Germanicus

10

By the time I got to the Saepta I was in a muck sweat, with my cloak and tunic in a state that would have Bathyllus climbing the wall when he saw me. Not the best condition for a visit to one of Rome's most exclusive shopping districts, but where the alternatives are keeping up my reputation as a narrow-striper and facing Perilla with a job undone then elegance loses hands down. Phlebas's was at the far end, just short of the Virgan Aqueduct, half way up a cul-de-sac whose entrance was an anonymous narrow gap between two fashionable goldsmiths. Not a prime site, in other words, but that meant nothing except that Phlebas was a smart cookie who watched his overheads and knew his market. His customers were rich oddballs like Priscus who'd rather collect than eat, and a clientele like that is a licence to coin money. The guy was already making enough to run a house on the Pincian and a fast mistress whose collecting tastes were as far from Babylonian clay tablets as you can get; which wasn't bad going for an ex-slave who'd started out selling junk from a stall in the Subura. But then, that's modern Rome for you. Give him another ten years and he'd probably be making the Wart an offer for his little place on the Palatine.

The shop was small and cramped, with just enough floor space to collapse on when you checked out the price tags. When I went in the man himself was dealing with another customer, so I poked around the larger stock arranged down the nearside wall. It was eccentric stuff: a podgy basalt lion like a kid's smudged drawing, a life-sized wooden statue of an Egyptian in a loincloth, and a hatchet-faced Athene complete with constipated owl. Not my style at all. Good garden ornaments, maybe, but too heavy to lug all the way to the Caelian, and pricey as hell. The knick-knacks on the shelves were more promising, and a lot cheaper; meaning the prices didn't overrun the labels. I picked up a small bronze incense burner shaped like a goose, checked the tag (no more than twice what I expected) and carried it over to the counter. Fast work. Maybe I'd be back home in time for a pre-dinner cup of wine after all.

'I'll be with you in a moment, sir,' Phlebas said.

'Yeah, okay.' I jiggled the bronze goose in my hand and tried to look as if I'd got all the time in the world.

I'd probably need it. The other guy had his back to me, and spread out on the counter between him and Phlebas were a dozen ivory door plaques. The two of them were debating the fors and againsts of each one in painful detail. Moment, nothing; there went the wine. Still, you have to be polite, and no one likes a queue-jumper. I went back to staring out the cross-eyed lion.

Ten minutes later they were still going strong. Politeness is one thing, but I was getting desperate; any longer and I'd have to turn up at Priscus's bathless, stinking of sweat and looking like an alley-cat's leavings, which was more than my life was worth: Bathyllus would die of shame, Perilla probably wouldn't even speak to me for a month, and my mother would be pointedly sending me clothes as Winter Festival presents for the next ten years. So with the goose in one hand and a gold piece in the other I stepped up to the counter and cleared my throat.

Phlebas gave me a warning look but I ignored him and tapped the customer's shoulder.

'Uh, excuse me, friend,' I said in my politest voice. 'You mind if I just pay for this and go?'

Phlebas's face set like concrete as his favoured customer turned round slow enough to give me time to realise I'd just made the biggest mistake since Remus jumped his brother's wall.

The guy buying door plaques was Aelius Sejanus.

'As a matter of fact,' he said, 'I do.'

Uh-uh. I swallowed and took half a step back. The caution was natural: you didn't crowd the Wart's favourite, whoever you were, and all Rome knew it, Sejanus especially, and not only for political reasons. The guy was built like a full-sized Polycleitus original, out of pure Parian marble. One squeeze in the wrong place and you could kiss your ribs goodbye. There was no comeback, either.

He set the base of his spine against the counter and folded his arms. The counter creaked, and I could hear seams give in his tunic.

'Maybe you didn't notice, friend,' he said slowly, 'but I'm negotiating a purchase here.'

'I realise that, sir,' I said, 'but-'

He stopped me. 'You're Messallinus's son, aren't you?'

'Yeah. Yeah, that's right.' Bugger; so much for anonymity.

'Then I'd've thought your father would've taught you better manners. He's licked enough arse in his time.'

Phlebas drew in his breath: I may've been in the wrong, but politeness goes both ways and there're some things that just aren't said, even if they're true. Especially if they're true.

'We may have our differences, sir,' I said quietly, 'but Marcus Valerius Messallinus is a highly respected ex-consul. And arse-licking has never been confined to consulars.'

He blinked; he hadn't expected me to answer him back, let alone with an insult of my own. Nor, for that matter, had I. But no one, no one, insults family and gets away with it. I took another step backwards, this time to give myself fighting room. Behind me a stone statue that was probably worth half the Aventine jiggled on its pedestal. Phlebas opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it.

Sejanus was looking at me like I'd just squirmed out of the Tiber on six legs and bitten him.

'I doubt if the Emperor would put me on a par with your father, boy,' he said at last. 'Respected ex-consul or not. There're some services more useful to the state than straddling a curule chair for a year.'

'More profitable too.' Jupiter! This couldn't be me talking. The guy only had to whisper a word or two in the Wart's ear to have me dining on beets in Lusitania.

Sejanus's face darkened. For a moment I thought I'd gone too far. Then, suddenly, it cleared again. He laughed and shrugged his massive shoulders.

'All right,' he said. 'Perhaps I'm in no real hurry after all. The Emperor's present can wait.' He turned back to Phlebas. The shopkeeper was stone-faced as one of his own statues: new money may talk in Rome, but it knows when to keep its mouth shut. 'Go ahead. Phlebas. Make the sale.'

Without a word, Phlebas checked the tag and slipped the gold piece into his strongbox. He didn't ask me if I wanted the goose gift-wrapped.

'Nice piece.' Without asking my permission, Sejanus took the incense burner and turned it over in his hands. 'For yourself? Or for that new wife of yours?'

I kept the surprise out of my face, or at least I hoped I did: for Sejanus to know your family details wasn't exactly a healthy sign.

'Neither,' I said. 'A birthday present for my stepfather.'

'Ah, yes. Old Helvius Priscus.' He passed the goose back. 'I'm sure he'll be delighted. Wish him happy returns from me.'

I tucked the goose into one of the few remaining folds in my mantle and turned to leave.

'Thanks,' I said.

'Don't mention it.' I'd been talking to Phlebas, but if the big guy wanted to think it was meant for him I wasn't going to argue. I'd played the hero enough for one day. All I wanted was to go. 'Oh, and Corvinus?'

The use of my name jerked me round.

'Yeah?'

'It's a shame you don't take after your father in other ways. We could use you. The state, I mean. Tiberius has always appreciated young men with balls.'

Maybe there hadn't been two sides to the remark, but he was grinning. Not a pleasant grin, either. I didn't trust myself to answer. Instead I gave him a wave and made for the door.

'Think about it,' Sejanus called after me. 'You know where to find us.'

I left, quickly. I could still feel his eyes on me half way to Agrippa's Baths.