Trade Secrets

TWO

Next morning I left Perilla to snooze on as usual – not an early-morning person, the lady – and went down to breakfast on the terrace. Clarus and Marilla were up already, Marilla tucking into her usual light breakfast of omelette, cheese, olives, dried fruit, bread rolls, and honey, with young Marcus gurgling away and blowing bubbles in his basket beside her.

‘You’re around early, Corvinus.’ Clarus was like me: a straightforward breakfast-roll-dipped-in-olive-oil man. ‘Going somewhere special?’

At dinner the previous evening I’d been careful to avoid, at Perilla’s insistence, any mention of Tullia Gemella’s visit. Clarus would’ve been interested, certainly, but that would’ve been as far as it went. Marilla was another matter. Adopted or not, she’s a lot like me in many ways: she’d’ve insisted on the full gory details, as far as I could give them, and she’d’ve wanted to be involved. Oh, sure, I was under no illusions, and neither was Perilla: being Marilla she’d find out eventually what was going on, and pretty soon at that. But I wasn’t going to precipitate things, because if I did then the lady had made it abundantly clear that she’d have my guts for garters.

‘Just a bit of business,’ I said. ‘Someone I have to see in Ardeatina Road.’ I reached for a roll. ‘You got anything special planned yourselves?’

‘We thought we might do the Pollio,’ Marilla said. ‘Take Marcus with us. It’s a lovely day, and I can sit in the Pollio garden with him while Clarus does his thing inside with Erasistratus. What sort of business?’

‘Nothing important. Just someone I have to talk to.’

‘Oh?’ Marilla put down the knife she was holding. ‘About what?’

‘Come on, Princess! I said it’s not important, just-’

‘Corvinus, you never have business. Certainly not at this time of the day. It’s a murder, isn’t it? Or something like that, anyway.’

Bugger. ‘Why should it be a murder?’

‘Because you’re not telling. And your left eyelid twitched.’

Hell. This I didn’t need, certainly not at breakfast: motherhood hadn’t affected the lady’s ability to recognize fudging when she heard it, anyway. And when she did she was as efficient as a ferret down a rabbit hole.

‘Look, Marilla,’ I said. ‘I told Clarus yesterday that I’d nothing like that on at present.’ I turned to Clarus. ‘Right, pal?’

‘True.’ Clarus dipped a piece of his roll in the oil, eyes lowered; he was definitely learning, was Cornelius Clarus.

‘There you are, then.’ I poured some of the oil from the flask onto my own plate. ‘So just clam up and eat, OK?’

‘Hmm.’ She picked up the knife again, and I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Then she put the knife down. ‘Even so-’

Fuck.

Bathyllus, our major-domo, buttled over with a fresh supply of rolls. Saved by the domestic.

‘Would you like an omelette this morning, sir?’ he said.

‘Uh, no, that’s OK, Bathyllus.’ I dipped the roll I was holding into the oil and stood up. ‘Actually, I’m a bit pushed for time. I’ll just take this with me. Have a nice day, kids. See you later.’

Jupiter, that had been close! I made my escape. Quickly.

I was going down the steps when I saw the cat. Or what had been the cat. It was lying on the pavement right next to the house wall, halfway between us and the neighbours’ property; neatly laid out, like someone had put it there. I went over to look. Pure white Parthian, groomed to its carefully manicured claws, about as far from your average scrawny street moggie as you can get, and definitely now an ex-feline.

Oh, bugger. Admetus.

To say that we didn’t get on with our immediate neighbours was an understatement. The situation at present wasn’t one of outright war, sure, but if we’d been countries both sides of our common border would’ve been fortified in depth and guarded by six legions on constant alert and a battery of artillery kept at hair-trigger readiness. And cats figured largely among the areas of possible friction. Where a love of cats was concerned, Titus Petillius and his ex-housekeeper-now-wife, Tyndaris, were the ailurophile’s ailurophiles, and the fact that a few years previously our temporary house guest, the hellhound Placida, had nailed Admetus’s sister had consigned Perilla and me to leper status. If even the slightest suspicion were to arise that the brute’s death lay at our door metaphorically as well as literally then, if it meant getting rid of us, the Petillius household would welcome a leper colony as neighbours with open arms and a standing invitation to dinner.

Something had to be done. And quickly. I bent to pick the cat up. Bathyllus could arrange for it to be buried in our garden, and Petillius would be none the wiser …

‘Murderer!’

I straightened. The man himself had just come out of his front door. He was standing on the top step, goggling, finger pointing accusingly.

Oh, shit.

He came towards me. I backed off.

‘Uh … Look, pal,’ I said. ‘I just found it, right? Someone must’ve dumped it there.’

He was glaring at me like Medusa on a bad-hair day.

‘Cat-killer!’

‘I’d nothing to d-’

‘By the gods, if there’s any justice in Rome you will pay for this!’

