Germanicus

No one with any regard for his skin or his stomach stays in an Italian guest house. If the owner doesn't get you the fleas will, and doing the tour of the kitchens is about as safe as a walk through a plague pit. The Syrian Greek variety's different. It puts ours on a par with a shack on the Danube. Even on this scale the Two Cedars, when we finally got to it, was top-of-the-market stuff: a long, two-storey building with a flat roof and a first floor balcony running its length, set in a grove of trees a stone's throw from the river. Round the side I could see a garden with a stream and tables shaded by trellised vines. Cool in summer, just as good in spring, especially with a jug of cold crisp white wine and a plateful of the local olives served by…

Served by…

Jupiter and all the holy gods!

'Marcus?' Perilla said.

'Hmm?'

'Would you mind getting down and letting me out, please? When you've finished ogling the waitress, of course.'

'Uh…yeah. Yeah, okay.' She was a big girl, though. Lovely ankles, too. I liked the Cedars already.

We unloaded. I paid off the carters and watched them hare back down the road towards town like their postilions had been struck by lightning. Meanwhile Perilla was talking to a little fat guy with ringlets. Presumably Theon's cousin.

'I've taken half the first floor, Marcus,' she said when she'd finished. 'It's self-contained, with a private kitchen downstairs and use of the baths at the rear. Will that do?'

The little guy looked punch-drunk and his eyes were glazed. It'd do. Sure it would. We'd probably got his best suite for half the normal price.

'That sounds fine,' I said. Meton had already wandered off with a single minded look in his eye and his best set of knives under his arm to find the kitchen. I motioned to the other two slaves. 'Hey, just take everything inside and stow it, guys, okay?'

'Philotimus, lord, at your service.' The fat owner was bowing. 'You had a pleasant trip?'

'It was okay. Lovely place you have here.' An arselicker, obviously; but then you have to make allowances. Manners are different out east.

'The lord is gracious to say so.' He waved a ringed hand towards the garden. 'Perhaps some cool wine and fruit? The city can be tiring. My own slaves can help yours with the luggage while you and the lady relax.'

Maybe he was okay after all. The guy had his priorities right, anyway.

'Sounds good,' I said. 'Okay, Perilla?'

We left the lads shifting our bags and boxes upstairs for us and went into the garden.'So.' I took a swallow of the wine — it was Chian, chilled in the stream that flowed past our table — and tore my guilty eyes away from the girl with the ankles who'd served it. Probably Philotimus's daughter, although if there was a family resemblance the mother must've been a real honey.

'What's our plan, lady?' I said.

Perilla sipped her own drink: chilled pomegranate juice. 'I'd suggest that once we're settled we should start enquiring about properties to rent,' she said. 'And pay a courtesy visit to the governor, naturally.'

'Ah…you think so?' That I wasn't looking forward to. Not that I knew anything bad about Aelius Lamia, he was probably a nice enough guy, but the thought of the diplomatic tap-dancing involved in a visit to the Residence made me want to go somewhere quiet, pull a bag over my head and wait till spring.

'Of course, dear. It's only polite. As well as politic. And you are the consul's nephew, after all.'

'Yeah. Yeah, right.' I frowned. 'Actually, though, I was thinking more along the lines of Plan with a capital P. Contacting the guys who were directly involved with Piso. His pals Celer and Marsus, for a start. The prosecutor Vitellius. Maybe someone who knew the poison lady Martina. That sort of thing, you know? The really useful stuff.'

Perilla sighed. 'Marcus, we have just got here after being at sea for a month. Not an unpleasant trip, but certainly tiring. I don't suppose you'd consider just relaxing and enjoying yourself for a while? Having a holiday? Doing a little sightseeing?'

'I am enjoying myself, lady.' I was: the wine was good, the girl with the ankles was an easy eyeful and there was the prospect of scaring up a decent new lead in the Germanicus case. What more could I ask out of life? 'This is a holiday. And as far as sightseeing's concerned you can take it and drop it down a very deep hole and put the lid on. Okay?'

'You are not serious!' Perilla's eyes had widened. 'Antioch is one of the most beautiful cities in the Greek east! Of course you have to see some of it while you're here!'

Uh-oh. We obviously had a major concept clash somewhere. This was no time for pussyfooting around. 'Believe me, lady, prolonged exposure to three hundred year old bronzes brings me out in boils. Watch and marvel.'

That got through. She sat back.

'Mmm. Very well. Then I suggest we divide forces. You deal with the…the business aspect while I look around for suitable accommodation. I think from our experiences so far that I may be better at that than you are.'

'No argument there, sweetheart.' With Perilla's track record we'd probably end up rent-free in the imperial wing of the Residence while Lamia dossed down on a couch. 'So long as you're happy.'

'Oh, I am.' Yeah, that was obvious. She was looking more relaxed than I'd seen her for a long time. 'Coming to Antioch was a lovely idea after all, Marcus. I'm glad you thought of it.'

So was I. Which reminded me…

'Uh…you seen our rooms yet, Perilla?'

'No. But Philotimus says we have a view over the river.'

'You want to check it out?'

'You mean now? I haven't finished my fruit juice. And you haven't finished your wine.'

'The fruit juice can wait. And the wine.'

It was strange making love again in a bed that didn't move. The view across the river wasn't bad either, when we got around to looking at it.

21

We compromised over the sightseeing; meaning we did it after all. Philotimus's cousin Zoilus (Hey! Surprise! You ever meet a Greek who didn't have a handy cousin?) was a tourist guide and would give us special rates; which meant the bastard soaked us for half again over the going price. I spent the next three days glaring at statues — including one of the Wart looking constipated on top of a column — and having my ears driven into my head with who'd built what temple when, how big it was, how much marble had gone into it and how much the bugger who'd thought of it had stung the taxpayers to put it together. Perilla lapped everything up. She even asked questions. Me, I just got sore feet, a headache, and a tongue that was permanently dry as a razor strop. The only place I perked up, in fact, was the New Market; 'new', of course, being a relative term. When Antiochus Epiphanes had laid it out old Cato was boring the pants off the Roman senate, and Carthage was still a viable proposition.

With a party of Greek punters Zoilus would've started by pointing out the Shrine of the Muses or the senate building. Five years ago for us Romans he'd've kicked off with the Temple of Capitoline Jove, which was the biggest lump of marble in the city and looked as out of place as an elephant in a jeweller's. Now only one line was possible, whatever the nationality.

'This,' he said, 'is where we burned the Lord Germanicus.'

'Yeah?' I straightened. 'No kidding!'

'Marcus!' Perilla glared at me. 'Behave, please!'

Zoilus beamed: nothing pleases a tour guide more than having an awestruck punter in the group. 'Yes, lord, indeed,' he said. 'The city fathers had constructed a magnificent cenotaph on the site of the pyre. You'd care to see it?'

'Sure!' I took the guy's arm. 'Lead on, friend!'