White murder marcus corv.., p.13
White Murder (Marcus Corvinus Book 7), page 13
As a theory, it had its holes, but it was worth keeping in mind. And pure as the driven snow was something Laomedon most decidedly wasn’t.
I’d got to the top of the first Aventine slope, parallel with the Temple of the Moon. This is real tenement country: high-rise flats as far as the eye can see, with washing strung between the balconies either side of the road. Me, I’ve never been much of an Aventine fan. It’s got nothing to do with the fact that it’s a downmarket district; compared to the Subura, which has a lot worse slum areas than Rome’s southernmost hill, I just find it drab. Sure, there’re nice bits and the people are okay, but generally once you’ve seen one street you’ve seen them all. The Aventine is pease porridge to the Subura’s spice cake.
The Temple of Queen Juno would be off somewhere to the right. I took a convenient alleyway that looked like it wouldn’t peter out and headed towards the river side of the hill.
One guy I hadn’t thought much about was Cario. Typhon had singled him out with Uranius as a leader of the anti-Pegasus lobby, and what I’d seen of him confirmed it. Still, he’d made no bones about the fact, and he seemed straightforward enough. There were only two question marks over him as far as I could see: one, that reticence when I’d asked him what he had against the dead man apart from the effect he had on the team; two, that he’d been pretty quick off the mark supplying an unsolicited alibi for the afternoon Pegasus had been killed. Me, I tend to be suspicious when someone defends themselves before they’re attacked, and in essence that was what the guy had done. Added to which, his behaviour when he noticed that his father might’ve overheard suggested that he’d deliberately told me a porky and knew he’d been caught out. Mind you, at that point Cammius himself hadn’t exactly been beyond suspicion either: if you twisted my arm and forced me to give a straight opinion, I’d say that he had heard and decided to let the lie go. Whatever their various motives, there was something screwy there, that I’d bet on. What it was, and how serious it was, I didn’t know, but I hadn’t finished with Cario; not by a long chalk.
The Temple of Queen Juno was just up ahead. Hesper had said the block was next to it, but like I say if the Aventine’s got lots of anything it’s tenements, and there were two or three contenders. I chose one at random that had a vegetable-seller’s at street level and asked the lad with the cabbages if he knew a Marcus Silvius. I was pretty certain that I’d get a yes: one thing the Aventine has in common with Rome’s other poorer parts is that everyone knows everyone else. With the number of people your average slum landlord manages to cram into his gimcrack property you’d expect anonymity, but it doesn’t seem to happen that way. If I’d asked the same question on the Pincian or the Caelian I’d probably just have got a blank stare, even from the guy’s next door neighbour.
‘Sure,’ the cabbage-seller said. ‘Third floor up, right-hand door.’
‘Would he be in at present, do you know, pal?’ I said. There was still a fair-sized chunk of the afternoon left, and tenement-dwellers tend to be working men with jobs to go to.
‘Oh, Silvius’ll be in, sir. He hasn’t got much option.’
Odd answer, but evidently the gods were smiling. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Thanks, friend.’
I climbed the stairs. Like most of the high-rises I’ve ever been inside, it smelt of stale urine and staler cabbage soup, with overtones of nappies, and the graffiti artists had been busy on the walls. The usual preoccupations: sex and sport. This was obviously a Green neighbourhood: I passed two or three terse and unflattering phrases about the Blues and several longer ones saying how great the Greens were. One, obviously out of date, even mentioned Pegasus. I reached the third landing and knocked on the right-hand door.
There was a pause, followed by a sort of shuffling, rolling noise. The door opened onto nothing.
‘Yes?’
I looked down. The guy’s face only came up to my navel. Then I realised why. He wasn’t a midget, he just stopped at the knees. My scrotum contracted in sympathy.
‘Uh...Marcus Silvius?’ I said..
‘That’s right.’ A strong voice. Educated, too.
‘Marcus Valerius Corvinus. I was told you run a singing group.’
‘Indeed.’ He’d been looking a bit wary; now he relaxed.
‘You mind if I come in?’ I tried to control the queasy feeling in my stomach. Deformities of any kind always make me feel sick, and no legs was a total new one on me. It was a beaut, though; if you can use the expression for something like that. ‘I’ve a few questions.’
‘Not at all. Glad of the company.’ He put the palms of his hands flat on the floor and pushed backwards. Yeah; that accounted for the rolling noise: he was sitting on a wooden cart. Clever. Not that it’d help him with the steps, which explained the guy downstairs’s comment. ‘Close the door behind you.’
I did, and looked round. It was a bigger flat than you normally find in these places, and a couple of doorways off indicated at least three rooms. There was a lot of furniture, too, far more than a tenement flat usually boasted, or even a proper house. Chairs and stools, mostly. And everything was waxed and polished till it shone.
‘Have a seat,’ Silvius said. He parked himself so that his back was against a wall. I noticed there was a low table next to him with what ought to’ve been book rolls on it, but one was open and there were only a few lines of text, with symbols above them. He must’ve seen me look in their direction because he said: ‘Just a song or two I’m working on.’
‘Right. Right.’ Perilla wasn’t into music, but she had a few books of annotated Greek lyric poetry and I’d come across that sort of thing before. Smart buggers, those musicians. I lowered myself onto a chair and tried not to look at the shiny rounded stumps jutting out below the hem of his tunic. ‘That’d be for the glee club, yeah?’
