Food for the Fishes

27

I didn’t go round to the Tattius villa next morning until well after breakfast. There was no point in hurrying now. Besides, to yank the lady out of bed for what amounted to an official confrontation would’ve been unnecessary and cruel, and I felt bad enough already about how this business was ending to risk that. Why the hell couldn’t the killer have been Nerva? Him I could’ve handed over to the praetor’s rep without a qualm, and society could’ve done without the bugger, easy.

Instead I got this.

The door-slave passed me on to Stentor, who took me through to Penelope’s sitting-room. She was there already, in her mourning mantle, and she looked up as I came in. There must’ve been something about my face that told her why I’d come, because when our eyes met I saw her flinch and then sort of settle into herself, like a boxer who’s taken a hard punch shakes his head to clear it and squares up again for the rest of the match.

‘Stentor,’ she said quietly. ‘That message I asked you to deliver. Do it now, please.’

‘Yes, madam.’ He bowed and went out.

I watched him go. Yeah, he’d told me he was the mistress’s slave, not the master’s. And I knew now who the friend had been who’d given him to her as a wedding present. I considered my options. I could stop him, sure, but it wouldn’t matter in the end, however it panned out, and I hadn’t cared much for any of them. Either from personal acquaintance or, in the first one’s case, by repute. Leave it.

I turned back. Penelope hadn’t moved. She was sitting still as marble. I nodded, slightly, and it seemed that some of the stiffness went out of her.

‘Valerius Corvinus,’ she said. ‘What brings you here?’

‘Ligurius,’ I said.

She’d been well prepared for it. This time, she didn’t even blink. ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Have a seat.’

I sat down on the chair facing. The window-doors were open again and there was the hint of a breeze blowing in from the garden.

‘He was the Quintus you mentioned,’ I said. ‘The one who you were promised to originally. Only he wasn’t a cousin, and he didn’t die of fever.’

‘Yes,’ she said quietly. She looked down at her hand, at the plain brass ring on her engagement finger, the only one she wore. ‘How did you find out?’

‘Your name. Penelope. Ulysses’s wife.’

She nodded. ‘Ah. So simple.’

‘Your father gave it to you, didn’t he? As a nickname, when you were betrothed to your husband?’

‘Yes.’ She was quite composed. ‘I told him I’d do what he wanted, marry Decimus, but that I’d always regard myself as engaged to Quintus.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He laughed. Said I could please myself who I thought I was engaged to, as long as the marriage went ahead. Then he said he was minded to call me Penelope in future. The faithful Penelope. I told him I didn’t care, that I’d welcome it, in fact. He didn’t like that.’

‘The original engagement. It was official?’

‘Yes. Of long standing, although not a well-publicised one. Gaius and I had been brought up together as children. Gaius’s father was the manager of the farm before him, and his grandfather before that. Not slaves, never slaves, and by that time they were almost family. We’d loved each other for years. It wouldn’t’ve mattered to Father if we’d married: he had two sons already, and an engagement to someone of Gaius’s class would save him an expensive dowry. That was the way he thought.’

‘And Gaius — Ligurius — accepted the situation?’

She smiled. ‘He had no choice. I told you, when we talked before. He was an employee, I was the master’s daughter. Running away together would’ve been pointless, and at least we’d still see each other.’

‘You didn’t…continue the relationship?’

‘No,’ she said simply. ‘Not in the way you mean it. That wouldn’t have been right. But Gaius never married. We saw each other, secretly, from time to time — we still do, of course — though never in compromising circumstances. And Gaius gave me Stentor, so we could keep in touch that way as well. He cost him nearly a year’s wages.’

Jupiter, this was weird! ‘So Ligurius carried on as your father’s manager while you married his partner? And you never started a proper affair?’

‘Never. I suspect Father knew all along that we still kept up, but if he did he didn’t care. He despised Gaius. He called him Anchovy, little fish. Something not worth bothering about.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, I know. How did Ligurius feel about that?’

‘He shrugged it off. Gaius despised my father at least as much as he despised him. He expressed his contempt by doing his job to his own satisfaction and simply ignoring my father otherwise. And my husband.’

‘Murena never thought of sacking him?’

Penelope’s eyes flashed, but she answered in the same level voice. ‘No. Or at least, not to my knowledge. If he had, or if he’d even tried to, he knew I’d make the whole affair public at once, whatever the cost. It might not have caused him any legal problems after all that time, but it would’ve finished him socially in Baiae.’

‘So you knew about Philippus’s deal with Tattius?’

‘Yes, I knew. Too late to do anything about it, but I knew. And I didn’t — don’t — blame Philippus. He was a slave, he took the only chance of betterment that offered. And the result was that my father was being punished after all, in a way. Besides, Gaius is an excellent manager. The farm would have gone into liquidation long since if it weren’t for him. My father knew that too.’

‘Okay.’ I shifted in my chair. ‘What about the actual killing? Your father’s, I mean. Tell me about that.’

