I planned a little. I’d avoid the north-east-people would be heading out for good seats. Maybe that’s why it was so crowded. Games ate into tavern and brothel business, but afterward they doubled it. Lupo’s should be quiet right now.
Someone was trying to sell some family jewels-no doubt stolen-and someone else had scratched a rough drawing of certain sexual positions in very flattering proportions. Beneath it was a curse, apparently on the artist. Then an exhortation to bet on Maximus in the races, with odds given below. Above it all was an official announcement. “Wanted: Information pertaining to the robbery and murder of Vibius Maecenas, a Syrian merchant. See Publius Junius Meditor at the Basilica Claudia in the Forum.” Listing “robbery” first was Agricola’s idea-too subtle for Meditor. So that’s how they were going to play it-robbery and murder of a foreign merchant.
I yawned, and glanced back. Big Feet was trying to ignore a man selling decorated banqueting pots and dinnerware. From what I could see, the pictures on them looked the same as the drawing on the rostra. Maybe he was the Zeuxis of the three foot prick.
I squared my shoulders and plunged into the crowd, headed straight for Big Feet. He was waving the potter away in a panic, his eyes getting bigger by the moment. I didn’t look over, but threaded my way through so that I would brush up against him. I could feel him hold his breath. He let it out as soon as I passed, but nearly fell into a large krater when I pinned his arm behind his back. I pretended to look over his shoulder and admire the handiwork.
I whispered in his ear: “Run home and tell Meditor to stop wasting your time. There’s a murderer on the loose.”
He didn’t say anything, but I could hear a squeal rising up in his chest. What had Meditor told him about me?
“And I’m not it. I’m a medicus, a simple medicus. And I’d drink some peppermint and anise, if I were you-that’s quite a wheeze you’ve got.”
My fingers tightened on his wrist. “Don’t follow me anymore. Next time you try to be inconspicuous, leave your gold fibula at home. They don’t give those out with the grain dole.” I relaxed my grip, and I thought he’d fall. Without a backward glance, he fumbled his way through the shoppers and headed for the basilica behind the forum, where Meditor had his office.
The potter was looking at me with curiosity and irritation. His teeth were yellow from chewing caraway seeds, and he belched a few times as an added incentive to stick around. I hurriedly bought a water jug with Jupiter and Danae-at least I think it was supposed to be Danae, you never could tell with potters, they always seemed to mix the stories up-and left. I tried to melt into the crowd but it wasn’t hot enough, so I skirted around the edges and headed west for Lupo’s.
The crowds thinned considerably. Most of the city would pour into the amphitheater, leaving it nice and empty for me. Some shops along the way-increasingly shabby, as I headed westward-posted closed signs because of the show. I could see the rear of Lupo’s in front of me, the side with the door exiting into the mews, when I noticed a wagon pulled up next to it. I doubled my pace. Lupo was coming out of the back door, talking to a wiry, thin man, as lean and mean as a miser’s purse. The big man looked surprisingly small. As I got closer, I saw why. The pot slipped out of my fingers and broke on the hard, muddy ground, but I didn’t hear it shatter. The wagon was an undertaker’s cart, and in the cart-I reached it, out of breath, not able to breathe-was the dead and broken body of Galla. She’d been beaten to death.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The nausea came over me suddenly. I turned my back to Lupo and the undertaker, and vomited in the mud as quietly as I could. I never got sick in the hospital, but then again I didn’t usually feel responsible for killing my patients.
There were a few other people standing around. A couple of whores, the blonde I’d seen the day before, looking bored. One who must’ve been kept on for men with mother fixations. Pigeon-Chest was lurking farther back on the side of the building. I didn’t think he’d recognize me without my toga, and with vomit on my breath. Lupo wasn’t paying attention: he was arguing with the undertaker.
“You don’t got enough for a fire. Y’r lucky I can bury her for this. Ya want a mourner, too? That’ll cost you thirty sestertii. Music’s the same price, as long as you like a pipe. Why you want to buy a procession, anyway? She’s just a whore!”
I could see the muscle under Lupo’s tunic quiver. He was facing the undertaker, and the lean man started to back up. “Don’t get hasty, I’m not saying nothin’, you do whatever you want, I’m just tryin’ to save you some trouble.”
The big man’s hulking frame suddenly shuddered and collapsed, like a blown-up pig’s bladder kids like to kick in the streets. He turned around, and there was a dark red rim around his one eye. They started to walk toward the cart, where I was standing. I hadn’t looked in again-I knew I’d have to, but not just yet.
“You. Undertaker.”
Surprised, the skinny man looked me over, wondering how I got there and why I cared. The blonde eyed me curiously, and the old lady just sobbed into a filthy handkerchief. Lupo hadn’t noticed me yet. He was staring at Galla’s body.
I took out a pouch, and that was enough to capture the full attention of the undertaker. I said: “Here’s seven denarii. I want a lyre, a pipe, a dance, and a full ceremony at the grave site. A pyre, if that’s what she wanted. And a marker-stone. Standard bereavement.” The undertaker licked his lips in excitement.
“And a full cena novendialis. I’ll be there for it, you cheap bastard, and I want the best your small-time service offers, so don’t start figuring out how to cheat the dead just yet.”
His hand stretched out for the money, and Lupo finally caught on. “Now, don’t be hasty, I got some good people in line, if you wanna waste your money on a slave, who am I to-”
He moved quickly for such a large man. The fingers around the undertaker’s throat weren’t quite as fat as sewer pipes. I said: “He’s not worth your time, Lupo. It won’t bring her back. Let him go.”
Pigeon-Chest had moved closer by now, and both women had stopped crying, staring at me puzzled. The undertaker staggered, and lurched against the wall, his breath coming back in hard gasps. I heard some footsteps behind me, and turned and saw a short, squat middle-aged man wearing a cobbler’s apron. He looked agitated and out-of-breath.
“Is it true? Is Galla…” We led him to the cart with our eyes-we couldn’t help it. He took some slow, delicate footsteps for such a paunchy build, and peered over the edge. The tired white cart horse stomped, and for a second all any of us could hear was the swish of its tail.
He didn’t make a sound. His body stiffened, and his paunch shook a little, and then he faced us. There was a fire in his eyes and flabby cheeks.
“Who? Customer?”
Lupo studied him soberly, his one eye still red and raw. He slowly shook his head. That meant it was Caelius. Of course. I’d been so worried, so hoping that she would come find me. And Caelius could do whatever he wanted-she was his slave, his property, and it was his-monetary-loss.
The fat man wheezed a little, and stood up straighter. He looked around, reality starting to hit him, and I suddenly remembered where I’d seen him. He was the drunk, the one who sang the song about Galla two nights ago when Maecenas was murdered. He’d been one of her “reg-u-lars.” His eyes were a little piggish, but not stupid, and they were starting to panic. The undertaker was rubbing his neck theatrically, but nobody paid attention.