Outside the headquarters, my escort handed me over to the officer on duty — you could’ve used the guy’s breastplate as a shaving-mirror — and went back to guarding the empire’s heartland against any band of marauding barbarians that might’ve slipped across the border and crossed five hundred miles or so of Roman territory without being noticed.
‘The commander’s in here, sir,’ the duty officer said. ‘If you’d care to follow me.’
Two minutes later I was face to face with Sertorius Macro, for the first time in five years.
He hadn’t changed much; still the hard, bulldog face with the chiselled features and eyes like chips of marble, although his close-cropped hair was greying at the temples. And he’d kept himself in shape. I couldn’t tell whether he had a paunch under the leathers and breastplate, sure, but when he got up and came round the desk with his hand held out to shake he moved easily, like a fit man ten years younger.
His grip was powerful, too.
‘Valerius Corvinus,’ he said. ‘A pleasure to see you again. Come and sit down.’
There was a chair in front of the desk: plain oak, but good quality. I pulled it up and sat while he went back to his own chair. An orderly had followed me in and was standing at attention.
‘Some wine, Titus,’ Macro said to him. Then, to me: ‘Not too early for you, Corvinus?’
‘Uh-uh. A cup of wine would be great, thanks.’
The orderly gave a crisp salute, right-about-turned and exited.
‘How’s your wife?’ Macro said. ‘Ah…Rufia Perilla, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, Perilla’s fine.’ I was feeling pretty gobsmacked. I couldn’t complain of the reception, anyway. The guy couldn’t’ve been more affable if I’d been a long-lost brother, and that was weird, because when we’d seen each other last he’d hardly spoken half a dozen words to me. Mind you, then he’d had other things to think about. Like killing Sejanus.
‘Ennia and I must have the pair of you round for dinner some evening. I’m sorry we seem to have lost touch over the years. Perhaps we can do better in future. After all, in a way I do have you to thank for the fact that I’m sitting here today.’ Jupiter! ‘Now.’ He smiled and steepled his fingers. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Ah…’ I was trying to keep my jaw from sagging. This wasn’t how I’d envisaged things happening at all; or maybe I was, in my dreams. Not that I was complaining, mind. ‘Actually, I was hoping to talk to someone on your staff. Pontius Fregellanus.’
I was watching his eyes when I said the name, and there was nothing. No reaction. Zero. Zilch.
‘Fregellanus? Why would you want to talk to him?’ The orderly came in with a winejug and two cups. ‘That’s fine, Titus. Just put them on the desk, pour and go.’
I waited until he’d done all of that, with due military precision. The guy probably went to the toilet by numbers. Then I said: ‘I thought, maybe, that he might have something to tell me about the death of Sextus Papinius.’
I was watching closely. Zilch again.
Macro picked up one of the wine-cups. ‘That the youngster who threw himself out of a tenement window ten days or so ago?’ he said.
‘Yeah. I’m…looking into the circumstances. As a favour to Natalis of the Greens and the kid’s mother.’
‘So how do you think Fregellanus can help?’ There was nothing in Macro’s voice beyond polite interest.
I shrugged; this, at least, I’d been ready for. Not that I had a proper answer; not even a genuine proper answer. ‘Maybe he can’t,’ I said. ‘In fact, probably he can’t. But I’m just checking round the lad’s friends and acquaintances to see if they can shed any light on why he might’ve done it.’
That, at least, got me a sharp look. ‘I didn’t know Fregellanus even knew young Papinius, let alone that he was a friend,’ Macro said. ‘And frankly, Corvinus, I can’t see that being very likely. Fregellanus is as old as I am, and, to tell you the truth, the man’s a monumental bore. What would he have in common with a…How old was Papinius?’
‘Nineteen. But — ’
‘With a nineteen-year-old lad-about-town?’ He shrugged. ‘Still, you know best, I suppose.’
‘He’s only a friend of a friend. But I’m trying to cover every angle. They may’ve been at the same party and he may’ve noticed something.’
‘Sounds pretty tenuous to me.’ The grey eyes rested on mine for a moment. It was like being raked by a fusillade of stones from an onager. Then he shrugged again and sipped his wine. ‘Well, as I say you know your own business. If you want to talk to Fregellanus then go ahead. He should be around at present. I’ll get my orderly to show you to his office.’
I picked up my own wine-cup and took a swallow of the wine: Faustinian, and bloody good. I was seriously puzzled: puzzled and relieved. Relieved that Macro wasn’t showing any signs at all of being mixed up in this business, puzzled because the guy was so matey. Dinner invitations, indeed! Just wait until that one hit the mat. Perilla would have a fit.
Against all expectations, we were doing okay here. Time, maybe, to push my luck a little.
‘Ah…there was something else,’ I said. ‘I was looking for a couple of men, centurions possibly. Sextus Aponius and Quintus Pettius.’
Was that a flicker? It was there and gone before I could be sure, but I’d lay good odds that it’d been there. Still, that was all I got. When he spoke, his tone of voice hadn’t changed.
‘The names ring a bell,’ he said, ‘although I couldn’t swear to them. I’m afraid I don’t know half my centurions except by sight. A terrible admission for a commander to make, but there you are, I’ve always been bad with names. They were friends of young Papinius as well?’
‘Uh, no, not exactly. Or not as far as I know, anyway.’ Even with this new super-friendly version of Macro I was treading carefully; keeping as close as possible to the truth without risking setting the guy’s back up. ‘I thought they might have some connection with a guy called Mucius Soranus.’
For the first time, Macro frowned. ‘Oh, I know Soranus. By name, at least. What does he have to do with it?’
‘Papinius owed him some money. A large gambling debt, so his friend said.’
‘That certainly makes sense.’ Macro drank some of his wine, a proper swallow this time. ‘He’s a bad one, that, Corvinus. As far as any of my lads being tied up with him goes…well, they’re no paragons, but I’d be sorry to hear it. You’ve met him yourself?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, twice.’ I judged the risk and decided to push things a little more. ‘In a manner of speaking. The second time was pretty much one-way. When I got to where we’d arranged to meet he was dead with his throat cut.’
Macro set the cup down slowly. ‘That so, now?’ he said.
‘I…ah…thought Aponius and Pettius might have something to do with it.’
‘Did you, indeed?’ His voice was neutral. ‘Excuse me.’ He stood up, went to the door and opened it. ‘Titus!’
The orderly came in and snapped to attention. ‘Yes, sir!’
‘Sextus Aponius and Quintus Pettius. Centurions, I don’t know the cohort or cohorts. Find out if they’re on base. If they are, I want to see them here as of five minutes ago.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The guy saluted and left. Macro closed the door.
‘Let’s have the details,’ he said.
With that tone you didn’t argue. I told him — not the whole thing, of course, just the circumstances of the rendezvous and what I’d found.
‘Pompey’s theatre?’ he said when I’d finished. ‘Why should he want to meet you at Pompey’s theatre?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But he’d been dumped there by…whoever killed him. Presumably the killer or killers chose the venue.’
‘And you think the killers were Aponius and Pettius.’