In at the Death

25

Yeah, well; needs must. I collected a delighted Placida and we set off at speed down Head of Africa. I wasn’t bound for Appian Road and the open country, though. Oh, sure, when the weather’s good Perilla and me’ll take an occasional stroll through one of the public gardens, but when I wear out sandal leather on my own I like it to be for a reason. If the case was on hold for the day — as it was — then we’d take time out to go to Scylax’s gym near the Racetrack.

I still called it that, although Scylax himself had been dead for years. The gym was one of the oldest properties I owned, and was currently run by Daphnis, Scylax’s erstwhile sand-sweeper turned businessman extraordinaire. Daphnis was okay at root, but you had to keep an eye on him and I hadn’t been down there in months. Too many months for safety. Now would be the perfect opportunity.

Besides, that abortive brush with my stonemason pals had shown me that I could do with a decent workout. A massage’d be good, too.

We reached the gym. I let Placida drag me across the crowded training-ground and push open the door of the office, where Daphnis was sitting at a desk to one side flicking beads on an abacus and making notes on a wax tablet.

‘Hi, Daphnis,’ I said. ‘How’s the lad?’

He looked round and did a double-take. ‘Corvinus! What — ?’

— which was all he had time for before Placida hit with both front paws and a tongue. Daphnis screamed and the abacus and tablets went flying.

‘She’s a big softie, really,’ I said.

‘Corvinus, you bastard! Get it off me!’

Fun was fun, but enough was enough. I pulled the slobbering dog away and took a firm grip of her collar. Daphnis picked himself up, dusted himself off and sat back down on his bench.

‘Where the hell did you get that thing?’ he said.

‘She’s on loan from a friend of Perilla’s.’

‘A friend? Jupiter!’ He retrieved the abacus and tablets. Yeah, well: Daphnis never had been one for the old client-to-patron respectful approach. That, together with the permanent designer stubble and his habit of picking his nose when he was in a particularly thoughtful mood was part of the guy’s unique charm. ‘Now. You here to look over the accounts? Because I’m up to the eyeballs in work at present so you can bloody well forget it.’

‘In that case, purely pleasure, sunshine.’ I forced Placida down into crouch position. ‘Just a workout and a massage.’

He sniggered evilly. ‘The massage won’t be no pleasure. We’ve got a new guy on the staff with hands like rooftiles. Good masseur, mind.’

‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll risk it.’ There wasn’t no way I was going to back down in front of Daphnis. No way. And his technique couldn’t be any worse than Scylax’s had been. Ten minutes with Scylax and they’d had to peel me off the ceiling.

‘Great. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘I won’t. Promise. Is Publius around?’ Publius Avillius was the head trainer, an ex-legionary centurion who’d been taken on after Scylax died. He’d had a drink problem until his daughter locked up the wine-jars, but he was firmly on the wagon now, and although he wasn’t in Scylax’s league where teaching fighting dirty was concerned there wasn’t a better man with the short sword in Rome.

‘Yeah. He’s on his break in the privy, communing with nature. Give him ten minutes.’

‘Fine. I’m in no hurry.’ I leaned over and moved a couple of abacus balls along their wires. He pulled the machine out of reach. ‘So how are things? In general, that is?’

‘You must’ve seen for yourself when you came in. We’re bursting at the seams. Apropos of which, old Fannius in the potter’s shop next door is giving up business and moving to his daughter’s in Capua. I thought we might take over his yard and knock a hole through the wall if you’re agreeable. Expand into the women’s market.’

‘The women’s market?’

‘Yeah.’ Another evil grin. ‘Don’t tell me it’s never been done, I know that. Still, it might be interesting. Get a few retired female gladiators in as trainers, modify the programme a bit, target a young age-group. Lots of feisty girls out there who want more out of life than sitting at home doing crochet. As an idea, it could be a winner.’ He winked. ‘Especially since it’s a low wall.’

‘You pulling my string?’