‘It was an accident. Or partly so.’ For the first time, she lowered her eyes. ‘There had been an…estrangement for several months between Decimus and my father. Father had bought the Juventius estate and he was planning to build a hotel. It would’ve cost money, of course, a lot of money, and although Father was reasonably well off he couldn’t afford to do it without making economies elsewhere. He told Decimus that he intended to plough the profits from the business for a year or so — all the profits, barring the minimum living expenses — back into funds, to finance the project. My husband was a very greedy man, Corvinus, and also a very stupid one. He accepted the situation at first, or said he did, although with a very bad grace. Finally — we’re talking a few days before the…death, you understand — he had a terrible argument with my father, in Gaius’s presence, over what he called his ‘allowance’. My father was not a man to be bullied. He told Decimus that he was fed up supporting him and that if he didn’t like it he knew what he could do. He also said — and I believe he was joking, but that’s the way Father was when he was angry — that he was surprised that his daughter stayed married to him, and that if she was thinking of a divorce then she had his blessing. Gaius, as I say, heard all of this. He thought things over later and without telling me decided — rather foolishly — that perhaps the time had come to approach my father and suggest we get married after all.’

‘So he went to see him. Privately, and when he knew there’d be no slaves around to overhear. When Murena went down in the evening after dinner to feed the fish.’

‘Yes. He had his own key to the fish farm gate, of course, so he didn’t have to go through the villa entrance.’

‘What happened then?’

‘They talked, and Father laughed at him. Like he always did. Said he hadn’t been serious, and he’d never consider a little fish like Gaius marrying his daughter, under any circumstances. Gaius lost his temper and hit him.’

‘And Murena fell into the tank.’

She was quiet for a long time. Then she said: ‘Yes.’

‘He could still have pulled him out.’

‘He tried to. He got one of those poles with the nets on the end; you know, the ones the slaves use to take out the fish.’ I nodded. ‘Anyway, he was clumsy, and Father was struggling too hard because he couldn’t swim. Besides, the eels got in the way. The end of the pole caught him on the head and knocked him out. Gaius panicked. He tried to use the net end to snare him in, but the net was too small and Father was too heavy. He only succeeded in pushing the body deeper and further away. By the time he did manage to get him close enough to the edge to grab his mantle it was too late, and Father had drowned.’

‘So he decided to leave him where he was, for the eels.’

Her eyes came up, and there were tears in them. Not for her father, though; I knew she wouldn’t cry for him. ‘There was nothing more he could do, Corvinus! Father was dead, Gaius had killed him and as I say he panicked. He went back to the gate and let himself out.’

Yeah, well; it all made sense. Mind you, I had my doubts about the details. I was getting this second hand, from a woman who was in love with him. Me, I wouldn’t’ve put it past Ligurius to have at least helped nature take its course. Although, to be fair, I wouldn’t’ve blamed him much, either. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘What about Chlorus?’

A definite hesitation. ‘Titus’s death was…unfortunate,’ she said finally. ‘But there was nothing Gaius could do there either. He had to kill him.’

Right. Anyway, I reckoned that now I could answer that question myself. ‘Chlorus needed to give himself an alibi,’ I said. ‘He had one already, sure, but it wasn’t one he wanted to use. He was out that evening at his mistress’s, and that was something he didn’t want to become public knowledge. So he went to Ligurius, explained the situation in confidence, and asked him to do him a small favour: say that they’d been together that evening discussing a defaulting customer. Which they genuinely had done, only not that night, the one before. Am I right?’

She nodded, but didn’t speak.

‘Okay. Backing Chlorus’s story would get Ligurius off the hook where I was concerned, no problem. He wasn’t married, he lived alone, so there’d be no other way I could check up. Except via the neighbour, of course. There was that possibility, sure, but it was a risk he had to take, and unless for some reason I chose to disbelieve both him and Chlorus — and why should I do that? — he reckoned he was safe enough, even if I did get round to asking his laundry pal. One evening’s very like another, especially after a few days’ve passed, unless there’s anything to mark it out, like a murder, say. And when I talked to him the guy didn’t mention the murder at all. I should’ve noticed that, and wondered why not; after all, finding your boss half eaten in an eel tank is news your average punter would be itching to pass on to a mate over an evening jug. Only I didn’t do either.’ Yeah, right; moron wasn’t the half of it!

She smiled. ‘No. Gaius didn’t mention Father’s death at the time, for obvious reasons. Then, for the reason you’ve given, he was very careful not to be the first to introduce the subject. His neighbour hardly ever goes out, and there was a good chance he wouldn’t hear of it at all. Which, from what you say, he evidently still hasn’t. Being asked to back my brother’s story was a godsend for Gaius.’

‘Except that when he had time to think things over Chlorus began to smell a rat. Ligurius didn’t owe him anything, they weren’t pals and they didn’t even like each other; so why should he agree to lie on his behalf so easily? Especially where a murder was concerned. Chlorus knew damn well that Ligurius hadn’t been with him that evening like he’d told me, so as things developed he started wondering what he had been doing. And the answer, naturally, was killing Murena.’

