Illegally Dead

2

So there we were, in Castrimoenium, three days later, in the atrium of Aunt Marcia’s villa: me, Perilla, Marcia, Marilla, young Clarus and Clarus’s father Hyperion, the local doctor and pharmacist.

I don’t go much for doctors, myself, especially at the dinner table where after the third top-up they tend to lie glowering at you over their lettuce and making snide remarks about an imbalance of humours, but Hyperion’s okay. For a start his full name’s Publius Cornelius Hyperion, and despite the Greek bit on the end he’s as Roman as they come, or Latin, anyway: the family’ve been settled this side of the Adriatic for over two centuries, since his great-whatever-grampa was handed the citizenship by a grateful senate for curing General Scipio of a nasty boil on the bum just in time to let him fight Zama in comfort, thus giving us Carthage and a large slice of Africa. Or at least that’s what their family tradition says. Which meant a refreshing absence of facial hair and a ditto presence of good Italian common sense.

I could take young Clarus as well, which was lucky because over the two years that I’d known him he and Marilla had become a permanent item: a quiet-spoken, serious kid streets away from the fluff-brained lads-about-town we got in Rome. Good looking, too. Certainly Marilla thought so, from the way she couldn’t take her eyes off him, and the attraction was obviously mutual.

‘Right.’ I held up my winecup for the hovering Bathyllus to refill; as usually happened when we came to visit, Marcia had sent her own ancient piles-afflicted major-domo Laertes to stay with her freedwoman in Baiae for the duration. ‘So tell me about this murder, then.’

‘Possible murder.’ That was Aunt Marcia, from her usual stool — stool, mark you, not chair: no decadent back rest for Perilla’s Aunt Marcia — beside the portrait bust of her late husband Fabius Maximus. The old girl might’ve been in her eighties, but mentally she was needle-sharp, and where accuracy was concerned she didn’t take prisoners. ‘Please bear the distinction carefully in mind, because Hyperion has no actual proof of foul play. Do you, Hyperion?’

‘No. None at all.’ Hyperion shifted his lanky six-foot body on the guest-couch he shared with Clarus. ‘The man was a patient of mine by the name of Lucius Hostilius.’

‘Senior partner in a local law firm.’ Marcia again. ‘The local law firm, in fact.’

‘So how did he die?’ I said.

‘He was poisoned,’ Hyperion said. ‘At least, I think he was.’

I leaned back against the overstuffed cushions and tried to keep my expression neutral. Bugger! Well, that explained the guy’s reluctance to make the accusation formal and why he’d got Clarus and Marilla to fetch me from Rome, anyway. If you were a dead man’s doctor then bringing up the question of poison was juggling with razors. Where poisoning were concerned, doctors were the first suspects in line.

‘Not exactly poisoned, Dad,’ Clarus said.

Hyperion grunted. ‘Quite right. I’m sorry, Corvinus, I stand corrected. No, there was no actual poison involved, not as as such. But I’m very much afraid that I supplied the means of death myself.’

Oh, hell; this did not sound good, not good at all. To break the eye contact, I lifted my winecup and took a slow sip. It was Marcia’s best Caecuban, or what Dassa the oenophilic sheep had left us of it anyway.

‘Perhaps, Hyperion,’ Perilla said carefully, ‘you’d better explain things from the beginning.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Hyperion touched his own cup on the table beside him but took his hand away without lifting it. The guy was clearly worried as hell, and in his position I didn’t blame him. ‘Well, then. I was treating Hostilius for chest pains and palpitations, and had been for several months. The medicine was in a bottle near his bed, a ten day supply which I’d renewed only two days before. Five days ago — late morning, to be exact — one of his slaves knocked me up to say that his master had suffered a fit and would I come at once. By the time I arrived it was too late and the man was already dead.’

‘You’re sure the death wasn’t natural?’ Perilla said.

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘No, I’m not sure, not at all. That’s just the problem. When I began treating Hostilius my initial prognosis was that although the condition was fatal in itself with appropriate medication and strict attention to diet he might live for another two or three years, perhaps even twice that. However’ — he paused — ‘the signs showed that he had died from a seizure typical of the final stages of the disease, so that prognosis could have been wrong. Could well have been wrong, because the gods know we’re not infallible.’

