Solid Citizens

ELEVEN

So, to Quintus Baebius. And with the new development regarding the missing statuette I now had something definite to ask him about. The business with Caesius Senior’s will had been a facer, though. I’d been convinced — as Perilla had — that there was something screwy about it, and where it left us vis-à-vis Mettius as a suspect I couldn’t think. Still, I had the name and address of one of the witnesses, so at least I could make a confirmatory check.

I made my way up towards the Alban Lake Gate. Baebius, it transpired, lived in a very tidy property on the street that ran along the inside of the town wall, one of several similar tidy properties in what was obviously a prime residential district. There was a young slave outside, polishing the brass door knocker, so I gave him my name and waited in the atrium while he went to enquire whether the master was receiving.

Caesius’s collecting rival wasn’t strapped for cash, that was for sure: if the house’s setting hadn’t shown me that already, there was a very nice mural of the Judgement of Paris on the wall that from the quality of the artwork must’ve cost a packet, and three or four life-size bronzes which were either originals or first-rate copies. I was examining the one which had been given pride of place in front of the peristyle opening — a young Bacchus, holding up a bunch of grapes to Eros on his shoulder — when the man himself came in.

‘Valerius Corvinus,’ he said. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you. Do sit down and make yourself comfortable. A cup of wine, perhaps? It’s not too early for you?’

‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘That’d be great.’

Cultured voice, mid to late forties, fit-looking despite the small paunch evident under the cover of his lounging tunic. Totally at ease, and very sure of himself. Antiquities nut Baebius might well prove to be, but one along the lines of Priscus he wasn’t: Perilla had it right there. This was a guy in the prime of life who was socially confident and kept himself in good physical shape. I sat down on the nearest couch. That was impressive, too; one of a matching set of three that could’ve come over with Lucius Mummius two hundred years back, after he’d sacked Corinth for us.

The young slave I’d met at the door and who’d gone to fetch his master had come in at his heels. Baebius turned to him.

‘Clitus? Wine, please, if you’d be so good,’ he said. ‘And some of those Alexandrian dates.’ Well, that probably explained the paunch. Still, he had to have some weaknesses. The slave bowed and left. ‘You’re from Rome, Corvinus, I understand?’

‘Yeah, that’s right. Staying over with family in Castrimoenium for the festival.’

‘I visit there quite often. Rome, I mean.’

‘Business or pleasure?’

‘Both, generally.’ He smiled. ‘Oh, nothing very demanding or wearying where the first’s concerned. Quite the reverse. I’ve business interests in the city, yes, but I’m in the fortunate position of being largely a man of leisure and independent means. I’m ashamed to admit that what few business interests I have are really only an excuse for the frequency of the visits. A pleasant excuse, mind, because they do have a close connection with my private hobby.’

‘Buying and selling antiques?’

His eyes widened. ‘You know, then? Or was it an educated guess? But of course it wasn’t; that’s why you’re here. You were talking to Nausiphanes the other day, I understand, and he gave you my name.’

‘If he’s the old freedman who manages the shop you own near market square, then yeah, that’s right. I was in there buying a present for my stepfather, Helvius Priscus. You know him?’

‘Priscus? No, not really, although we have met. An expert on the Etruscan period, isn’t he?’

‘Yeah, that’s him.’

‘It’s not an area I’m particularly interested in as a collector, although if you like that sort of thing it produced some very fine pieces. I hope Nausiphanes gave you a good price. What did you buy?’

‘Nothing too expensive. An ivory plaque.’

‘Ah. One of the Sicilian ones, I suppose. Yes, they are rather nice, aren’t they?’ The slave came back with a loaded tray. Baebius smiled at him. ‘Thank you, my boy. Just pour for us and leave us to it, if you will. The wine’s Greek, I’m afraid, Corvinus. Pramnian. I prefer Greek wines, myself. A little idiosyncratic, perhaps even downright blasphemous, considering where we are, but the Alban ones are a little too forthright for my taste. See what you think.’

The slave gave me the cup, and I sipped. Too much on the perfumed side for me, but I couldn’t complain about the quality, which was top-of-the-range. Only to be expected, I supposed: I was beginning to realize that Quintus Baebius didn’t do second-rate. ‘Very nice,’ I said.