‘Oh, come on, pal! It’s only a cat! And like I said I only-’

Mistake. Make that Medusa with a grade-one hangover, an abscessed tooth, and an extra supply of snakes. He was deep purple now and about a hair’s breadth from apoplexy. Without another word, he snatched the limp body out of my unresisting grasp, turned, and marched back into the house, slamming the door behind him.

Yeah, well; that could’ve gone better. It seemed that the truce was well and truly over. Still, there was nothing I could do about it at present; we’d just have to hope that the guy would calm down enough to listen to reason. And that in the interim there’d be a herd of flying pigs.

I went back inside, apprised Bathyllus of the situation, then set off again for the Tullius place.

Ardeatina Road is our side of town, but about as far down as you can go without running out of city; a fairish hike, but pleasant enough on a good May morning. Tullia Gemella’s description of the house as a pied-a-terre was just about right – it was one of those places built for the cheap end of the market, for punters who feel themselves a cut above a tenement but can’t afford the fancy prices asked for hillside properties – and with the cypress branches round the door the place wasn’t too hard to find: the funeral would be over by now, sure, but the household would still be in mourning. I knocked on the door, introduced myself to the door-slave, and was taken into the pocket-sized atrium.

Annia, the dead man’s widow, wasn’t alone. There was another guy with her, and when I came in they were deep in urgent conversation. Then Annia saw me, and put a hand on the man’s wrist. He looked round.

‘Uh … I’m sorry,’ I said, stopping on the threshold. ‘You’re busy. Maybe I should come back later.’

‘No, that’s quite all right.’ The lady smiled. No looker, Annia, not by a long chalk, but she was no mouse either, I could see that straight away. Tullius’s widow had poise. ‘This is my brother Quintus.’ Yeah, I could’ve guessed that: similar age – early thirties – same chunky build and heavy features. We nodded to each other. ‘Gemella told me you’d be coming, or that you might be, rather. And why, of course. I’m very grateful.’

Not that she sounded it, exactly. I suspected that arms had been seriously twisted here. Or at least responsibilities firmly pointed out.

‘I’ll leave, dear,’ Annius said. ‘We can discuss things another time.’

‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘In fact if it’s all right with your sister I’d rather that you stayed. Maybe you can fill in some of the corners.’

He frowned. ‘I’m afraid that isn’t likely. Certainly not about the actual circumstances of Gaius’s death. We didn’t get on at all, we had almost no contact other than what was strictly necessary for family reasons, and frankly I think my sister is far better off without him.’

Well, that was certainly frank enough, especially as an unsolicited starter, and I noticed that he was in an ordinary plain mantle, not a mourning one. I winced, mentally: what had happened to the tag ‘Of the dead, nothing but good’? The interesting thing, though, was that when he’d come out with that little speech the lady hadn’t batted an eyelid, and although she was wearing a mourning mantle herself she didn’t look all that cut up, either. All of which, plus that lukewarm expression of gratitude, went to suggest that husband, Tullius, might have been, but he hadn’t left much actual grief behind him.

‘Besides,’ Annius went on, ‘I couldn’t have stayed much longer in any case. I’ve some business to attend to in town. And Annia may talk to you more freely without a brother’s intimidating presence.’

‘No problem,’ I said. ‘Pleasure to have met you.’

‘The pleasure’s mine.’ He got up from the couch. ‘Annia, I’ll drop by tomorrow again, if I may, and we’ll take it from there. Meanwhile if there’s anything you need you know where I am. Corvinus.’

I gave him a parting nod, and he left.

‘Sit down, please,’ Annia said. I did, on the couch her brother had been using. ‘Now. What can I tell you?’

‘Practically everything, lady,’ I said. ‘All I know from your sister-in-law is the when and the where, plus the fact that your husband co-ran an import-export firm.’ I wasn’t going to mention the womanizing angle; that’d have to come from her, with due prompting if need be.

‘Did she give you his partner’s name? Publius Poetelius?’

‘Yeah, I got that.’

‘Good, because I’m afraid I can’t help you much on the business side of things. My father was in business, as indeed Gaius’s was, and Publius’s, for that matter – they were all close friends, which explains our various relationships, and we’ve known each other since we were children – but it’s an area of my husband’s life I know very little about.’

‘So, uh, what area do you know about?’ I was tactful.

She smiled and looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. They were smooth and well-manicured, but they wouldn’t’ve been out of place on a wrestler.

‘You mean the women, of course,’ she said. ‘Oh, yes, I’m sure Gemella will have mentioned that aspect, so we may as well get it out of the way.’ There was a bright tightness in her voice. ‘It’s been going on for years, practically since the start of our marriage. Which was, if you’re wondering, just over ten years ago. I know some of the names, but not all; Gaius tended to change his girlfriends almost as often as he changed his mantle, and the list would be a very long one. The two most recent, in chronological order, were a Marcia and a Hermia.’

I blinked and sat back. ‘You’re pretty well-informed, lady,’ I said.

