Germanicus

2

I thought things over in the litter on the way home. The facts of the case were pretty straightforward. Germanicus had been the nephew and adopted son of the Emperor Tiberius (aka the Wart). At his death the previous year he'd been thirty-four, two years older than his stepbrother Drusus, and Rome's blue eyed darling. After his campaigns in Germany the Wart had sent him east to dicker with the Parthians over Armenia and generally make sure the bastards knew their place and kept to it. Which was where Piso came in.

Calpurnius Piso was the Syrian governor. Syria borders on the Parthian Empire, Armenia and our screen of client kingdoms, so the two were bound to see a lot of each other; which was a pity, because they hated each other's guts. The wives didn't get along either. Piso's Plancina was an arrogant, snobbish bitch with imperial connections who had no intention of playing second fiddle even to a granddaughter of Augustus, while Agrippina could've given even old Cato lessons in character building and made him thank her for the privilege. A situation like that was bound to lead to trouble. Finally Piso had yelled obstruction, thrown his hands in the air and left the province.

Meanwhile Germanicus had fallen ill. He got worse — both he himself and his friends suspecting poisoning and witchcraft — and died accusing Piso and Plancina. After his death Piso made the mistake of trying to shove his way back into power. The attempt didn't come off and he was captured by Germanicus's appointee governor and sent back for trial. Agrippina was on her way back, too, with her husband's ashes.

I remembered the next part myself. The funeral party had arrived in Rome in November. The whole city was in mourning, except, so it seemed, the Wart and his mother who carried on as normal. There'd been no state funeral and no special games; in fact, the Imperials had hardly bothered to go the length of seeing the guy buried. Curious, right? Curious enough for even their biggest supporters' noses to start twitching. Sure I'd thought Livia was guilty, with Tiberius covering for her. If it hadn't been for that business with the altar I'd still think so. Even now I wouldn't've risked a heavy bet.

We'd reached the Septizonium, which is a real bugger to get along ten hours out of the daylight twelve, and the road was jam packed up ahead. The litter slowed to a crawl, and five minutes later we came to a dead stop. Litters aren't really my bag. They're de rigueur when you go visiting and want to arrive with a clean mantle, but generally I can do without them. I had the lads set me down and went the rest of the way on foot. It'd been a long hard winter and a cold spring, but the weather had broken at last and the slopes of the Palatine were beginning to look interesting again. Good walking weather, in other words, if you don't mind the disapproving stares of the fat guys with beefsteak faces who pass you in litters of their own.

So. Piso and Plancina got back just after the Spring Festival to find themselves charged with murder and treason. Not by the Wart: Tiberius was careful to stay neutral. The trial was held privately in the Senate House, with the mob baying for blood at the doors: like I say, Germanicus was everyone's hero and they wanted his murderer's head. They got it. When they couldn't make the poisoning charge stick, Germanicus's pals went all out for a conviction for treason based on Piso's armed revolt after the Caesar's death, which would come to the same thing. As a result, Plancina slipped through the net, but Piso was caught. The bastard suicided before the verdict came in. Case closed.

Only it wasn't, seemingly. Not unofficially, not any more. These might be the facts, but even as facts they stank like fish sauce in a heatwave. Whether Piso was guilty or not, whether the Imperials were involved or not, Germanicus had been murdered. It wasn't just the rumours. Livia had said so, and as an expert on murder they don't come better than the empress. So who had done it, and why?

I turned up Poplicolan Street, heading for my own gate. There was a flower seller on the corner and I bought a bunch of late narcissi for Perilla. Call it a prospective peace offering. A sweet girl, Perilla, but the news that Livia wanted me for a sunbeam was going to go down with her like a slug in a salad. I wished I'd thought of a quick trip to the Argiletum for the latest tome on speculative philosophy, but that would've really made her suspicious. Besides, she'd've read it in bed. Out loud. In preference to anything else.

Crumbs in the mattress I can take. Speculative philosophy at bedtime is a complete bummer.

My head slave Bathyllus had the door open for me before I knocked. He always did, Jupiter knew how; the little bastard could've cleaned up in the prediction business without even breaking sweat. He also had a flask of Setinian and a wine cup waiting in the lobby, as per standing orders. This time the wine was practically neat, because Bathyllus had known where I was going that morning. I hadn't told Perilla, though. She'd only have worried.