The slave handed Baebius his own cup, put the tray with the wine flask — antique Corinthian again, and solid silver — within reach, together with the tray of stuffed dates, bowed and went back out.

‘Now,’ Baebius said. ‘To business. How can I help you? It’s about that fellow Caesius’s death, obviously, I know that, but beyond the simple fact I’m at a bit of a loss. Nausiphanes will have told you that we weren’t on friendly terms, certainly, which is no doubt why you’re here talking to me, but I’m afraid there’s no more to it than that.’

‘You had a disagreement a couple of months ago,’ I said. ‘Over a figurine?’

‘Ah.’ He laughed. ‘Nausiphanes told you about the Runner, then, did he? My, what an old gossip he is! Well, it’s true enough. A small bronze, yes, a beautiful little piece, made in Pergamum in the time of the first Attalus, probably by Epigonus or one of his better pupils. It was part of the estate of old Plautius Silvanus, who died in the summer, and Caesius had the good fortune to acquire it.’

‘Before the auction.’

‘Yes. Hardly ethical on his part, and very annoying, but there you are.’

‘Nausiphanes said you were … the word he used was “livid”.’

Baebius took a careful sip of his wine before replying. ‘He exaggerates,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t pleased, certainly, in fact I was quite upset at the time — as I say, that is not how things are done in the antiques business — but “livid” is putting it far too strongly.’

I let that one go. ‘And you’d be surprised to know that the thing’s disappeared, would you?’

He gave me a sharp look. ‘I certainly would. When did this happen?’

‘According to Caesius’s major-domo, sometime between the day of the murder and now. He can’t explain it.’

‘And nor can I, Valerius Corvinus, if that’s what you’re implying. I’ve never been inside Quintus Caesius’s house in all the years I’ve known him, nor he in mine.’

‘Yeah, so the major-domo said. It’s a puzzle, right enough. Still, who else would be interested in it apart from you?’

‘Oh, now, hold on a moment.’ He’d set down his wine cup, and there was more than a touch of steel in his voice underlying the polite, civilized tone. ‘You think I stole it? Or acquired it illegally by some means? Because if you do-’

‘Look,’ I said easily. ‘All I’m interested in are the circumstances of Caesius’s death, right? If the missing figurine has no connection with that, then fine, but I need to know one way or the other. Or to find out. Which, believe me, I will, eventually.’

‘Now you look.’ Baebius stood up; the steel was in his eyes, now, and the politeness was gone. ‘I’m not used to being called a thief, let alone being accused by implication of murder. Certainly not in my own house by a guest who has invited himself in here. Nevertheless, I give you my word — and I’ll swear to it, if you like — that it is not now and never has been in my possession. Now I’d be grateful if you’d leave, please. Good day to you.’

‘Fair enough.’ I set my own wine cup down carefully on the table beside me and got to my feet. ‘That’s that, then. Thanks for your time.’

I walked off towards the lobby. I’d reached the entrance to it and was heading through towards the front door when he called out: ‘Corvinus!’

I looked round. ‘Yeah?’

‘Just a moment.’

I came back into the atrium. He was still standing there, frowning.

‘I can’t let you go like this,’ he said. ‘And perhaps I was rude in my turn, or at least a little abrupt. If so then I’m sorry. You have your job to do, and I should have taken that into consideration. Sit down, please.’ I did; he did the same, and took a deep breath. ‘Caesius sent me a note, the day he died. In it he said he was willing to let me have the Runner in exchange for a piece which I own — of the same date and quality, and by the same artist, a small bronze of a fisherman — plus a sum in cash; he’d bid against me for it a year or so ago, and on that occasion I was the one who’d been successful. Sheer opportunistic profiteering on his part, of course, since the pieces were of equal merit and value, and the sum of money he demanded was not small. If I agreed, he said, we could meet on neutral ground that evening and make the trade.’

‘Isn’t that a bit odd?’ I said. ‘Why not arrange to meet here, or at his place?’

‘I told you, we’ve never been inside each other’s houses. A point of pride. Call it childishness, if you like.’ I did. ‘Besides, the offer was in no way an overture for reconciliation, or made in friendship: it was purely a business deal, and not a fair one, at that.’