‘But?’ I said.

‘Oh, yes. Certainly there is a but. After I’d inspected the body I checked the medicine bottle. It was almost full, as it should have been, but the medicine was a clear liquid. When I tasted it it was water.’

Uh-huh. ‘And if Hostilius had drunk the original contents — all of them — the effect would’ve duplicated the seizure?’

‘Yes. More or less exactly.’

‘So you think someone gave him the full dose and refilled the bottle?’

‘Yes. At least, that’s what I’m afraid of.’

‘Would that have been possible?’ Perilla said. ‘Practically speaking, I mean?’

‘Oh, yes. Hostilius took the medicine in spiced honey wine, so what taste it had was masked almost completely. He wouldn’t have noticed all that much difference from the usual, especially if he gulped it down, which he normally did. The effects wouldn’t be immediate, either.’

‘But you didn’t tell anyone about the bottle at the time?’ I said.

‘No, Corvinus, I did not. And I won’t.’

‘If Dad reports it,’ Clarus put in, ‘all the slaves’ll be tortured for their evidence, maybe even killed if the torture leads nowhere. That’s the law.’

Shit. Yeah, right, that is the good old Roman law, at least technically, and I’d done Hyperion an injustice because the guy wasn’t worried on his own account at all. Where the master of the house dies under suspicious circumstances his slaves are automatically assumed to be hiding crucial information about the death; information that, to be deemed valid, has to be extracted under torture. And if that doesn’t produce results then as presumed accessories before, during and after the fact the whole household — men, women and children — are liable to execution. On principle, and to make sure that any other slave thinking of murdering his master or covering up for a pal who does gets the point. Roman law doesn’t play games with slaves gone to the bad; it can’t afford to.

‘How many?’ I said.

‘Twenty-one,’ Hyperion said. ‘And I couldn’t even be sure I was right.’

Marilla, perched on a stool of her own next to Clarus, hadn’t spoken, but her fingers touched his arm.

‘The medicine’d been switched, so ipso facto it had to be murder,’ I said. ‘You can’t get past that.’

Hyperion looked even more unhappy than ever. ‘Oh, but I can,’ he said. ‘Too easily, I’m afraid. You know slaves, Marcus. If they don’t always act as we would in their place that doesn’t mean they’re stupid, only that their priorities — and their fears — are different from ours. The bottle was on the table in open view, and it had a loose-fitting glass stopper. Let’s say one of them knocked it over accidentally while he was cleaning. It’s quite within the bounds of possibility that to cover the accident up and save himself a beating he would replace the contents with water. In which case, of course, Hostilius wouldn’t have drunk any of the medicine at all.’

‘Yet he died. You said yourself — ’

‘I said that I wasn’t infallible; that my initial prognosis could have been wrong, and that the perceived symptoms, both as they were described to me and as they showed themselves after death, point neither one way nor the other. Also, if the liquid in the bottle was only water then Hostilius could have missed two of his doses, which in his condition would be crucial. I repeat — and I must stress this — I’ve no incontrovertible proof of deliberate murder. Only the suspicion of it.’

‘But — ’

‘Corvinus.’ He leaned forwards and put his hands palm down on the table. ‘Listen, please. I’m afraid there are no buts, not in this regard. If you’re ready, for your part, to wager twenty-one innocent lives that the facts show otherwise, then I am not. And I’d think the less of you for it.’

‘He’s right, dear,’ Perilla murmured. Marilla nodded, a brief, sharp bob of the chin.

True. I wouldn’t think much of myself over a bet like that, either. I sighed. ‘Okay, pal,’ I said. ‘Assuming the thing was deliberate, let’s see where we are and what we’ve got. You say the medicine bottle was on a table in Hostilius’s bedroom. So in theory, given the proper opportunity anyone in the house could’ve had access to it, right? Slave or family?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fine. We’ll come back to the who in a moment. Hostilius took the medicine in wine. When?’