‘Could be. You decide.’

I stood up; a little of Daphnis went a long way. Besides, he’d already picked up the stylus again in a not-so-gentle hint that I’d used enough of his valuable time. ‘Yes to buying the Fannius place,’ I said, ‘but as far as Amazon Annexe is concerned I don’t think Rome’s quite ready for female body-building classes, pal. You’d have both of us pegged out for the crows by irate male relatives inside of a month.’

He shrugged and reached for the wax tablet. ‘Suit yourself. But you’re passing up on a real goldmine.’

‘I’ll take that risk. Watch you don’t sprain your fingers on that abacus, Daphnis.’ I moved towards the door.

He set the tablet down. ‘Hey. What about the dog?’

‘Oh, she’ll be no trouble. She’s settled now.’ She was flat out, doing her random-pile-of-hair impression. ‘I’ll pick her up when I leave.’

‘Like hell you will! Corvinus! Corvinus!’

I went back out into the sunshine: the weather had cleared, and it was a beautiful October day, not too hot but without a cloud in the sky. There was a stone bench to one side, and I sat on it to watch the punters while I waited for Publius to come out of the latrine. Daphnis was right, the place was full: there were a good dozen of various ages and conditions hammering away at each other with wooden swords, some of them with assistant trainers looking on or giving one-to-one lessons. Daphnis got them from the gladiatorial schools — retired gladiators are fairly common in Rome, the ones who come out intact the other end have to be good to do it, and the sand’s in their blood — or from among the number of ex-squaddies who’d blown their discharge grant and needed a steady job to pay for the pulse porridge and sour wine. I watched as one of them, a single-lessoner, ducked under a roundhouse swipe from an obvious complete tyro and prodded him in the ribs with the tip of his dummy sword.

‘Not the bloody edge, sir,’ he said wearily. ‘You’re a swordsman, not a sodding lumberjack. How many times do I have to tell you? Use the point!’

I grinned to myself as he took the abashed kid — he can’t’ve been more than fourteen and looked a complete penpusher in embryo — through the motions of the legionary punching stab. Yeah, well, at least we were providing a valuable service here. The boy had a purple stripe on his tunic, and in two or three years’ time he could be out on the fringes of the empire doing this for real. I’d never been in that position, sure, but the lessons with Scylax had saved my life a dozen times. Especially the lessons they don’t teach you in the army. Knifemen in Rome are simple, direct souls; not a lot of them have read the military manual or even looked at the pictures, and when push comes to shove knowing when to plant a judicious knee in the balls or a fist in the throat can come in very handy.

I’d been sitting there for a good ten minutes when Publius limped out of the privy. He’d taken a German spear in the right leg nine years before, in the Frisian revolt, and it’d severed a tendon so he couldn’t bend the leg at the knee; which was why he’d been invalided out before his time and, incidentally, explained the drinking. Not that it cramped his style as a swordsman any. I’d made the mistake, the first time I fought him, of allowing for it and got a jab in the ribs that still gave me a twinge months afterwards.

He saw me, and came over, throwing a perfect military salute on the way.

‘Good to see you again, sir,’ he said. ‘You fighting today, or just visiting?’

‘Fighting,’ I said. ‘If you’ve got the time.’

‘Always got the time for you, sir.’ Yeah, well, it made a change from Daphnis. And the guy was no arse-licker, either: when he said ‘fighting’ he meant it. Witness that first stab. ‘There’s a clear space over there.’

We walked over to the edge of the group, picking up a couple of wooden swords from the pile on the way. He stopped and came on guard.

‘Any time you’re ready, sir.’

I took it nice and slow to start with. I needed to warm up, if he didn’t, and besides wading straight in with Publius was a bad, bad idea: it just meant you got clobbered barely a dozen moves into the bout, or he let you wear yourself out trying to get through his guard and then clobbered you. As it was, he didn’t even have to shift his feet: every stab of mine was deflected past his body with a wrench of the wrist that had me moving back and on guard again quickly before the point of his sword caught my ribs on the riposte. Five minutes later I was sweating, and Publius’s breathing hadn’t even quickened.

