Food for the Fishes

25

I hadn’t been to Zethus’s for a couple of days, not since the punch-up with Philippus’s heavy. This time of day — late afternoon, by now — there was a fair smattering of regulars drinking round the bar, including the loud-mouthed Alcis and my pal Lucius who’d driven me to the doctor’s.

‘Hey, look what the cat’s dragged in,’ Alcis said. Original as ever.

‘How’s the rib, Corvinus?’ Lucius raised his winecup at me.

‘Not bad.’ I went over to the bar, opened my purse and put the money on the counter. ‘Still there, last time I looked. Half a jug out of that, Zethus.’

‘Sure.’ Zethus hefted the wine jar out of its rack and filled the jug. ‘How’s the case going?’

‘All right.’ I poured, sank the first one down and poured again. ‘We’re getting there.’

‘Only Trebbio was asking.’

Shit. I kept forgetting Trebbio, and he was the reason for this after all. Still, he couldn’t blame me on the effort score. ‘He okay?’

‘Happy as a kid in a sandpit. He’s made pals with the jailers and decided he’s better off where he is than he would be at home. Sobered up, too, although that isn’t all his doing. We see he gets his wine regular, but not too much.’

Yeah, well, if he was doing well and becoming a model citizen then that was fine. At least he couldn’t’ve done the other two murders, but until the local authorities had someone definite to pin the Murena rap on they wouldn’t be too keen to let him loose.

‘Hear there’s another of these bastards gone,’ Alcis said. ‘The son. Chlorus. Unlucky family, that.’

‘Make that three,’ I said. ‘Decimus Tattius was killed this morning.’

There was a hushed silence. Then one of the other barflies — I didn’t know his name — whistled softly between his teeth and spat on the sawdust.

‘What happened?’ Zethus said.

‘Someone knifed him in his own garden.’

‘Really, really unlucky.’ Alcis shook his head. ‘There’ll be none of them left soon. Pity.’

‘Who do you think did it, Corvinus?’ That was Zethus again. ‘You got any theories?’

‘Uh-uh. Nothing definite, anyway.’ Nothing I wanted to share at present with the loose-mouthed clientele in this hotbed of gossip, certainly. I picked up the jug and winecup. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I want to sit and think.’

‘Cerebrate,’ said Alcis.

‘Right. Whatever.’

I took the wine to the table in the corner and sat down.

Okay; so what had we got? Where Tattius’s murder in isolation was concerned, once you discounted Stentor’s evidence about the lady being in her room all morning Penelope was the odds-on favourite by a mile. She knew Tattius’s habits, she knew up there by the grotto the chances of an accidental witness to the stabbing were pretty slim, and she had easy — and private — access to the back garden through her own windows. So opportunity — and motive — both in spades. On the other hand, if she had murdered her husband — and she’d hated him bad enough — we were back to the old objection: why do it now? Also, I wouldn’t put her down as the murdering type. Her father, sure, I’d stretch a point on him if I was pressed, but not Tattius, and certainly not Chlorus, not unless she’d had a really strong reason for getting rid of him that I didn’t know about. There was that…softness as well, when I’d talked to her earlier. I could be wrong, sure, and certainly it went against all my expectations of how things ought to have been, but I’d say that Penelope genuinely regretted her husband’s death.

Not Penelope, then. The obvious candidate for Tattius — by extension, anyway — was Nerva. After all, I’d practically made him for the first two killings, and the third fitted the pattern.

So first the how. That was simple: I only had his door-slave’s word for it (or rather he only had Nerva’s) that the guy had gone to Bauli at all. He could easily have sloped up to Tattius’s villa, waited for him to take his usual constitutional in the grounds — there was no reason to assume he couldn’t have known about that — stepped out of cover and stabbed him. Then ridden on to Bauli — it wasn’t far, only two or three miles, and he was on the right side of town — to establish some sort of alibi.

The why was more tricky.

Me, I’d like to have known who suggested that appointment. The situation wasn’t like it’d been with Chlorus: a note sent to get the guy out of the house, going in a particular direction at a particular time when he could be waylaid and murdered. Tattius’s appointment had been for noon, and he’d been killed at home long before he was due to set out.

