Finished Business

NINETEEN

It was just shy of the seventh hour next day when I got to Pollex’s. Not one of my favourite wine shops: the wines are only so-so in quality, seriously overpriced for what they are, and the décor’s Early Empire grunge. The Sacred Way being what it is, you get a mixed clientele, sure, but because it’s not too far from the city’s administrative hub, there’s always a fair sprinkling of broad- and narrow-striper mantles on their lunch break chortling over how old Marcus or Titus or Decimus has screwed up yet again over the stationery order. Good lad, Marcus or Titus or Decimus, but a bit past it these days, yah?

Still, wine and ambience wasn’t what I was here for. Luckily, the place was fairly quiet for a change, possibly because the bad weather was encouraging the mantles to stick closer to the Market Square area itself. I couldn’t see my tribune pal around yet, so I bought a half-jug of Massic and a plate of sliced sausage and took them plus two cups to a secluded corner table and sat down to wait.

The whys and wherefores of the meeting were pretty obvious, or at least I thought they were. Either the guy, in the course of his duties, had heard something that seriously worried him and wanted to pass it on, or he was involved in the conspiracy itself and had got cold feet. The second was by far the most likely, because it would answer the question of why me. He’d’ve had to get my name from somewhere, and the most likely source, given that I’d accidentally shown my hand as an interested party and potential problem at Longinus’s get-together, was an inside one. If he’d been a pure innocent who’d just stumbled across something that made him suspicious, I wouldn’t’ve figured as an option at all, and he’d just have passed the information on up the line, to someone he could trust.

Assuming, of course, he still knew who he could trust …

The problem was that I was working in the dark here. If there was a military component to this — and that, now, was pretty well beyond doubt — then what level were we talking about? Given that the only necessary criterion for success was that the assassin was within easy reach of the target and legitimately armed with a sword, it could just be the one guy. Oh, sure, under those circumstances it’d be suicide, but the world’s not short of fanatics, death-and-glory boys who’ll willingly sacrifice their own lives for an ideal. And since we already had a definite Stoic element figuring in this case, that was by no means impossible. It fitted with Surdinus’s Harmodius and Aristogeiton clue as well, because if I remembered the story correctly, they’d both ended up chopped.

On the other hand, if the conspiracy was at a fairly high level — and again, given that there definitely had to be at least one broad-striper involved, that was more than likely — then the chances of success and survival were a lot higher. Duty rotas could be arranged, the right men chosen, the situation stage-managed so the target was in a minority of one. In which case, if it got that far then Gaius was a dead man walking …

The door of the wine shop opened. I looked up, but it was just a couple of ordinary punters, working-tunic types. I frowned and took a swallow of the wine. It was seventh hour now, easy, and chummie was late; which, considering how anxious he’d been to talk to me, was surprising, at best. Oh, sure, he’d probably had duty in the morning, which was why he hadn’t been able to come earlier, and something unexpected may have come up; but he’d chosen the time himself, and he’d’ve factored that possibility in as best he could. I was beginning to get worried.

Half an hour and most of the jug later, the worry had turned into a certainty: for whatever reason, the guy was not going to show. Fuck. So what did I do now? I emptied the last of the wine into my cup, chewed on the last bit of sausage, and considered the options. Not that those were very thick on the ground: carry on waiting, in case he’d just been seriously delayed, or cut my losses and go, in the hopes that he’d contact me again. If he was in a state to contact me again, that was: I had a bad, bad feeling about that side of things.

Of course, maybe I could find him instead. That’d be tricky, sure, but not impossible; most Praetorian tribunes were older career soldiers with as many as twenty years’ experience under their belts already, usually ex-auxiliary cavalry commanders making their way up the promotion ladder to an appointment in charge of a legion. Young purple-stripers from good families learning the ropes in good old-fashioned fast-track style would be in the minority. And at least I knew what he looked like.

So, time for another quick word with Gaius Secundus. I finished the wine and set off for Palatine Hill.

He was in his office, going through a list of facts and figures with his chief clerk. He looked up as I came in, and frowned.

‘Marcus?’ he said. ‘What’re you doing back?’

‘Just a quick question, pal. It won’t take long.’ I closed the door behind me.

‘That’s fine, Acastus,’ he said to the clerk. ‘Give us a few minutes in private, will you?’ I stood aside as the guy went out. ‘Now.’

‘You’re sure I’m not disturbing you?’

‘No problem. Bread-and-butter stuff, a faulty consignment of hides. It can wait. So what’s the question?’

‘I need to find a young tribune. Purple-striper, probably Praetorian.’ I described him.

‘Sounds like Sextus Papinius,’ he said. ‘Or his brother Lucius. They’re both tribunes, with the Third and Fifth Cohorts.’ The frown was back. ‘What’s your interest?’

‘We’d arranged to meet today. He didn’t turn up. You know where I can find him?’

The frown deepened. ‘If he’s on duty, then at the Praetorian barracks. But you’d find it difficult to get in there. They’re not too keen on civilian visitors.’

‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘Actually, the chances are that he’s free at present. You happen to have a private address? At least, somewhere I can contact him?’

Secundus hesitated; there was something wrong here, I could see that. ‘Marcus,’ he said, ‘this has something to do with the case, hasn’t it?’

‘Yeah. As a matter of fact it has. That make a difference?’

‘Yes, it does. Quite a big one.’ Another hesitation. ‘Look, we talked about this, right? Whatever it is, leave it alone. Leave it absolutely alone, because it’s too dangerous. I told you, you can get hurt.’