‘Not bad, sir,’ he said after a particularly savage parry-and-twist had almost taken the sword from my hand and he’d waved a pause. ‘You could do with coming down here a bit more often, though. You’re signalling far too much and your guard’s downright sloppy in places. I could’ve had you a dozen times over.’

I grinned and wiped the sweat from my eyes. ‘Yeah,’ I gasped. ‘Yeah, no argument, pal. Sorry. Want to try again? I’ll try to concentrate more.’

He came on guard, but this time he made the first move. The stab came quick as a striking snake, and I just managed to catch the edge of his sword between my blade and hilt and turn it away from my exposed side. He stepped back, changed the angle and lunged again: all far too fast for me to bring the sword round to block the thrust, but I somehow managed to swerve and the point just brushed my tunic. Then I lunged in my turn at his exposed armpit, but there, suddenly, where it shouldn’t have been, was his hilt between us. The jar and wrench as the blades met threw me to one side and his sword was coming straight for my unguarded chest. I leaped away so the wooden tip barely touched me. Not that I had any illusions on that score: he’d pulled the punch, and if it’d been a real fight he’d’ve skewered me.

‘Much better,’ he said. ‘You’re thinking ahead now and you’re moving faster. Still, not good enough yet. On your guard again, please.’

We kept it up for another half hour or so with breaks for me to get my breath back. By the end I was sweating like a pig, Publius was looking as cool as when we’d started and my ribs were sore from half a dozen thrusts I hadn’t managed to block. I’d touched him once, more by luck than design, or maybe he’d just felt sorry for me: but it was on the arm, not in the chest, and I’d left myself open when I did it so if he’d wanted to he could’ve given me a real stinger. I stepped back and held up my sword.

‘That’ll do me for today, pal,’ I said when I had enough breath to speak. ‘Thanks a lot.’

‘Any time, sir.’ He grounded his own sword. ‘Like I said, not bad. But watch your point and be a lot faster on the return.’

I gave him the usual salute at the end of a bout, sword to chin, nose and forehead, then handed the blade over and walked back towards the admin buildings. Time for the massage part of the proceedings, if the new masseur wasn’t occupied, before I stiffened up completely. I wasn’t totally displeased by the way the workout had gone. Even on my best day I’d never been able to give Publius a real match, but like I say there wasn’t a swordsman in Rome to touch him. If you can last half an hour with Publius Avillius and walk away with only half a dozen bruises you’re doing pretty well.

There was no sound from the massage room. Yeah, well, that was all to the good, anyway: when Scylax had done the slapping and rolling you could hear the screams half way to the Racetrack. I pushed open the door and went in. It took a moment for my eyes to accustom themselves to the dimness, and in that moment, at the back of the room beyond the massage table, something loomed.

‘Afternoon, sir,’ it growled.

My eyes had adjusted now. They went up…and up…

Oh, bugger.

Daphnis hadn’t been kidding. The guy was the size of a small house, and he had to hold his arms out at an angle to give the muscles room to fit in. His hands, knuckle to knuckle, must’ve been nine inches across, at least. This was not going to be fun. Still, it was too late to back out now, and after my bout with Publius I could do with loosening up if I didn’t want to crawl home to the Caelian.

Mind you, that might be preferable to doing the trip on a stretcher.

‘Uh…What’s your name, pal?’ I said.

‘Orestes.’

‘That so?’ I started removing my tunic. ‘I’m Valerius Corvinus.’

‘The owner?’

‘Yeah, that’s right.’

He grinned and reached for a towel. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir. Mister Daphnis has told me a lot about you. A very nice guy, Mister Daphnis.’

Oh, shit.

‘Just lie flat on the table and we’ll have these muscles purring in no time at all.’

He cracked his knuckles and picked up the oil jar.