So my guess was that it wasn’t Nerva who’d suggested the meeting but Tattius.

That would make sense. With Murena dead, Tattius has lost the goose that lays the golden eggs. Sure, as a partner he’d still get his fair cut of the profits, but Nerva wasn’t his father. Whether Tattius was actually blackmailing Murena or, more likely, that the old guy just felt he owed in the good Roman tradition wasn’t relevant: the upshot — until latterly, anyway — was that Tattius was raking money in over the odds; certainly more than he was putting back. He wouldn’t get away with that with Nerva. To begin with, he didn’t have anything on the guy…

I stopped, my scalp prickling

Or there again maybe he did. Which was what killed him. Or helped to kill him.

Put that one on hold for a moment, stick with the main theory. I took a long swallow of wine to lubricate the brain cells.

Okay. Tattius didn’t have anything on Nerva that he could use as a lever. Worse, Nerva wasn’t the generous type, and he couldn’t afford to be, not with his up-and-coming expenses re the grain barge, so what money there was lying around was carefully earmarked. The last thing Nerva’s going to do under the circumstances is hand out cash he badly needs himself as capital investment to a neverwozzer who hasn’t done a hand’s turn for the company since he became a partner. If Tattius tries to put the bite on this time he’s going to get the dull thud. Consequently, he’s further up shit creek than ever, there ain’t a paddle in sight, and he knows it.

Yeah. So maybe he does have something on Nerva. Or thinks he can con him into thinking he does, which would be shyster Tattius all over. The meeting with his banker in Neapolis, I’d bet, wasn’t coincidence. Or not pure coincidence, anyway: he’d’ve wanted to make sure just exactly what his current financial position was before he talked to Nerva, but he’d arrange the appointment for as soon after that as possible. So he drops some heavy hints before he goes that Nerva had better see him, for his own good, as soon as he gets back, and be prepared to fork out a realistic amount of the readies when he’s asked for them. Or else. Which in the event was a very silly thing to do with a guy like Nerva, because -

I stopped again, this time like I’d run into a brick wall.Gods!

She’d known! Penelope had known!

That comment she’d made, under her breath, when she’d pulled the sheet up on her husband’s corpse. She’d called Tattius a silly, silly man. Sure he had been: he’d tried to blackmail Nerva, and it’d got him an urn.

Only if Penelope knew that much, then what else did she know that she wasn’t telling? And why wasn’t she telling it? There was no love lost between her and her brother, not her and any of the family, including her husband. Why should she protect Nerva? Fear? Yeah, well, that’d be reasonable, even sensible, especially if she knew more than she was saying; but from my assessment of the lady she wasn’t afraid of very much. She’d publicly accused her father of murder when she was hardly any more than a kid, after all. And I’d bet even then she was aware of the possible consequences.

I took another swallow of wine, emptying the cup, and poured myself a refill.

No, not fear. Not Penelope. Maybe just a simple sense of decency.

That, when you got right down to it, was the central thing about Penelope: the lady was decent, in the best sense of the word: a real straight-down-the-line, old-fashioned, stiff-backed Roman matron. Even though she hated her husband and knew why she’d been married to him she’d kept to the conventions — publicly, at least — for almost thirty years. Even at the end she could say, almost in the same breath, ‘I hated him’ and ‘Rest his bones’. So what could a lady like that have told me? That her husband was a blackmailer and her brother a murderer? Uh-uh; she wouldn’t do it, not for their sakes but for her own. If I wanted to find those things out, I could find them out for myself.

That didn’t excuse Aulus Nerva, though. No way. It was time me and Nerva had a serious chat. ‘Late afternoon’, his door-slave had told me. Well, it was late afternoon now, and if he wasn’t back from Bauli yet I’d camp on the bastard’s doorstep until he was.

There was another cupful in the jug. I finished that, took the jug and cup back to Zethus at the bar, said goodbye and left.

He’d arrived, just, and — so the major-domo said — was changing into a lounging-tunic upstairs. If I’d like to wait in the atrium he’d be right down. He brought me a cup of the second-grade Falernian and I passed the time looking at the wall-paintings.

