In at the Death

24

I was up in good time, two hours before dawn at least; to tell the truth, I hadn’t slept all that much. Perilla was awake and around too. She hadn’t slept much either.

‘Be careful,’ she said as she kissed me goodbye.

‘You’ve got it, lady.’ I checked the knife taped to my forearm — carrying a sword inside the city limits is strictly illegal, and I was in enough trouble already — and whistled up the Wrecking Crew. They were the biggest, meanest half dozen Bathyllus’s team of skivvies could provide, built like the doors on the State Treasury and more than twice as thick. Mind you, I wasn’t taking them for their powers of conversation. Apropos of which: ‘Okay, boys? All got your sticks?’

‘Yeah, boss.’ The leader grinned. He’d lost a few teeth here and there, but the effect was balanced by his broken nose and shaved head.

‘Fine. So let’s go walkies.’

Pompey’s theatre is the other side of the Capitol, in Mars Field near Tiberius Arch; in other words, a long hike from the Caelian. We weren’t bothering with torches: there was a full moon, no footpad in his right mind was going to cross six very hefty buggers just begging for the chance to try out their new toys, and in any case in the lead-up to dawn the streets were full of wheeled carts making their deliveries and plain-tunics en-route to work. We got some strange looks on the way over — you don’t see purple-stripers out and about much before the second hour — but again because of the Wrecking Crew most punters gave us the pavement to ourselves. The sky was just beginning to lighten when we reached the Temple of Hercules and the Muses just shy of the theatre complex.

The doors of the theatre were open. That was my first surprise. The second, when I went inside, was that there were no slaves about. That was weird. An open door in a public building first thing in the morning means the bought help are up and around polishing the floors or sweeping the steps and generally making sure that the place is respectable and heart-of-the-empire standard. Not a soul. Zero. Zilch.

I checked that my knife was loose in its sheath, motioned the Wrecking Crew to stick close behind, and climbed the stairs to the auditorium. The sun was up now, although it was hidden by the Capitol rise, and when I got out into the open air I could see clearly along the ranks of seats. No one. Nothing.

Shit.

Fair enough. There was no point in skulking around. I put my hands round my mouth and shouted: ‘Soranus!’

A flock of sparrows flew out of the cavea to one side of the stage far below me. Nothing else moved. Bugger; it had been a wasted journey.

Or had it?

I looked down at the stretch of paving that separated the stage proper from the lowest half-circle of seats. In front of the raised stage platform, at ground level, there was a line of statues. Propped against one of them was…

The hairs on the back of my neck rose.

‘Fuck!’

‘Trouble, boss?’ That was the head slave of the Wrecking Crew. He sounded pleased.

‘Down we go, lads,’ I said. ‘Keep your eyes skinned.’

Yeah, sure; it could’ve been one of the theatre skivvies sleeping on the job: he was too far away for me to see his face clearly. And pigs might fly.

I went down the gangway to the senatorial seats, lowered myself carefully over the barrier onto the orchestra floor, and crossed towards the stage platform. The Wrecking Crew followed.

Yeah, that was Soranus all right, and he was definitely an ex-blackmailer: his throat had been cut ear to ear. No blood, though, on the paving-stones at least, barring a couple of smears. This corpse had been dumped. Well, I couldn’t say it was altogether unexpected; the whole setup had stunk from the beginning, and a corpse at the end of it had been one of the possibilities.

It’s funny how your mind registers little things at a time like this. For me, then, it was the bare knees of the statue above him. Diana the Huntress, in her short dress and wreath, poised and about to throw her javelin. The statue looked quite new, the bronze hardly tarnished. Soranus’s head was propped against the goddess’s legs.

Then I noticed something odd. Yeah, well, you know what I mean.

The guy’s right arm was stretched out straight in front of him and to one side, the hand clenched into a fist and resting knuckles-down on the orchestra floor, like he was holding something out towards me. I reached down and prised the fingers apart: either he hadn’t begun to stiffen properly yet or he’d been killed quite a while ago, because they opened fairly easily.