‘Yes.’ Penelope’s face was expressionless. ‘Titus…broached the subject with him in private two days after my father’s death. Delicately: Titus had no liking for Father anyway, remember, and he couldn’t care less who had murdered him. Also, I suspect, he rather hoped the crime would be fixed on Gellia or Aulus, and that would have been to his advantage. Having Gaius accused and condemned wouldn’t have benefited him at all, quite the reverse.’ She half-smiled. ‘My brother, Corvinus, was not a nice man. Gaius killed him, yes, but it was in pure self-defence, and he was no loss. Believe me, I’d known him all my life.’

‘Yeah.’ Well, I let that one go: they don’t describe Cupid as blind for nothing. And, again, she had a point. Philippus had been right; that whole family was rotten. Even Penelope had a callous streak a mile wide, and she was the best of them. ‘Now tell me about your husband. Tattius.’

For the first time, she seemed genuinely reticent. If the word wasn’t inappropriate, I’d’ve said she was embarrassed.

‘Decimus was a mistake.’

Yeah, well, I’d guessed as much myself; but the lady was telling this, not me, and I owed her the chance to do it in her own way. I waited.

‘Gaius thought that with my father and brother dead he’d have’ — she hesitated — ‘he would have a chance of our finally marrying. He’d killed twice already. My father’s death, as I told you, was an accident. Titus’s was a necessity. The third…well, the third would be for the good of both of us.’ The tears came again. She made no attempt to hide them, and her face didn’t change. It was still hard as marble. ‘He shouldn’t have done it, Corvinus. It ruined everything. He was a silly, silly man.’

Right. Maybe Ligurius had got a bit too blase about killing, too, but I didn’t say that. The lady had enough problems without me adding to them. ‘Would you have told me?’ I said. ‘If I hadn’t come round today?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think I could have gone that far. Not even to save this Trebbio. All the same, I’d never have married Gaius, not now, whether you’d found out or not. He wouldn’t be the same person. He is — he was, before all this started — a very gentle man. But then, he knows I wouldn’t marry him, not after Decimus. It’s over, for both of us.’

‘You’ve talked to him? Since your husband’s death?’

‘No. Not directly.’ She glanced towards the door; yeah, right: Stentor. ‘I’m glad you came, though. To a certain degree, it takes things out of my hands.’

I stood up. ‘What do you want me to do?’ I said.

She smiled. ‘You mean I have a choice?’

‘I think,’ I said gently, ‘you’ve already made it.’

This time, she didn’t answer. She was staring straight ahead at nothing, lips set tight in a firm line, like a statue, but for the tears on her cheeks.

Patient Penelope. Only what happens when the husband who comes back isn’t the same one that set out?

I paused, hand on the doorknob. Maybe this wasn’t exactly the time, but there was still a loose end to tie up and if I didn’t ask I knew that I’d regret it later.

‘Ah…just one more question,’ I said.

‘Yes?’ The head didn’t turn.

‘The evening Chlorus was killed someone tried to knock me down with a slingstone. It could’ve been Ligurius himself, sure, but he’d’ve been pushed to get back to the town centre for his rendevous with your brother. Compared to everything else it’s not really important, but I was wondering — ’

She half-smiled. ‘I’m terribly afraid, Corvinus,’ she said, ‘that that was me.’

I goggled. ‘It was what?’

‘Quintus couldn’t use a sling to save himself. I can, very well. And a bow, incidentally, although on that occasion I chose a sling because it was far easier to conceal.’ The smile broadened. ‘Don’t look surprised. I was quite a tomboy when I was a child, and I always have been very good at anything involving aiming and throwing.’

‘But why the hell attack me at all?’

‘To kill you, obviously. Or at least hurt you very badly. It was the simplest way to stop you asking questions. If it’s any consolation, however, I’m glad now that I missed. And I realised almost immediately that it had been a mistake.’

Her voice was totally matter-of-fact; we could’ve been talking about the price of fish. Sweet holy Jupiter! Callous was right.

I left her to her thoughts and set out for the fish farm.

I took my time over the journey. There wasn’t any hurry with that, either, and I didn’t want to overtake Stentor. Things were out of my hands, too, by now, and I suspected it was better that way because if they hadn’t been unlike Penelope I wouldn’t’ve had any choices to make.

The guy on the gate let me in. He was white-faced, and he didn’t say much. Slave grapevine: news travels fast.

They’d left him where they’d found him, in the little office. I’d thought — hoped — that when Penelope’s message came he might’ve done a runner. I’d’ve been happy with that; like I say, I didn’t have much sympathy for any of his victims, and to see a guy handed over to the public strangler through my doing doesn’t give me any pleasure at all. But he’d chosen to kill himself instead, which was his only other option under the circumstances. Probably, for Ligurius, it’d been the only option he’d considered. A knife under the chin is quick, and he’d lost it all, anyway.

I wasn’t going to go up to the villa; no way was I going there. Gellia could find out the results of the investigation through official channels. The same went for Nerva. I supposed I really should report to the town officer, tell him what I knew, get his congratulations and wrap the whole thing up…

Bugger it. The loose ends could wait. What I really felt like now was getting smashed out of my skull at Zethus’s and then going home.