'You have a visitor, sir,' he murmured.

'Hmm?' I let the nectar slip past my tonsils and sing its way down towards my sandal straps. Not just neat Setinian, this, but the Special, the strongest I'd got. Bathyllus's prognosticative faculties were shit hot that day. 'What visitor?'

'Your uncle the consul Marcus Valerius Cotta Maximus Messallinus, sir.' He rolled the five names off his tongue. That explained the perfect butler act: Bathyllus was the biggest snob in Rome. 'He's with the Lady Perilla. In the atrium.'

I grinned. 'You lock the spoons up, little guy?'

Bathyllus didn't answer, of course. He just sniffed as he took my mantle and folded it neatly. Sniffing's about all he allows himself to express his disapproval. Mind you, a sniff from Bathyllus hits most people like a clout from a knuckleduster. Not me, I'm immune. And he doesn't even try with Perilla.

I took my flowers, empty cup and wine jug through the hall. Perilla was sitting by the pool. Even in her plain white mantle she looked sexy as hell. Forget the spoons. Anyone with my uncle's tastes and experience wouldn't've given them a second thought. Maybe I should've got back earlier.

'Hi, lady.' I gave her the bunch of narcissi and planted a smacker on top of her smile. 'Uncle Cotta.'

'You carrying that jug around for show, boy, or can anyone join in?' Cotta held up an empty wine cup of his own.

I poured. Perilla was looking at the flowers. Hard.

'Corvinus,' she said. 'What are these, exactly?'

'Uh, they're called flowers. They grow in parks and gardens, you know?' I poured myself another whopper of the Special and drank it down. 'Big open spaces with earth and walls round them. They're a present.'

'Why?'

Gods. I looked at Uncle Cotta. The bastard was grinning like a drain. Perilla wasn't.

'Marcus, dear,' she said, 'I can count the number of times you've brought me flowers on the fingers of one hand. Jewellery, yes. Books, yes. But not flowers. You don't think of them unless you're feeling especially guilty or want something out of the ordinary. So tell me why the flowers, please. Now.'

There was no escape. I sent Uncle Cotta out to look at the garden and told her. Not everything. Just where I'd been. And that I was glad as hell to get back.

'But why didn't you say? Before you went, I mean?' Perilla blew her nose while I tried to get the mascara stains off the front of my best tunic. Bathyllus would have a fit when he saw them. 'Livia could've done anything to you.'

'At her age? Come on, lady!'

'Don't joke.' Another sniffle, but this time cut short: Perilla's got her own pride. 'What did she want?'

So I told her that as well. All of it. I reckoned I was safe enough now to let her have the whole nasty truth.

'Why you? If she really wants to find out who was responsible for her grandson's death there are dozens of better ways to go about it.'

'Hey thanks.' I sat down and poured myself a third cup of the Special. 'Confidence in my powers of deduction always was one of your strong points, lady.'

She kissed me. 'You know perfectly well that's not what I meant.'

I grinned. 'Yeah, sure. So maybe I've got more going for me than you think. Or maybe the old girl's finally hocked her marbles.'

'But you agreed?'

'Of course I agreed. You don't say no to the empress. Not when she's in that mood. Not when she's in any mood.'

Perilla sat down. 'Very well,' she said at last. 'It can't be helped, I suppose. Where do we start?'

I stared at her. '"We"? There's no "we", Perilla. Livia gave me the job. She didn't mention sharing it with sassy divorcees with a down on flowers. Besides, things could get difficult.'

'That's nonsense.'

'Believe it!'

'All right, Corvinus, if you say so.' Her brow creased. 'But if you're going to be brought back on a board one night with your throat cut or sent off to exile in Spain then I'd like to know the reason. Now don't argue, please. We'll discuss it later if we must.'

At that point Cotta came sidling back thirsting for wine and I had to leave it and play the genial host.

Livia, yeah. I can understand what makes her tick, or I can begin to, anyway. But not Perilla. Her I'll never understand. Not if I live to be ninety.