Soranus was holding a silver piece.

I sat back on my heels to think. Bugger; what was going on here? It got weirder by the minute. If the body had been dumped, as it had, then why — ?

‘Sir! Sir!’

I looked round. An old guy — obviously a slave, from his tunic — was hobbling towards me along the line of the platform. I reached down and took the coin from Soranus’s hand, then stood up to wait for him.

‘You’re Valerius Corvinus, sir?’ he said.

‘Uh…yeah. Yeah, that’s me.’ Jupiter! Weird was right! ‘How the hell — ?’

‘I was told to wait for you, sir.’ The guy was white and shaking, and it wasn’t just old age, either. ‘Until you’d found the — ’ His eyes slid to what was left of Soranus, then back to my face. Whatever he saw there can’t exactly have been reassuring, because he took a step back. ‘Believe me, sir, I didn’t…I had nothing to do with…’

‘You want us to beat him up, boss?’ The head of the Wrecking Crew again. I had to hand it to these guys. They’d taken finding a dead man with his throat slit in their stride like it happened every day of the month. Not a grunt from any of them. Phlegmatic isn’t the word. Maybe ‘bovine’ covered it.

‘No. No, that’s okay,’ I said. Then, to the slave: ‘Tell me.’

‘They brought the body in a cart, sir, about an hour ago. I was…I sleep in one of the booths beside the entrance. They must’ve known that, sir, because they woke me up and told me to open the door.’ His teeth were chattering. The fact that the Wrecking Crew to a troll were standing close beside him fondling their sticks can’t’ve helped his confidence that he’d come out the other side of this intact much either.

‘You’re the caretaker?’

‘Yes, sir. Almost all my life, ever since the Divine Augustus rebuilt the theatre, sir.’ His hand pawed at my tunic. ‘Sir, I’ve told you the gods’ truth! Don’t let me be tortured! I didn’t kill him!’

‘Look, no one’s going to torture you, pal, okay?’ I said. ‘Right. So who were “they”?’

‘Two men, sir. Big-built, about your age, sir, or a bit older. One called the other Quintus. They said if I called the Watch before you came, or if I warned you, they’d come back and…Sir, I don’t know any more! Please!’

No, he probably didn’t, and he was obviously close to wetting himself as it was. No point in terrorising the guy further. Besides, I knew who the killers were: they hadn’t made any secret of it, quite the reverse. Which was weird in itself. ‘It’s okay, pal,’ I said. ‘You’re off the hook. Go and call the Watch now. Oh, and they’ll want to know the dead man’s name. Tell them Mucius Soranus. He lives — lived — over on the Cipian near Livia Porch.’

‘And…I know your name, sir, but you live..?’

‘On the Caelian, foot of Head of Africa. They can find me if they want to. I doubt they’ll bother, though.’ Not if the head of the Ninth Region Watch was anything like Titus bloody Mescinius, that was. Gods! What a mess!

Well, there wasn’t much more I could do here, was there?

Home.

Perilla was waiting. She ran across the atrium floor and hugged me tightly. She was white as an unused dishrag.

‘You’re all right?’ she said.

‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. No problems.’

‘What happened? Did you see Soranus?’

I unpeeled her. ‘Yes and no.’

‘Yes and no?’

I told her.

‘It was your stonemasons?’ she said when I’d finished. ‘You’re certain?’

‘Couldn’t be anyone else. The whole thing was a setup. Surprise surprise.’ I stretched out on the couch and poured a cup of Setinian from the jug Bathyllus had handed me at the door. ‘Never mind. At least I didn’t get killed or beaten up.’

‘Marcus, don’t joke! Please!’

‘Well, it was always a possibility. Still, that wasn’t the purpose of the exercise, was it?’

‘No.’ She gave a little shiver and sat down on the couch opposite, hands clenched. ‘So what was, do you think?’

‘Search me. Some sort of message, sure, that much is obvious. But what kind? A warning? “Lay off or you’ll be next”?’

‘Marcus!’

‘Yeah, well.’