‘In the morning, before breakfast. At least, those were my directions. Whether he followed them, as a general rule or on that occasion, I don’t know.’

‘Did he dose himself? Or was the dose mixed in front of him? Or was it left ready-mixed in the cup?’

‘Again, I don’t know, you’d have to ask Scopas. All I know is that the cup and stoppered wine flagon were sitting together on the tray with the medicine bottle.’

‘Scopas?’

‘His major-domo.’

Bugger; and if Scopas had been the one responsible? ‘Fine. So let’s shelve the how for later consideration and think about the who. Forget the slaves, what about the family? Was he married?’

There was a slight but noticeable pause. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Marcia’s chin lift and Clarus and Marilla exchange a brief glance.

Uh-oh.

‘Yes,’ Hyperion said. ‘His wife’s name is Veturina.’

‘Hyperion,’ I said wearily. ‘If you don’t tell me I can’t help. Separate bedrooms, was it, or something worse?’

This time the pause was longer before Hyperion said carefully: ‘The first. But I don’t think you should — ’

‘It isn’t quite as simple as what you’re thinking, Marcus,’ Marcia cut in. ‘Or what I assume you’re thinking. Oh, I know nothing of Hostilius’s private life — I scarcely knew the man personally — but I do know that there was a…difficulty about him. He was a very difficult person, and not only where his wife was concerned.’

‘You mean he didn’t get on with people?’ I said.

‘I’m afraid there was more to it than that,’ Hyperion said. ‘The problem was clinical, it first showed itself some eighteen months ago, and it was becoming progressively worse. Hostilius would suddenly take it into his head that people were cheating him, or injuring him in some way and then make accusations which were completely unfounded and made no logical sense.’ He must’ve seen the look on my face because he held up a hand. ‘Corvinus, I am not stupid, and I do understand the implications there if we’re considering murder. Nevertheless, I’m speaking not only as the man’s doctor over the course of many years but as a lifetime resident of Castrimoenium. We’re a small community, and we may have secrets but — small communities being what they are — they don’t stay secrets for long. In Veturina’s case, the accusations were predictable, in the clinical sense: that she was stealing his money and that she was having affairs behind his back. He made them to me himself, sometimes in her presence; he made them to everyone. Believe me, both are nonsense.’

I glanced at Marcia. Like I say, Marcia is no one’s fool, and if she wasn’t a lifetime resident herself she’d spent more time up here in the Alban hills than most of them had clocked up.

‘Hyperion is right,’ she said. ‘Again I don’t know Veturina sufficiently well personally to give an absolute opinion, but I know nothing whatsoever against her. Quite the reverse. Despite the differences in their respective backgrounds by all accounts she’s been a loyal, honest and devoted wife, latterly under extremely trying circumstances.’

‘The differences in their backgrounds?’ I said.

‘Her father kept — still keeps, I understand — a wineshop in Bovillae. She and Hostilius had been married for over thirty years.’

‘Children?’

‘Two, but they died in infancy. They have — well, I suppose you’d call her a stepdaughter, although there was never a formal adoption. The orphaned child of Hostilius’s cousin. She’d be about Marilla’s age now, or slightly younger.’ Marcia must’ve noticed my expression, because her lips tightened. ‘Marcus, listen to me. I do realise that when a husband is poisoned the wife is an obvious suspect, and I don’t wish to seem dogmatic or seek to prejudice you in any way. But I do think that if you jumped to that conclusion without careful thought you would be making a very silly mistake.’

Yeah, well, maybe; certainly I took the point. All the same, despite Marcia’s five-star encomium and Hyperion’s caveats if we were talking murder here then we’d be fools not to consider this Veturina, especially given the ostensible family circumstances. And some people are good at keeping secrets. Still, that was for the future. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘we’ve got a wife and a stepdaughter. Anyone else in the house? Family, I mean?’

‘Just one,’ Hyperion said. ‘Veturina’s brother Castor. Hostilius took him on a few years ago as the law firm’s jack-of-all-trades.’