‘But you agreed?’

‘Yes. And sent him a reply to that effect. He had, he said, another appointment that evening — in retrospect, of course, I now know where and what that was — and that he’d make the exchange at sunset at the old wool store. That’s the warehouse which burned down, behind the main street. You know it?’ I nodded. ‘In the event, he never turned up, and I came straight back home. That, Corvinus, is the truth. All of it.’

Yeah, well, it sounded plausible enough, allowing for the silly cloak-and-dagger business, and even that I could see happening. Just. Whether it was the truth or not, mind, was another thing entirely.

‘OK,’ I said, getting up again. ‘Thanks for your help. And your candour.’

‘You’re very welcome. My apologies again for my bad manners, although I hope you can see the reason for them.’ He stood. ‘I’ll see you out.’

‘No, that’s fine. I can manage. Thanks again. Oh … just out of interest. The missing figurine. How much would it have been worth?’

‘Caesius paid fifteen thousand for it, and it was worth at least a third more again. As I said, a beautiful piece. Not unique, but certainly very rare.’

I whistled: twenty thousand was a lot of gravy in anyone’s book.

I went through the lobby and opened the front door. Clitus had gone back to polishing the knocker. He stepped back as I came out and smiled, and I paused before moving past him.

‘Just a couple of questions before I go, pal,’ I said quietly. ‘You remember a note sent to your master six days back, from the censor-elect Quintus Caesius?’ The smile faded, and he looked wary, which was understandable; if the guy knew nothing of the murder and when it had happened by this time, he was the only person in Bovillae who didn’t. ‘No hassle, no comeback. I’m just confirming what your master’s just told me, that’s all.’

The smile returned, with a look of relief.

‘Then, yes, sir, of course I do,’ he said. ‘Early afternoon, it was. One of his slaves brought it, and I took it to the master myself.’

‘And delivered the reply?’

‘Yes, sir. Half an hour or so later, to the gentleman’s house near the Arician Gate.’

‘You happen to know what the contents were? Of either note?’

‘No, sir. Of course not. That was none of my business, and naturally they were sealed.’

Fair enough. Still, it’d been worth asking. ‘OK.’ Second point. ‘Your master also told me he went out that evening. Just before sunset.’

‘That’s right. He did.’ The wariness was back now.

‘He say where he was going at all?’

‘No, sir,’ he said, stiffly. ‘Again, it was not my place to ask. But he came back an hour later. Perhaps a little less.’

And Caesius had been in the brothel busy with his ‘other appointment’ until a good hour after sunset. Baebius — if he was the murderer — wouldn’t’ve had either the opportunity or the time to kill the guy and get all the way back up here to the Alban Lake Gate, not even if Clitus’s estimation was well short of the reality. Damn! There went a prime suspect, right at the start!

I’d give a lot to know why Caesius hadn’t showed, mind. And to know what had happened to the figurine, because the odds were that when he left home he’d had it with him.

‘Thanks, friend,’ I said. ‘Oh … by the way. You wouldn’t happen to know where Lucius Ampudius lives, would you?’

‘Certainly, sir.’ He pointed along the street. ‘That way, past the crossroads and before the baths.’

‘Thanks again.’

So. One suspect down, but there were still plenty in the bag, and after my conversation with Anthus, Brother Lucius — with or without his drinking crony Roscius’s help — was a prime contender. Plus there was the question of possible skulduggery on our dodgy lawyer’s part to consider.

I went to talk to the witness of old Marcus Caesius’s will.

Ampudius must’ve been about the same age as Novius, or even older, which practically put him in the Priscus league. Even so, there was nothing frail or decrepit about the guy. Bald as a coot, sure, seriously lacking in teeth and wizened as a six-month-old apple, but the eyes that were giving me a considering look from where he lay on the atrium couch were bright and sharp as needles.

‘Marcus Caesius, hey?’ he said when I’d told him why I was there. ‘Now there’s a name from the past! Yes, I witnessed his will, me and Gaius Tucca, gods rest him. About fifteen years back, that would’ve been.’

‘Did you read it?’ I said.