The lady had got a bit of her colour back, although she still didn’t look exactly happy and her fingers were still wound together. ‘Your pseudo-stonemasons,’ she said. ‘What were their names again?’

‘Aponius and Pettius. At least, those were the names they gave me.’

‘Yes. They did save your life last time. That doesn’t fit with a warning, does it?’

‘Nothing about this case fucking fits!’

‘Gently, dear. There’s no point in getting angry.’ She took a deep breath and let it out. ‘Or upset.’ Her fingers untwined themselves. ‘Let’s be logical. If it wasn’t a warning, then what kind of message was it?’

‘Jupiter, Perilla, I already said, I don’t know! Anyway, what kind of sick brain sends messages using a corpse?’

‘It isn’t just that. The whole situation is…odd.’

‘You’re telling me.’ I took a swallow of wine. Nectar! All the way to Mars Field and back in a morning had left me with a throat dry as a leather strap.

Perilla was looking pensive and twisting at her hair. Good sign; a thinking Perilla I can cope with. The other kind makes me nervous.

‘To begin with, why Pompey’s theatre?’ she said. ‘Soranus was practically a neighbour of ours. They could have left his body anywhere. Why choose the other side of Rome, especially if the whole point was simply to have you find it?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I was wondering that myself. Maybe it was just a quiet, out-of-the-way place.’

‘There are quiet, out-of-the-way places far closer to the Caelian than Mars Field, Marcus, especially at that time of the morning. Besides, Pompey’s theatre isn’t exactly isolated.’

‘Okay. Then maybe he was killed close by. Decoyed to somewhere in the neighbourhood some time yesterday, bumped off and shelved for delivery first thing. Certainly that explains the dawn meeting. They’d have to use a cart to transport the body, and that means a dusk-to-dawn timeslot.’

‘It’s possible. But still, the distance wouldn’t matter. They’d have all night to do it, and it’s unlikely they’d be stopped by the Watch because from sunset to first light the streets are full of carts. Besides, if the murder was committed nearby they wouldn’t want to advertise the fact.’

‘Okay, Aristotle.’ I took another sip of the wine. ‘I’m open to suggestions.’

She took a long time answering. Then she said slowly: ‘I think it’s more complicated than that. It’s more of a code. Or a puzzle.’

‘Jupiter’s holy balls, lady! Why should guys like Aponius and Pettius set me a puzzle? They’re sodding — ’

‘Marcus. Stop it, please. I don’t mean the actual killers, of course I don’t. I mean whoever sent them, whoever was behind the murder. Mind you, to be honest I don’t see why they should bother either. This isn’t a game.’

‘Too right it isn’t! Bloody hell!’ I reached for the jug.

‘Nevertheless.’ Perilla’s hand went back to her curl. ‘Just calm down and let’s think. Pompey’s theatre. What’s special about Pompey’s theatre?’

I grinned. ‘You’re on your own there, sunshine.’

‘Very well. It’s the oldest stone theatre in Rome, originally built by Pompey on the model of the theatre at Mytilene and renovated by Augustus. Anything else?’

‘Perilla — ’

‘All right. Perhaps not that, then. Theatres in general. What do they call to mind?’

‘Actors? Acting? Plays?’ I frowned. ‘Tragedies. Comedies. Masks.’

‘Fine. That’s better. Masks. People pretending to be someone they’re not. Acting out a play that isn’t real. Possible? Anything suggest itself?’

‘Uh-uh. Besides, the body wasn’t on the stage.’

‘Ah. Good point.’

‘I’m sorry, but this isn’t helping, lady.’

‘No. No, perhaps it isn’t.’ The curl knotted, and she began prising the hairs apart with her fingernails. ‘But there must be something.’

‘He was leaning against a statue.’ The fingernails stopped. Her mouth opened, then closed. ‘Perilla?’

‘No. It was just a…’ She shook her head. ‘Never mind, it’ll come again if it’s important. What kind of statue? Who to?’

‘Diana. Diana as Huntress.’

‘So a woman’s statue?’

‘Of course a fucking — !’