‘Her brother? He doesn’t have a place of his own?’

‘No. He isn’t married, and the house is one of the biggest in town. When Castor moved from Bovillae Hostilius gave him the use of the east wing.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Youngish, much younger than Veturina, middle thirties. Good looking. He and Veturina are very close, more like mother and son.’

‘Uh-huh. Eye for the girls?’

‘What makes you ask that?’

‘Just filling in the gaps. Besides, young and good looking were the first choices you made.’

‘Oh. I see.’ Hyperion hesitated. ‘Then…yes, he has, a little. But he’s a conscientious worker, too, by all accounts, and by no means unintelligent. Quite a likeable man all round.’

‘But he would’ve had access to the medicine bottle?’

‘Naturally he would, in theory at least. As would any of the household. I told you, it wasn’t locked away. Why would Castor want to kill his brother-in-law?’

I shrugged. ‘I’m not saying he did. How could I? But if you and Marcia are right in your assessment of Veturina then she didn’t, either. On the other hand, maybe one of them did, or both of them together, because they both had the opportunity. We’re only playing empty possibilities at this stage, pal. Which brings me to the point. What do I do now?’

Hyperion frowned. ‘But surely — ’

‘Find out who did it, of course,’ Marilla said. ‘I thought that was obvious.’

‘Princess,’ I said. ‘Just think for a moment, will you? As far as everyone’s concerned, including — overtly, at least — his doctor, the man’s death was completely natural, end of story. I’ve no official standing, I can’t even ask for official standing because the minute I raise the possibility of murder with the authorities they’ll pull in his slaves. So I can’t turn up on doorsteps asking embarrassing questions because the best I could hope for would be a raised eyebrow and the bum’s rush. And unless I can do that we’re stymied. Okay?’

‘Ah,’ Hyperion said.

‘Ah is exactly right.’

‘Just a moment.’ Marcia cleared her throat. ‘I think you may perhaps be being a little overpessimistic here.’

I turned to face her. ‘Is that so, now?’ I said.

She stiffened. ‘Yes, it certainly is so,’ she said. ‘And, Marcus Valerius Corvinus, don’t you dare use that tone with me.’

Oh, shit. I glanced at Perilla. She was grinning. Marilla sniggered. ‘Uh…yeah. Well. I’m sorry, it’s just that — ’

‘I’m glad to say I disagree with Hyperion on one important point. The Castrimoenian authorities are not ogres, and although I have little time normally for modern so-called morality it is sometimes superior to the variety which I was brought up with.’ I kept my lips tightly shut: Jupiter! Coming from Marcia an admission like that was up there with the flying pigs! ‘Besides, slaves are valuable commodities not to be wasted needlessly. You remember Quintus Libanius, of course?’

‘Yeah.’ Head of the Castrimoenian senate, and the only bearded town magistrate north of the Bay of Naples. ‘Yeah, I remember Libanius.’

‘He’s not an unreasonable man, and you did impress him over that unfortunate business two years ago. I’m sure that if he were properly approached and talked to in advance he might be prepared to show a little flexibility.’

‘Well, that’s great. In that case maybe I could — ’

She fixed me with a freezing stare, and I clammed up.

‘I meant by me, naturally,’ she said.

I winced. He wasn’t a bad guy, Fuzz-face Libanius, as magistrates go, and I felt sorry for him in prospect: properly approached and talked to was three-line-whip standard in Aunt Marcia’s lexicon. Knowing the old girl’s powers of coercion, my bet was that by the time she’d finished with him the poor bugger would agree to anything short of selling Latium to the Parthians. Not that I was complaining, mind.

‘Ah…fair enough,’ I said.

‘Good, I’m delighted that you agree. I’ll send a slave. In the meantime’ — she rearranged a fold of her impeccably-draped mantle — ‘I for one have had quite enough of murder for one afternoon, especially just before dinner. Change the subject. How is that little brat Gaius shaping up as emperor?’

Marcia’s slave came back while we were half way through the dessert with the news that Libanius would drop by mid to late afternoon the next day.

We were in business. Maybe.