‘Warning duly noted, pal,’ I said. ‘But this is important. Really, really important. Believe me, I wouldn’t push if it wasn’t.’

‘And you are pushing?’

Shit, I hated this: Secundus was a good friend — one of my best, and putting the pressure on was something I did not want to do. Still …

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, I’m afraid I am.’

That got me a straight look. Finally, he shrugged and looked away.

‘You might find him at his adoptive father’s house,’ he said. ‘“Him” being either Sextus or Lucius, it doesn’t matter which one. That’s on Patricius Incline near the junction with Viminal Hill Street.’

‘Adoptive father?’

Again, he hesitated. Then he said: ‘Anicius Cerialis.’

Fuck.

It was one of the older properties in the street, reached by a gate in a high wall with a small garden behind it. The gate was closed, but above it I could see the tops of three or four palm trees which screened the first floor of the house itself, and ivy had spilled over the wall on the street side. There was a slave sitting in a cubby next to the gate — dozing, rather — and I dawdled in covering the last few yards before taking the final, irrevocable step of waking him and telling him my name and business. Even after thinking it over on the walk from the Palatine, I still wasn’t sure what was the best way to play this. If the slave passed me straight on to the master himself, and if — as seemed pretty likely — Cerialis was mixed up in the plot, then breezing in with the news that his adoptive son had effectively been on the point of blowing the gaff but hadn’t turned up for the crucial meeting would not be the smartest of moves. There again, what other reason or excuse for visiting would I have? The whole situation was a complete bugger.

In the event, I was saved the trouble. The gate opened, and two of the house slaves came out carrying a ladder and a pile of cypress branches. My stomach went cold. Oh, shit. Cypress branches could mean just one thing.

There had been a death in the family.

The gate slave woke up and saw me staring.

‘Yes, sir?’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’ Now we were close up, I noticed his freshly shorn fringe.

‘Yeah. Uh …’ I indicated the other slaves, who’d set the ladder against the wall and were fixing the branches to the gate bars. ‘You had a bereavement here?’

‘The young master, sir. Master Sextus. It only happened this morning.’

Oh, fuck. ‘So how did he die?’

‘A fall from his horse, sir. He was out riding on Mars Field. You’re a friend of the family?’

‘No. Not exactly. But it was Sextus I came to see. At least, I think it was.’

He frowned. ‘Pardon?’

‘I only knew him by sight. It might’ve been his brother Lucius.’

‘Master Lucius is at home, sir. I could take you to him if you like.’

‘Ah … is your actual master at home, pal? Cerialis himself?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir. He had senatorial business this morning, and he’s been out since breakfast. A messenger was sent directly we had the news, but that was less than an hour ago and he hasn’t returned yet.’

Well, that was something, at least. And if I was really, really lucky then Lucius was the one I wanted after all, and his brother’s death was just a horrible coincidence.

On the other hand, there weren’t any flying pigs overhead.

‘That would be great,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

I hadn’t given my name, intentionally, and I had my fingers crossed that the guy wouldn’t ask it. Which for a wonder he didn’t. Maybe, in view of the circumstances, the usual niceties of announcing a visitor had slipped his mind, or maybe we’d just got beyond that point with the exchange over the death. In any case, he led me through the gate and the garden to the house.

Whoever had brought the news, they’d brought the body as well. Sextus Papinius was lying on a couch in the atrium, and evidently the undertakers’ men hadn’t been yet because he hadn’t been properly laid out, simply covered feet to chin with his military cloak. He was my tribune, all right: his face had been washed clear of mud, but there was still a trace of it at the hair-line. The head lay at a slightly crooked angle.

Gods!

I’d been looking at the corpse, and I hadn’t noticed the other guy in the room, who was sitting on a folding stool in the corner. There was a jug of wine and a cup beside him. He got up and came towards me, swaying slightly.

‘Who’re you?’ he said.

Lucius, obviously, and I could see why Secundus had thought my description could go both ways. He was slightly older and more broadly built, but he had the same features.

‘A friend of your brother’s,’ I said. ‘We’d arranged to meet today for a cup or two of wine, but he didn’t show. I thought I’d drop round, see what the problem was. What happened, exactly?’

The guy was more than half-cut, but apart from a poached-egg-eyed stare he was holding it well. He shrugged and looked away, and I drew a small breath of relief.

‘He was out riding on Mars Field,’ he said. His voice was dull, mechanical. ‘His horse shied at something and threw him; he landed on his head and broke his neck. That’s all I know.’

‘He was on his own?’

If he’d thought about it, it was a pretty odd question to ask, but I reckoned that Lucius here wasn’t exactly in thinking mode at present. In the event, he didn’t even blink.

‘No. Bassus was with him,’ he said. ‘He was the one who brought him back.’

‘Bassus?’

‘His quaestor friend. Titus Bassus.’ This time I did get an oddish look; maybe Lucius wasn’t as drunk as he appeared. ‘You say you’re a friend of Sextus’s, and you don’t know Bassus?’

‘Yeah, well …’

‘They were practically inseparable, been friendly since they were kids. Bassus is more like an older brother to him than a friend.’ Now his expression was definitely suspicious, and there was something else there as well; a spark in the eyes that looked very like incipient panic. ‘Just who are you, exactly? What’s your name?’

Shit. ‘It’s not important, pal,’ I said, turning to go. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m intruding. You’ll have things to see to, and I won’t take up any more of your time.’

‘Fuck that! You’re going nowhere!’ His hand grasped my shoulder. I shook him off, maybe with more force than I’d intended, because he stumbled and fell heavily against the couch. Before he could recover himself, I was out and away.

Jupiter!