Germanicus

'Wait. That's not all. Okay, as I see it we've got two possible scenarios. First that Piso and Plancina were guilty as hell on all counts but they thought they had a deal with the Imperials that would get them off, because the Wart and his mother — or the Wart alone — had ordered them to commit the murder.'

'But why should Tiberius-?'

I held up a hand. 'Second scenario. Piso and Plancina were innocent as new-born babes, and they knew that the Imperials knew and could prove it. Or at least make sure they didn't get chopped for something they didn't do. Only they were too trusting. In fact they were the fall guys. Tiberius set them up and then pulled the rug from under them. Rome wanted a scapegoat and the emperor gave her one, maybe to cover up his own guilt, certainly to cover up someone's.'

'Do you have any proof of this, Marcus? Any proof at all?'

I took the letter out of the belt in my tunic — the copy of Piso's suicide note I'd got from Regulus — and passed it over.

'Read this,' I said. 'Sure, it might be garbage from beginning to end but it rings true. I don't believe Piso did it. I think he was set up.'

Perilla read the letter. When she put it down she was frowning.

'You're right,' she said. 'About the letter, at least. It does sound sincere.'

'There's another thing. According to Capax Piso slit his throat with a cavalry sword.'

'That's rather unusual.'

'Damn right it's unusual! It's bloody difficult, too.'

'Perhaps that was all he had to hand.'

'Oh, sure!' I rubbed my eyes. The tiredness was coming back, and even although I was used to walking my legs felt stiff. 'Perilla, he was in his own house. His barber might be sleeping on the razors but he'd surely have a knife put away somewhere. And even if he didn't the best way to kill yourself with a sword is to put the point against your chest and fall on it.'

'You mean Piso was murdered? But we'd already decided that!'

'Sure he was murdered. The question is, why that way? Why not with a razor or a knife, to make it look plausible? Or if the murderer did use a sword, why not a chest wound?'

'I assume you do have an answer.'

'Yeah. I think so. Say you were Tiberius or his agent, and you wanted to get rid of a political embarrassment by faking a suicide. How would you do it?'

'As you said. With a knife or a razor, or a sword between the ribs.'

'Right. Now listen carefully, because this is tricky. Let's say you were someone else, and you wanted to do things the other way round. Take a genuine suicide and turn it into a fake murder. Or maybe commit a murder, tart it up as suicide, but make sure the death looked suspicious.'

I could see her working that one out. Then she looked at me with startled eyes. 'You think that's what happened?'

'I'd risk good money. So who did it, and why?'

'The why is obvious. To throw suspicion on a third party.'

'The third party being the Wart and/or Livia. Yeah. So what about the who?'

'Agrippina. Or one of Germanicus's friends.'

'Stirring the shit in revenge for the Wart quashing the murder charge?' I nodded. 'Right. It's possible.'

She was frowning again. 'There is another possibility. That it was a genuine suicide, but that Piso himself wanted to disguise it as murder to get back at the emperor.'

I sighed. 'Or maybe the whole thing's a mare's nest, I'm being too clever and the sword was the only thing Piso had in his cupboard after all. We're going round and round in circles, lady. Call it a night. So how was your afternoon?'

We talked about Perilla's mother, or at least she did while I sank another cup of the Falernian and wool-gathered until dinner. Bathyllus must've opened his present because when the little guy came in to announce that the sauce crisis was over and we could eat he was beaming. Tomorrow was another day. I just hoped when I got there Carillus's butcher shop would be open and the guy wasn't already at the bottom of the Tiber in a pair of concrete sandals. If I'd been the Wart, or whoever the hell was responsible for all this, that would've been one of my priorities.

9

I found the place without any trouble, and the shutters were off. Capax had been right, it was one of the biggest shops in the street with a proper painted sign and two or three customers waiting to be served. I parked myself behind an old woman with a basket of onions and watercress and waited my turn.

The guy behind the counter was German: a mean looking six footer with red hair and a wart on his nose that wouldn't've disgraced the emperor and put me off chickpeas for a month. He swung a neat cleaver, too, and I promised myself I'd think twice before going up any dark alleyways in his company. At least this time around no one had decided yet that Corvinus would look better with his belly ventilated. That was something to be thankful for. I just hoped it would last.

The woman in front of me left with her half pound of chitterlings. I moved up to the counter.

'Yeah?' Customer relations obviously weren't the guy's strong point.

'Your name Carillus?' I asked.

He jerked his head at the sign. 'How's your reading, friend?'

'There somewhere we can talk?'

'That thing says "Butcher". Butchers sell meat. So what can I get you?'

Fair enough. 'How are your collops this morning?' I said.

'Pound?'

'Make it two.' I held up a gold piece. 'And ten minutes of your valuable time.'

He gave me a long measuring look; me, not the coin. Then he set down his cleaver and wiped his hands on a scrap of bloody rag.

'Scaurus!' A thin lad with bad skin who was filleting a leg of lamb on the back bench looked round. 'Take over until I get back. Right?'

The thin lad nodded. Obviously, from the facial resemblance, the son and heir. Carillus came out through the gap in the counter.

'Ten minutes,' he said. 'You drink beer?'

Oh, hell. 'When I have to. Yeah. Sure.'

He grunted and led the way across the street to a wooden shack that leaned against the side wall of a horsemeat seller's. The inside was bare and empty except for a counter, a couple of trestle tables and an old woman sitting in the corner. Carillus growled out a word or two in German and the woman poured us two foaming beakers from the barrel beside her.

'Right.' He tossed a handful of small change onto the counter and sat down at one of the tables. 'So what do you want that's worth a gold piece to you, friend?'

I took the bench facing him. 'You're a freedman of Calpurnius Piso's.'

'Was. The guy's dead. Or hadn't you heard?'

'I need to know about a certain letter he wrote the night he died.'

'Is that right, now?'

Jupiter! When he'd made that crack about butchers selling meat he hadn't been kidding. This guy had his mouth sewn up tighter than a gnat's arse. 'According to my information he gave it to you.'

'Your informant being?'

There was no reason not to tell him. 'A guy called Livineius Regulus. One of Piso's lawyers.'

'Uh-huh.' He eyed me speculatively. 'Yeah, okay. Piso gave me a letter that night. So what?'

Well, that was one question answered. At least Letter B existed. 'You mind telling me who it was addressed to and what happened to it?' I said.

He took a long pull at his beer and set the beaker down three quarters empty.

'What the fuck business is it of yours?' he said softly.

'Call it curiosity.'

That long measuring look again. Then, suddenly, he laughed.

'Okay, pal. I'll make a deal with you. What's your name, by the way?'

'Corvinus. Valerius Corvinus.'

'Okay, Corvinus. Here's the deal. Forget your money, I don't need it. You say you drink beer. Prove it. Finish that pot at one go, without taking a breath, and I'll tell you what you want to know for free. Leave enough inside to wet the table, or spill so much as a drop down your chin, and you can go and lose yourself. Bet?'