‘Marcus! Hunting. Women.’ The tangle came free. ‘Anything significant there, do you think?’

‘How the hell should I know?’

‘Think metaphorically, dear. This is a puzzle, remember. Soranus was a blackmailer, women are a natural target — quarry — for blackmailers. And Diana doesn’t have a good reputation where men trespassing on her private affairs is concerned. The hunting goes both ways. Remember Actaeon?’

‘Who?’

‘Oh, Marcus!’

‘Yeah, well, I think we’re maybe getting just a little over-subtle here.’

‘I disagree. The puzzle element — if this is a puzzle — fits in better with how a woman’s brain works than a man’s. Diana engineered Actaeon’s death because he’d…transgressed. Offended. Crossed the line. However you want to put it. That much fits, at least.’

‘Jupiter, lady! You’re saying the person behind Papatius’s murder was a woman?’

‘We’re talking about Soranus, not Papatius. And no, of course I’m not. Or…not necessarily so.’

‘Okay. We’ve got two women in this case. One’s Albucilla, the other’s bubblehead Acutia who wouldn’t recognise a puzzle if it bit her in the bum. You like to choose, maybe?’

‘Three.’

‘Three what?’

‘Women in the case. You’ve forgotten one.’

‘Cluvia?’ I goggled. ‘Oh, come on! She was just the kid’s girlfriend!’

‘She was very fond of him, and after what you told her she probably blamed Soranus for his death. Do you know anything about her, anything at all barring her connection with Papatius and where she works?’

‘Uh, no, but — ’

‘From what you do know, would you say she was capable of planning a murder? Not of committing it herself, but arranging to have it done, given that was possible?’

I thought back to my talk with Cluvia. Yeah, that had been one very feisty, intelligent lady; and Perilla was right, she did seem very stuck on young Papatius. Still, none of that, even put all together, was enough to qualify her as a murderess. ‘She’s a viable option, sure,’ I said cautiously, ‘but I wouldn’t rate her all that high. Besides, how would you explain the fact that her pals Aponius and Pettius — and they must’ve been her pals, ipso facto, — were tailing me?’

Perilla sighed. ‘Ah. I’d forgotten that. Perhaps not Cluvia, then. Never mind, it was only an idea. Get back to Soranus’s body. The silver piece.’

‘That part’s clear enough. It’s the reason for the murder. Soranus was a blackmailer. He was taking money, specifically from Papatius.’

‘Hmm,’ Perilla said.

‘What do you mean, “hmm”, lady?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that — ’

‘Just that what?’

She frowned. ‘No. You’re right, of course. I’m being silly. And it does make perfect sense.’

‘So.’ I took another mouthful of wine. ‘We know why Soranus was killed, we know who did it, at least as far as the actual killers are concerned. Why drag me into it?’

‘I don’t know. No more than you do. Leave it for the present.’ She got up. ‘Meanwhile, I’m sorry, but I’d really best be going.’

‘Yeah? Where to?’

‘Sergia Plauta’s. You remember, I said I’d invite myself round this morning?’ Ah. Right. Re the not-so-sharp Acutia. ‘She doesn’t live far away, on the slope facing the Palatine. I thought I might call in in passing on the way to the Apollo Library and allow myself to be sidetracked into honey-wine and gossip.’

‘You sure she’ll be there?’

‘Oh, yes. It takes her the whole morning to have her hair done and her makeup applied. But I’d better go now, in case she’s going out afterwards. I was only waiting in until I knew you were back safely.’

‘Fine. Good luck, lady.’ I grinned. ‘Oh, and by the way, speaking of the Apollo I’d watch that chief librarian if I were you.’

‘Drepanius? He’s a sweetie!’

‘He’s a randy old bugger.’

She kissed me. ‘Yes. That too. I’ll see you later, Marcus. Incidentally, Placida hasn’t had her walk yet and Alexis has some winter digging to do. If you’re at a loose end this morning then perhaps you could take her.’

Hell.

One thing, though. Why should I keep thinking about pastry-sellers?