatico or overflowing with brotherly fellow-feeling he was the family lawyer, he was the thinking type, which I’d bet Aulus wasn’t, particularly, and he’d know about these things. Yeah; new info on Gellia as a reason for the projected meeting was a definite possibility…

Only, like the first scenario, that one didn’t explain why it was Chlorus who’d ended up dead in an alley. Or who had killed him.

Right. Scenario three, the most obvious — and likely — of the lot. Nerva didn’t want to discuss anything with his brother. What Nerva wanted was to get the guy out of the house and somewhere he could murder him in safety and comfort.

Only, again, we were left with the Why? What had Chlorus done to deserve it? Or — which was maybe more likely — what did he have it in his power to do? What had Chlorus known?

I hadn’t the slightest idea. Worse, I didn’t even know if we were talking here about Nerva at all. It could be someone completely different, and probably was. Bugger. I sank another quarter pint of the wine.

On the other hand…

Mother had said — hadn’t she? — when I first asked her about Murena’s family that, according to local gossip, Aulus Nerva had the hots for his brother’s wife, and it went both ways. Now I’d seen Catia for myself, I could believe it: she was definitely Nerva’s type, the bubblehead par excellence, radiating sex even through a mourning mantle. And she didn’t seem even partly cut up about her husband’s death. Okay. Scenario four, last of the bunch. Let’s say Chlorus’s death had nothing to do with Murena’s murder at all; that Chlorus had finally tumbled to it that his brother had his feet under the table at the very least with Catia, and had taken it seriously amiss; that the ‘something’ Nerva had to discuss with him was the future of his marriage, only in sending the note discussion wasn’t exactly what he had in mind…

Shit, no, that was rubbish. Lovers didn’t kill husbands to get them out of the way any more, certainly not in cosmopolitan Baiae where some married couples don’t wake up in the same bed two nights running, let alone sharing. If Nerva and Catia wanted to screw they could do it no problem, without having to go to the lengths of killing Chlorus. And even if they wanted something more permanent, divorce was simple. It might still be sniffed at as infra dig in a few real, old-fashioned, high-pukkah Roman families, but for ninety-nine hundredths of the civilised world…

I stopped.

Old-fashioned, high-pukkah families.

‘Torquatus Senior is a very conventional man.’

I almost groaned. Oh, hell. Oh, no; it couldn’t be that straightforward. That was putting things way out of proportion, even if Catia was a complete snob.

Still, where ultra-pukkah was concerned, you didn’t get better than the Manlii Torquati. They might be broke nowadays, but they still had a pedigree that went back as far as you liked to go. And if push came to shove I could make a case which if it wasn’t sensible was at least rational.

Say Nerva’s interest in his sister-in-law had got beyond the starting line. Chlorus finds out. Being Chlorus and a real poker-up-the-rectum type, he confronts Catia and threatens divorce. Me, having seen both of them now, I’d bet Catia was the real social climber of the pair. Papa Torquatus, she knows, is not exactly going to be turning cartwheels when he hears his boy is marrying into a family where his future mother-in-law is in the process of getting the heave for adultery, and there’s a better-than-average chance that the old guy will decide to blow the whistle on the whole thing and look elsewhere. Having failed to dissuade Chlorus Catia goes to Nerva: can he, um, persuade his brother to see sense and leave things as they are? Maybe Nerva tries it; maybe he doesn’t bother because the two brothers hate each other like poison anyway. And — here was another point in the theory’s favour — if he had killed his father for money and control of the business, knocking off his brother wouldn’t be all that much of a step, and it’d net him — through his brother’s widow, if the grief-stricken lady should choose to remarry — twice his present share of the actual cash and no problems over future business policy…

Yeah; it worked, at least as a theory We’d definitely have to think a lot more carefully about Aulus Nerva.

I’d be going in the direction of the harbour anyway, on the way home. I might as well pay Chlorus’s brother a visit.