‘Oh, Gaius wasn’t particularly concerned to keep his activities secret. Or not from me, at any rate; I don’t think his women were aware that they were only one of a series. Or indeed that the position of mistress might be filled by more than one incumbent at the same time.’

‘Did you mind?’

‘Of course I minded,’ she said calmly. ‘Although perhaps not in the way you might think. I’d been asking for a divorce for years, but Gaius wouldn’t agree to it.’

‘Why not?’

‘For the most obvious reason of all. My father was far wealthier than Gaius’s and he gave me a good dowry. Most of it’s in property, tenements on the Aventine and in Circus Valley, a shop or two here and there, that sort of thing. Nothing too grand, but the rents form a substantial part of our income. If Gaius had divorced me through no fault of mine, I’d have had most of it back. Gaius needs working capital for his business. Liquid capital, in the form of specie. Without the rents coming in on the first of every month he’d have a serious problem with cash flow, and in the export line a healthy cash-flow situation is vital.’ I must’ve looked a bit fazed because she smiled. ‘Yes, I know. I said I wasn’t up on the business side of things, and I’m not, because Gaius wanted it that way, but I didn’t say I was a complete ignoramus. I told you, all of us are from business families. Money and trade have been the standard topics of conversation at mealtimes as long as I can remember. I’m no stranger to either.’

‘Is your father still alive?’

‘Oh yes, and flourishing. Not Gaius’s, though; he died several years ago.’

‘So why did you marry him?’

She smiled. ‘Because I was nineteen, late for marriage, and a fool. Because he was the best-looking man I’d ever met, and the smoothest talker, and that counted with me in those days. And because my father – my mother died when I was two – was totally against it. That’s often a clincher where young women are concerned, particularly with stubborn ones who know their own minds, or think they do, which I was.’

‘But you brought him round?’

‘I brought him round. Against his plainly expressed and perfectly valid reservations. I told you: I was a fool.’

‘No kids?’

‘One, a year after the marriage. A girl. She died at birth. None since, for – again – the most obvious reason.’ She shifted on her chair. ‘I think we’ve exhausted that topic, Corvinus. Can you ask me about the murder now, please?’

Fair enough; that side of things – in detail, anyway – wasn’t really any concern of mine, and she was politely and quite rightly reminding me of the fact. ‘Your sister-in-law said it happened in an alleyway off Trigemina Gate Street,’ I said. ‘The west side of the city, near the river. Any significance in that?’

Was that a blink? I couldn’t be sure. ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘Not that I know of. It’s an industrial area, obviously, lots of warehouses, wharves, and factories, so he probably had business there. Certainly it’s not at all unlikely. But that’s all I can say, except that he didn’t mention a visit to me, which as I told you would have been completely in character. You’d do better to ask Publius.’

The surviving partner. Yeah, I’d get round to him. ‘He didn’t happen to mention anything out of the usual run of things at all?’ I said. ‘In the days leading up to his death, I mean?’

She considered. ‘Actually, there was one thing,’ she said. ‘And it’s something Publius may know nothing about, unless Gaius told him, which he may well have done.’

‘Yeah? What was that?’

‘An accident, six days ago. Or, in retrospect, it might not have been an accident at all, so perhaps it’s worth mentioning. Gaius told me about it when he got home.’

‘Go ahead, lady.’

‘It happened in Ostia. Gaius had gone down there to supervise a shipment. He was walking along one of the wharves past a crane when the netful of amphoras it was lifting slipped its hawser. He said he’d been lucky.’

Yeah, I’d agree with that. Lucky was right; those buggers are pretty big and heavy, especially when they’re full, and there isn’t much room on an Ostia wharf to dodge a netful of them. And six days ago would put it three days before the murder. My interest sharpened.

She was watching me closely. ‘Is it significant, do you think?’ she said.

I shrugged. ‘Could be. It’s something to check out, anyway. Did he give you any more details? Like which wharf it was, exactly?’

‘No. But you should be able to get the relevant information from Publius. Even if Gaius didn’t mention the actual accident itself, Publius would know the number of the wharf the shipment was going from, and that would be enough to start with.’

Right. Me, I’d be surprised if Tullius hadn’t told him, because it isn’t every day you’re nearly flattened by falling amphoras, and little details like that tend to get mentioned when someone asks you how your day went. In which case he might be able to tell me a bit more.

I stood up. ‘Fine. Thank you, you’ve been very helpful. Is there anything else you can tell me before I go?’

‘No. That’s all, I’m afraid. Everything I can think of for the present, at least.’

‘Yeah, well, if something else does occur to you I’m easy enough to find. We’re on the Caelian, first side street off Head of Africa Road before the Appian Aqueduct. Or you can get in touch through Tullia Gemella, of course.’

‘I’ll do that, of course. And thank you for coming.’

‘You’re welcome.’

I left. Maybe I should’ve signed off with a polite expression of my condolences for her loss, but it didn’t seem appropriate somehow. Certainly from all appearances she wouldn’t’ve wanted them.

Frankly, mind, from the way Tullius was rounding out at present I didn’t blame her.