Like I said, they were heavy on the nymphs-and-seductive-gods theme, with lots of boobs and bare thighs on view: Daphne and Apollo, Leda and Zeus, one biggie with a general free-for-all between nymphs and satyrs. Strong stuff for a public atrium, although maybe less so in Baiae. The quality of the painting, though, was like his choice of wine: flashy and second-rate.

He came down about twenty minutes later.

‘Ah, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Admiring the artwork? I had it done last year. Quite a promising young painter, I thought.’

‘Yeah.’ I turned away. The major-domo followed him in with the wine-jug, poured and handed him a cup, topped mine up and exited.

‘I hear you — or rather your wife — took a packet off Sextus Florus yesterday evening at Philippus’s. Congratulations.’

‘Thanks. You’ve talked to him? Florus, I mean?’

‘No. I ran into a mutual friend in Bauli who saw the game.’ So he wouldn’t know yet that Philippus was after him with a rusty hatchet. A pleasure yet to come. Well, maybe that was the least of the bastard’s troubles, and I wasn’t surprised that Florus wasn’t exactly busting a gut to make contact, either. Knowing you’ve peached on a multiple killer is a pretty compelling reason for keeping your head down

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It was a good match. I’m sorry you missed it.’ I was; seeing Florus getting his come-uppance had been good, but Nerva would’ve been better.

He was watching me, frowning. ‘I understand you made a rather curious side bet. Towards the end.’

‘That’s right.’ I took my wine over to one of the couches — red plush upholstery and too much gilding — and lay down. ‘That’s why I’m here. Plus the fact, of course, that Decimus Tattius was knifed early this morning.’

‘So my major-domo told me. Dreadful business.’ He settled down on the couch opposite. ‘I was away too early to get Penelope’s message, naturally. The news came as quite a shock.’

Again. Yeah; they’d had quite a few quite a shocks in the last few days, that family, and I didn’t believe in the shock element for any of them. ‘You don’t seem too upset about it. If you don’t mind me saying so.’

He shrugged. ‘Tattius was my father’s friend, not mine. I never did care for him much, and he’s certainly no loss business-wise. The fact of his murder, though, that’s another thing entirely.’

‘You, ah, had a meeting arranged with him, I understand. For noon today.’

That got me a long considering stare. Finally, he said: ‘Yes. Tattius proposed it before he left for Neapolis.’

‘But you went to Bauli instead?’

‘The meeting was Tattius’s idea, not mine. I’d already made my arrangements. And frankly there wasn’t any point changing them to suit him.’

‘What did he want to talk about?’

‘Money. What else did Decimus Tattius ever want to discuss?

‘Specifically?’

Another long stare. ‘I’m sorry, Corvinus,’ he said, ‘but that’s really none of your concern. It was private, between him and me. Now he’s dead it doesn’t matter anyway.’

‘He wanted a bigger slice of the company profits?’

He hesitated, like he was weighing up whether to answer or not. Then he said: ‘Yes, as a matter of fact. Tattius always wanted more than his fair share. Under my father’s regime he got it, but times and circumstances have changed. If he’d done a corresponding share of the work I might’ve been more amenable. As things are, I wasn’t inclined to be, or even to discuss the matter. That’s the end of it. Now if you’ve got any other reason for this visit I’d be glad if you’d state it. If not — ’

‘I was through in Puteoli this morning. Having a talk with a man called Gaius Frontinus.’

He put down the winecup. ‘How dare you!’

‘Seemingly you took out a loan secured against your future prospects. Payable on your father’s death and your inheritance.’

He was coldly furious now. ‘Corvinus, this is — !’

‘You signed the agreement the same day as Murena’s murder. Oh, sure, you’d be responsible for the first month’s interest, but you’re in a position now to pay off the principal straight away. That’s pretty lucky, isn’t it? The way things have worked out.’

He was on his feet. I thought he was going to come across and go for me, and I stiffened. However, if he was he thought better of it, because he sat down again.

‘Did Sextus tell you this?’ he said.

‘You mean, did he point me towards Frontinus? No.’ He had, sure, but he hadn’t been the first. And much though I despised Florus I didn’t want to put the finger on him where I didn’t have to. ‘But the information’s right, isn’t it?’