‘Of course I did! You fooling me, boy? Marcus insisted on it, said he didn’t want anyone querying the thing when he was dead and burned, meaning that no-use second son of his. Quite rightly so, as it turned out, for all the good it did him.’ He chuckled. ‘He was a canny bugger in his time, was old Marcus, one of the best. You didn’t get much past Marcus Caesius.’

‘So he definitely disinherited Lucius? You’re sure about that, sir?’

‘Nothing wrong with my memory, son. I was in the banking business for sixty years, good at it, too, never mislaid a copper piece and practically carried the ledgers around in my head. When I start forgetting things as important as the content of wills you can shovel me into an urn and put the lid on.’ He raised his voice. ‘Is that not right, Desmus?’ The old major-domo — he was at least as old as his master — nodded and carried on with his dusting. Ampudius turned back to me. ‘That was the whole point of the thing, where Marcus was concerned. Ditch the useless bastard. He’d had his chance years before, several chances for that matter, and blown the lot. Marcus never did believe in throwing good money after bad, and letting that shiftless scrounger get his hands on half his property when he was gone would’ve been tantamount to dropping it down the nearest latrine.’

Damn. So Lucius Caesius’s insistence that the will had been forged was complete wishful-thinking moonshine. Well, it made sense, and it certainly fitted in with everything else. Lucius had been pretty convincing at the time, sure, but maybe he couldn’t admit the truth even to himself.

‘He tried to get it overturned, of course,’ Ampudius was saying. ‘Lucius, I mean. You know about that?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Not in any detail, though.’

‘The bastard claimed undue influence by his brother while the balance of Marcus’s mind was disturbed. That’s how the fancy lawyer he drafted in from Rome put it.’ He chuckled again. ‘Means the old man was gaga when he came to make the will and Quintus virtually told him what to write. Rot, complete rot, then at least. I told the judge straight when I was called — that was Publius Avianus, he had the chair that year, fine old buffer, he’s long dead himself now from a bad oyster, bless his socks — that Marcus was as sane as any of us at the time. And even if he’d been right about the influence, what did it matter? It was all for the best. Quintus Caesius was worth ten of that soak where a head for business was concerned. If he hadn’t been practically running things single-handed in his father’s last few years the family would’ve been paupers before you could spit.’

‘Hold on, sir,’ I said. ‘You said Marcus Caesius was sane at the time he made the will. You mean things changed?’

‘Certainly they did. The poor old bugger went downhill pretty quickly latterly, didn’t he? Mentally as well as physically, body and mind a complete wreck. The full catastrophe. Could hardly do a blessed thing for himself at the end, no more than can a baby, and he’d nothing left in the attic, couldn’t remember his own name, let alone anyone else’s. Just a living shell. I was sorry as hell for old Marcus, because like I said he was a canny man of business in his day and sharp as a knife, but his son was quite right to have him declared incapable.’

‘Quintus Caesius had his father certified?’

‘Of course. About a year before the old man died, when things started to become obvious. Only thing he could’ve done, and choice didn’t enter into it. Can’t have a man who sits down to dinner in his underpants and dribbles in the soup making deals and signing important business documents, can you? If it was me, mind, I’d rather someone knocked me on the head and be done with it, but there you are.’ He raised his voice again. ‘Hey, Desmus? You hear what I’m saying? You’d do that for me, would you?’

The duster paused. ‘Yes, master. It’d be a pleasure.’

Ampudius grinned toothlessly. ‘Bugger off, Desmus. Well, he was a good son, Quintus. He knew where his duty lay, however unpleasant it was, public or private.’

Shit. ‘And he used his friend Publius Novius to get it done? The certifying?’

‘Who else would he use, boy? He was the family lawyer, and it had to go through legal process. Besides, he’s a smart man, Publius. There’d be no querying anything he drafted.’

My brain was buzzing. I stood up. ‘Thanks for your help, sir. You’ve been very informative.’

‘Don’t mention it. My pleasure. I don’t have many visitors these days, and I don’t get out much myself. I was sorry to miss young Quintus’s funeral. A good man, that, and a good citizen of Bovillae. It isn’t often you get them both together, and the town’s a lot poorer without him.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, so I imagine.’

‘You nail the bastard who killed him. You won’t find us ungrateful, boy.’

‘I’ll try,’ I said, and left.