It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.

It was worse.

I staggered out of the massage room half an hour later feeling like I’d been mugged by a sadistic gorilla. Constructively mugged, though, if you know what I mean: Big Orestes might be a complete sadist — ninety-nine out of a hundred masseurs are — but he knew his job, and like he’d said my muscles were purring. Taken together with the workout, I reckoned I couldn’t’ve spent a more profitable hour and a half.

In more ways than one. In between the screams, and to take my mind off the bastard’s knuckles forcing their sadistic way between the plates of muscle in my back, I’d been running over certain aspects of the case. And I’d had an idea. It was an outside chance, of course, but not one to pass up on just for that reason. They’re a close family, the military.

‘Hey, Publius!’ I shouted. The ex-centurion was busy with a middle-aged purple-striper with a gut like an amphora. He turned round, said something to the guy and then limped over.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said

‘Just a thought. You ever come across a couple of ex-army men by the names of Aponius and Pettius?’

‘Sextus Aponius?’

I blinked. Shit. ‘Uh…yeah. Yeah, that’s him.’

‘Yes, sir. Knew him well. He was a centurion in the First Germanica, time I got this leg of mine. He’s no ex, though, or he wasn’t last I heard.’

‘But if he’s still with the First he’d be on the Rhine, right?’

‘No, sir. At least, what I mean to say is he’s not with the First any more. After the Frisian business he got transferred to the Praetorians.’ He grinned. ‘Lucky bugger. Those sods have it cushy, pardon my Greek, sir.’

My brain was whirling. ‘The guy’s a Praetorian?’

‘Far as I know, sir, unless you know different or it’s a different man altogether. I haven’t seen him in quite a while. I can’t help you with the second name, mind.’ He looked over his shoulder at the fat purple-striper. ‘Was that all, sir? Because Tattius Geminus can be a bit stroppy if he doesn’t get his full time.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s all.’ Jupiter bloody Best and Greatest! ‘Thanks, Publius.’

‘You’re very welcome, sir. I’ll see you again soon, I hope.’

‘Ah…yeah. Yeah, right.’

He gave me a funny look — I must’ve looked as out of things as I felt — and went back to his pupil.

I shook my head to clear it. Shit. Okay: collect the dog, go home, talk to Perilla. I walked across to the office and opened the door…

Placida was sitting just inside the threshold. Daphnis was on his feet, back pressed hard against the far wall. He couldn’t’ve got any closer if he’d been a coat of paint.

‘Having fun, pal?’ I said.

‘You bastard, Corvinus!’

Placida growled a warning, and Daphnis tried to squirm his way up the wall.

‘She’s been there practically since you left,’ he whispered. ‘She wouldn’t let me near the door and I didn’t even dare fucking scream.’

‘Must be your breath-freshener. She’s never done that with anyone else.’

‘And she’s eaten the abacus!’

I looked down. Sure enough, there it was, reduced to a tangle of wires and vulgar fractions. ‘Placida’s very, uh, tactile. If that’s the word. Or do I mean oral? Can you say that?’

‘Just get her out of here, okay?’

‘You sure?’

‘Corvinus!’

I grinned. ‘Yeah, okay, pal. Come on, Placida. Home.’

I set off back to the Caelian, brain buzzing. So. At least one of my fake stonemasons was a Praetorian, eh? Oh, sure: it made finding the guy easy-peasie, because the Praetorian camp was slap-bang next to the city boundaries, just beyond the Viminal Gate; but at the same time it left me with two major questions and a bigger-than-major worry. First question was what the hell was a serving Praetorian — possibly two — doing mixed up in this business? Second, if they were moonlighting or doing a favour for a pal then what had made them confident enough to give me their real names?

The worry was that slice it how you would Praetorians were Praetorians, and some of these pals were very important men. A couple even had names ending with ‘Caesar’.

I didn’t like the smell this case was beginning to give off; I didn’t like it at all.