‘If you’re accusing me of murdering my father just so I could — !’

‘It gives you a prime motive, pal.’ Masks off; we were glaring at each other now. ‘You were stuck for cash to finance your grain barge scheme. Paying the interest on a loan that size, long-term, would’ve crippled you. You tried your father the afternoon of his death, but he turned you down in spades. You’ve got no alibi for that murder, or your brother Chlorus’s, and I bet, friend, that if I was to do a bit of checking in Bauli you wouldn’t have an alibi for this morning, either. Now tell me I’m wrong.’

He was quiet for a long time, and if looks could kill I’d’ve been cold pork. Finally, he said: ‘All right, Corvinus. I will. What makes you think I don’t have an alibi? For all of these times?’

‘Oh, come on, pal! It’s a bit late now, isn’t it? You could’ve — ’

‘Actually, I do. A perfectly good one. Three, in fact, although they all involve the same person.’

Gods! Well, I had to give him full marks for nerve, anyway. ‘Look, pal,’ I said. ‘Let’s just tick them off, shall we? Two days ago, when I met you and Florus in Philippus’s gambling hall, you tried to claim that that was where you’d been the night your father was killed. I checked with the staff, and you didn’t set foot in the place all evening. Now do you want to move on to the second on the song-sheet, or can we just cut the crap?’

I thought maybe that might’ve fazed him, but it didn’t. Not at all. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘That’s right. Yes, I did try to lie on that occasion, although not for the reason you may think.’

‘Is that so, now?’

He picked up the winecup and took a swallow. ‘The lady’s name is Pollia Rufina,’ he said. ‘She’s Sextus Florus’s cousin’s wife. The man we’re negotiating to buy the barge through.’

My brain went numb. ‘What?’

‘We — ah — met in the early stages of the deal. The husband works at the fleet headquarters in Misenum, but they live in Bauli, so he’s away from home quite a lot. Rufina gets lonely. I go over there when it’s convenient to cheer her up.’ He drank some more of his wine. ‘That’s where I was this morning, if you’re interested. Where I was, in fact, on both previous occasions. Rufina won’t exactly be thrilled about providing confirmation, but I’m sure she will, if you ask nicely.’

Oh, shit. He sounded convincing as hell. ‘So why the secrecy?’

‘I’d’ve thought that was obvious. The lady’s husband doesn’t know and would be livid if he did, probably to the degree of divorce. Nor does Sextus, and I can’t trust either that idiot’s sense of family loyalty or his flapping mouth far enough to tell him.’

‘I thought you were involved with Catia.’

‘Oh, I am.’ He smiled. ‘I have been for some time. But Catia does get rather…tiresome with prolonged exposure. You’ll appreciate that, you’ve met her. She also has an extremely jealous and possessive nature. On the other hand, she does have her good points, and the fact that she’s — she was — Titus’s wife added a little spice to the affair. So as you’ll understand I didn’t and don’t want her to find out, either.’ The smile broadened to a grin. ‘Don’t look so surprised, Corvinus. These things are commonplace in Baiae. Even Brother Titus had a mistress.’

‘He what?’

‘Oh, yes. He didn’t know I knew. He didn’t think anyone knew, which I doubt if anyone did, including Catia. Or would care, for that matter. It wasn’t exactly a grand passion in any case. She’s in her late forties, very plain, married to a haberdasher near the Puteoli gate, and she’s got a most unwomanly interest in finance. I suspect they spent their evenings when hubby was out discussing bookkeeping, because I doubt if either she or Titus would be interested in anything more strenuous. Or up to it, either.’ He put the winecup down. ‘As I said, you can check on me with Rufina if you like. I’ll tell you where she lives and give you a note for her which you can read before I seal it. Or dictate the wording yourself, if you prefer and don’t trust me. Under the circumstances, I don’t think I have any option. Only do be very discreet, please. As I told you, the husband doesn’t know, and it would be very embarrassing for me personally and business-wise if he found out. Now, if that’s all you wanted I won’t keep you any longer.’

He stood up, still smiling.

Me, I was feeling like the bottom had dropped out of the world.

Bugger; there went the case.