'Yeah, sure.' If it hadn't been for Perilla I might've argued the toss, although more out of principle than sense with Tiny itching for an excuse to see how hard and how far I'd bounce. As it was, we left peaceably.
Maybe the bastard would be drummed out for bad form after all. I certainly hoped so.
Perilla kept pretty quiet on the way home. She opened her mouth once or twice and took a breath as if she were going to ask a question, but the question never came. I watched her covertly and grinned to myself.
Yeah, well, I had to admit I'd enjoyed myself, and so had she. Maybe we should go out clubbing more often.
16
Next morning I went for a haircut down to one of the barber shops off the Market Square. Sure, I had a barber of my own at home, but people don't go to one of those streetside places just to get scalped. You can pick up some juicy bits of gossip, and they're great for sitting thinking about life, the universe and murder. Which was more or less what I had in mind. I sat down in the chair, told the guy with the shears to use his own judgment, and settled back with my eyes closed.
So. Regulus had been Piso's 'middle man'. That meant a deal, or maybe a scam; and given Regulus's predilections one that was illegal or at least shady. The obvious deal was the one with the Wart, but I dismissed that out of hand. Not because I didn't believe it existed; it had to for anything to make sense. But Crispus would've cut his own tongue out before he gave me anything that might lead me to Tiberius. The same went for Drusus. Parting with information that might bring an angry imperial down on his greasy neck wasn't something the guy would risk. Not under any circumstances. Besides, if we needed an imperial middle man then our best bet was Carillus. He was Piso's ex-slave, and Piso had used him as his messenger to carry the mysterious phantom letter to whoever the hell's name was on the front, which could well have been the Wart.
No, Piso and his lawyer Regulus must've had another scam going, one that didn't involve the emperor and that I didn't know about yet. A private scam that had nothing to do with Germanicus. Or nothing directly to do with him…
'You want more off the sides, sir?'
'Hmm?' I opened my eyes.
'I'm sorry, sir.' The barber was waiting with a mirror. 'Is that okay for you or do you want me to cut some more?'
I looked into the polished bronze. Hell. Did I always look this worried? Maybe I needed a holiday. 'Uh, yeah.' I said. 'Yeah, go ahead.'
I sat back again while he clipped away at the top. Piso's lawyer. That was something else that didn't fit. Why had Piso asked Regulus to represent him in the first place? And why had Regulus agreed? The unwritten rule in court cases is that lawyer and client share some sort of common bond, social or political. The other two guys fitted the rule: Lucius Piso was his brother and Lepidus had followed him as governor of Tarraco. Regulus was the odd man out. Politically and socially he was a nobody, he wasn't Piso's type, and as far as I knew there'd been no existing link at all between them.
The operative phrase there was as far as I knew. That was where the 'middle man' came in, naturally. If I could ferret out the missing connection then maybe I'd understand what Crispus was telling me.
Right. If. The only problem was that Piso and Regulus were both dead, Carillus was the gods knew where and liable to stay lost until hell froze over, and that particular avenue was closed. Crispus had been a good idea, sure, but the bastard hadn't helped all that much. We still needed a major lead, and I hadn't the slightest idea how to go about getting it…
'You think the Reds have a chance tomorrow, sir?'
Oh, bugger. I opened my eyes again. Most barbers can gauge a customer's mood straight off and gab or shut up accordingly; the tips are better that way. This guy was evidently new, or he had all the sensitivity of a brick. Still, you have to be polite. And some subjects are sacred.
'About as much chance as a Vestal in a dice game, pal,' I said. 'The way these morons've been driving lately Green'll wipe the sand with them.'
'Right. Right.' He nodded. 'It's a crying shame. If Felix cut in on the turns different he could grab another five yards easy.'
'You think so?' I kept my voice neutral. Felix was the Reds' principal driver, a total incompetent who couldn't cut a decent turn if he practised between now and the next Winter Festival. But I wasn't going to say that, oh no: my barber was obviously a Red supporter, and you don't disagree with the guy with the scissors.
'Sure,' he said. 'Listen…'
Luckily I had my experiences with Priscus to fall back on, so at least I managed to look vaguely interested. It was good stuff, though, smack on the button, even I could see that and I'm no expert. If I'd been the Reds' trainer I'd've had enough to fill a notebook.
'You seem to know a lot about racing, friend.' I said when he'd finished gabbing and cutting together.
'Used to be in the business myself.' He flicked the stray hairs off my mantle and held the mirror up. 'Not a driver, just one of the stable hands, but you get a feel for the cars. Besides, I'm a Syrian. From Antioch. You ever meet an Antiochene who doesn't like racing?'
'No, come to think of it I haven't.' Certainly not a barber. Half the barbers in Rome were Syrians, and you always saw more stubbly jowls around on race-meet days.
'Ever been to Syria yourself, sir, by any chance?' the barber was shaking clippings off his cloth.
'No. Never east of Athens.'
'You should go some time. Nice place. Lovely country. Except for the tax-collectors, of course.'
He didn't smile, and I wondered if he used that exit line for all his customers. My hand was in my purse to pay. I stopped -
'Shit!'
The barber paused. 'Some problem?'
'No. No, no problem.' I gave him my best smile and half a gold piece. 'Thanks a lot.'
He stared at the coin like it was the key to the mint. 'Hey, I'm sorry,' he said. 'I can't change that.'
'You don't have to, pal.' Bells were ringing. It was going to be a good day after all. 'Keep it, and thanks again. Thanks very much.'
'Uh, yeah. Likewise.' He was still looking after me, jaw hanging, when his next customer took the empty chair. Probably waiting for the minder to leap out from behind a pillar and cart me off somewhere quiet.
I'd meant to kick around the Market Square in the hopes of running into Crispus and bending his arm a bit more. Now I didn't have to. Sure, I could've gone up to the Capitol and asked the guy on the desk at the Treasury itself for the information, but he'd've wanted to know why the question. Probably passed me on to someone higher up, too, and that I didn't want. The fewer waves I made the better. Anyway, there was someone else I could ask. I headed back for the Palatine.
Who says oracles always speak in riddles? I'd just heard one, and short of grabbing me by the scruff of the neck and giving me the answer in words of one syllable it couldn't've been clearer. Thanks to the guy with the magic shears I knew now what the connection between Piso and Regulus had been.
When I got back home Bathyllus was outside the front door, chewing our young door slave to shreds for getting muddy sandalprints all over his nice clean mosaic. I collared him while the kid slipped away.
'Hey, Bathyllus,' I said. 'I've a job for you.'
'Really, sir?' I got the little guy's best boiled turbot look; Bathyllus has a fixed routine and he doesn't appreciate any sudden alterations.
Hard cheese. Even Bathyllus had to be prepared for a few loose cobbles in the paved road of life. 'Yeah. I want you to run down to the Aventine for me. Now.'
'The Aventine, sir?' He reeled, a bit too dramatically to be convincing. 'Me, sir? Now, sir? Run, sir?'