‘Then if he didn’t balk at murder, why not kill all three of them together — Papatius, Soranus and Albucilla — and solve the whole problem at a stroke? Plus save himself a considerable amount of money.’
‘Lady, that’s silly! Ahenobarbus might be an imperial, he’s certainly ruthless enough, but he’s no fool. Three suspicious deaths at once? All of bona fide aristocrats? You think that wouldn’t get noticed, maybe even on Capri?’
‘There would be nothing to link them to him, not directly. And surely it would depend on how important whatever he wanted to cover up was. Also — well — why should the deaths be suspicious? If he could successfully disguise Papatius’s murder as a suicide — which he would have done if you hadn’t become involved — what was to stop him doing the same for the others?’
‘Same answer. Three suicides at once would get noticed.’
‘Accidents, then. A mixture. Anything. And don’t quibble, you know I’m right.’
I sighed. Yeah, well, she had a point, and as far as Soranus was concerned if that bastard hung up his clogs I doubted if there’d be many tears shed, quite the reverse. Maybe the same went for Albucilla: from what I’d heard of her the lady wasn’t exactly a universally popular and respected pillar of society. And certainly it would explain why, when I’d talked to them, they’d both given the impression of pissing their pants about something. Knowing you’d made a guy like Domitius Ahenobarbus seriously peeved wouldn’t be exactly conducive to peace of mind and a good night’s sleep. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Point taken.’
‘Another thing it doesn’t explain is the peripheral detail.’
‘Uh…come again?’
‘Balbus and Carsidius, for a start. Marcus, they’re honourable men! Oh, yes, perhaps honourable only in senatorial terms, but that’s amply sufficient here. For your theory to work, they’d both have to be hand-in-glove with Ahenobarbus, and if he were engaged in some sort of illegal activity then that doesn’t make sense. Not to me, at any rate. Both of them lied to you over the bribery issue, and in neither case — unless they were involved with Ahenobarbus in a cover-up — was it necessary.’ She straightened a fold in her mantle. ‘I’m sorry, but if that’s your theory then it has too many holes.’
Bugger. Right again, and I couldn’t even put hand on heart and say there was a scam to cover up in the first place. Stymied. I sank the last of the wine in my cup. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Let’s leave that aspect of things for now. Where do I go next?’
She sniffed. ‘I would’ve thought it was obvious.’
‘Really?’ I reached for the jug. ‘Where’s that?’
‘Acutia.’
I shrugged. ‘Okay. Although on present showing I can’t exactly see the lady being willing to spill any beans. If she is involved somewhere along the line, then — ’
‘Marcus, why must you always be so direct?’
‘Fine, Aristotle. In that case, you tell me.’
‘You’ve got your Caelius Crispus. I’ve got Sergia Plauta.’
‘Who?’
‘Your mother’s friend. The dowager; remember?’
‘Oh, yeah.’ I’d never actually met Plauta myself — Mother’s pals can be pretty wearing at close range — but I’d heard both Mother and Perilla talking about her. Sergia Plauta was your echt blue-blood society matron, six steps to the right of Sulla and a force to be reckoned with in the honey-wine-klatsch set. ‘You reckon she can help?’
‘I’ll be very surprised if she can’t. Plauta’s the biggest source of female gossip in Rome. She’s also — and I don’t often use the term, Marcus — a complete cat. Yes, I think she could help a great deal. If properly approached.’
‘Not directly?’
Perilla smiled. ‘Not directly. Leave it to me, dear. I’ll invite myself round tomorrow.’
‘Hey, that’s great!’ I refilled my cup and took a slug of the Setinian: the world was suddenly a brighter place. ‘See if you can find out — ’
‘Excuse me, sir.’
I turned round. Bathyllus had oozed in on my blind side.
‘Yes, little guy, what is it?’
‘A slave has just come with a message. From Mucius Soranus.’ That with a slight sniff: like I said, Bathyllus has standards. He’d probably had the poor bugger disinfected at the door.
I set down the wine-cup. ‘Is that so, now?’ I said carefully.
‘Yes, sir. The gentleman wants to meet you. Tomorrow morning at dawn. In Pompey’s theatre.’
‘He what?’ I goggled. Perilla was staring.
‘That’s what the man said. I did think myself it was a little odd, but — ’
‘Jupiter’s bloody immortal balls! At dawn? He say what it was about?’
‘No, sir. I asked, of course, but he didn’t know. He’d only been told to take the verbal message.’
‘Don’t go, Marcus!’ Perilla said.
Yeah, that was my first reaction too. A dawn meeting at Pompey’s theatre just didn’t make sense. If everything was on the level then the bastard could’ve asked me round to his house at a civilised hour, although given how we’d parted on the last occasion I couldn’t think what the hell he’d have to say to me. Something stank like a week-old codfish.
‘The guy’s still here? The slave, I mean?’ I said.
‘No, sir. He delivered the message and left. I said you’d want to speak to him personally, but — ’
‘Okay. Okay, Bathyllus.’ I waved him away. ‘You did your best. Go and polish your spoons.’ He exited. ‘Gods!’ I reached for the wine-cup.
‘Marcus, you aren’t going to go, are you?’ Perilla said.
‘Sure I am. What choice do I have?’
‘For heaven’s sake!’
I was thinking. I’d go, sure — I had to, it might be important — but I wouldn’t go alone. No way would I go alone, not the way things were shaping. Forget Placida this time, she was too unreliable. Half a dozen of my biggest lads with weighted sticks were another matter; and Soranus’s message — if it was Soranus’s — hadn’t mentioned anything about a solo interview.
If the meeting was above-board, though — and I’d put that in the flying pigs category — then it was going to be interesting.
24
I was up in good time, two hours before dawn at least; to tell the truth, I hadn’t slept all that much. Perilla was awake and around too. She hadn’t slept much either.
‘Be careful,’ she said as she kissed me goodbye.
‘You’ve got it, lady.’ I checked the knife taped to my forearm — carrying a sword inside the city limits is strictly illegal, and I was in enough trouble already — and whistled up the Wrecking Crew. They were the biggest, meanest half dozen Bathyllus’s team of skivvies could provide, built like the doors on the State Treasury and more than twice as thick. Mind you, I wasn’t taking them for their powers of conversation. Apropos of which: ‘Okay, boys? All got your sticks?’
‘Yeah, boss.’ The leader grinned. He’d lost a few teeth here and there, but the effect was balanced by his broken nose and shaved head.
‘Fine. So let’s go walkies.’
Pompey’s theatre is the other side of the Capitol, in Mars Field near Tiberius Arch; in other words, a long hike from the Caelian. We weren’t bothering with torches: there was a full moon, no footpad in his right mind was going to cross six very hefty buggers just begging for the chance to try out their new toys, and in any case in the lead-up to dawn the streets were full of wheeled carts making their deliveries and plain-tunics en-route to work. We got some strange looks on the way over — you don’t see purple-stripers out and about much before the second hour — but again because of the Wrecking Crew most punters gave us the pavement to ourselves. The sky was just beginning to lighten when we reached the Temple of Hercules and the Muses just shy of the theatre complex.
The doors of the theatre were open. That was my first surprise. The second, when I went inside, was that there were no slaves about. That was weird. An open door in a public building first thing in the morning means the bought help are up and around polishing the floors or sweeping the steps and generally making sure that the place is respectable and heart-of-the-empire standard. Not a soul. Zero. Zilch.