‘I prefer to call it a performers’ circle. Or maybe a choir.’
The last word was Greek. I looked at him in surprise. He wasn’t a Greek himself – not with a name like Silvius – and you don’t expect to hear Greek in an Aventine tenement. Not anything barring the commoner swear words, anyway. ‘You’re a musician?’
‘I play the flute, yes, but not well. Mostly I compose for voice.’
‘Professionally?’
‘No. Not any more. Not for many years now, in fact, since my accident.’ He smiled. ‘A carriage ran over my legs, Valerius Corvinus, since you’re no doubt wondering. But I’ll spare you the details.’
I swallowed as my scrotum shrank another inch or so. ‘Uh...yeah. Yeah, right. Thanks.’
‘I used to compose and perform for the emperor’s mother.’
‘Livia?’ Jupiter, I hadn’t known the poisonous old bitch had been all that interested in music! ‘You worked for Livia?’ Well, that was something we had in common. I just hoped he’d done better out of it than I had.
‘For quite some time, yes. She had a good ear. And, although I shouldn’t really say it, a very fine contralto voice, even in her latter years. Untrained, of course, and she didn’t exercise it much, naturally. It’s such a pity that singing is so frowned upon in Roman aristocratic circles, isn’t it? I always feel there’s a great deal of stunted talent among you purple-stripers.’
I almost forgot the tightness in my crotch. Sweet gods! There was something for the grandchildren! The empress Livia singing in the bath! Still, I supposed, you never knew when the artistic temperament was liable to break out, even in the top families. Rumour had it that Prince Gaius wasn’t averse to a bit of dressing up, for a start.
Silvius was watching me carefully, a half-smile on his lips. ‘You’re surprised?’ he said. ‘About the empress?’
‘Sure I’m surprised! You were, uh, part of the household?’ I put that one delicately. Most private musicians were bought in with the help. On the other hand, if he was Livia’s freedman I’d’ve expected him to be a Livius rather than a Silvius, with his original slave name tacked on the end, which is the way these things go normally.
‘No. I was never a slave. In fact, I come from quite a good family. I own the deeds to three farms near Mutina jointly with my brother, and the income from these – plus the empress’s small pension – is more than adequate for my needs.’ He hesitated. ‘I also talk too much, as you’ve no doubt noticed. Forgive me. Now what can I do for you? I assume it has something to do with the group. You’re thinking of joining us, perhaps?’
‘Uh...not exactly. You know a guy called Uranius?’
‘Certainly; our basso profundo. He’s been with us almost from the start. We have two tenors, plus Uranius and myself. I sing baritone and also, of course, compose and direct.’
‘You have four meetings a month, right?’
‘Three.’
Something cold touched my spine, but I kept my voice level. ‘Only three?’
‘Yes. At fairly irregular intervals because the group have other commitments. We meet on the afternoons of the fifth, eighteenth and twenty-fourth days of every month. There was a fourth meeting on the twenty-ninth, but six months ago one of our tenors contracted a regular obligation for that date and we were unable to agree on a substitute.’
There was something out of kilter here, sure, but I could worry about that later. At least the twenty-fourth – the afternoon of the murder – checked out. ‘And Uranius was at the last meeting? The one on the twenty-fourth?’
‘No. I’m afraid he missed that one.’
‘What?’
‘By arrangement. He’d told us on the previous occasion that he would be otherwise occupied.’
Holy Jupiter! ‘Just let me get this straight, pal. Uranius told you on the eighteenth that he couldn’t make the meeting of the twenty-fourth because he had another appointment?’
‘Appointment I wouldn’t know about. He just said he’d be busy and I assumed it had something to do with his work at the racing stables. He’s a professional charioteer, you know. Quite a famous one.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I know.’ My brain was humming. Dear gods! There went Uranius’s alibi in spades! And not only that; he’d known for at least six days prior to the twenty-fourth that he wouldn’t be able to make the meeting and hadn’t let on to anyone what his alternative plans were. ‘He make a habit of missing sessions, or was it a one-off?’
‘It happens, now and again. In everyone’s case, excluding mine, although Uranius is always very conscientious about warning me in advance. Sometimes we rearrange the date or cancel, but mostly we go ahead with just the three of us. Which we did on that occasion.’ The guy’s voice had taken on an edge. ‘Valerius Corvinus, I’ve been very patient. What exactly is this all about? Uranius isn’t in trouble, is he?’
‘No. No.’ I hoped he couldn’t read the lie on my face, but I wouldn’t’ve bet on it. ‘He probably was at the stables right enough.’
‘Then perhaps you could answer my first question. What’s your interest in my friend Uranius’s movements?’
Well, there wasn’t any reason not to tell him. ‘I’m looking into a murder. One of the other White drivers. A guy called Pegasus.’
Silvius sat back. ‘Ah,’ he said. He didn’t look happy.
‘You’ve heard of him?’
‘As a driver, certainly. From Uranius, too, yes. Not a very nice man, as I understand.’
‘Most people seem generally agreed on that, yeah.’
‘And he was killed – presumably – the same afternoon as our practice?’ I didn’t say anything: given the circumstances, it was a logical assumption to make. ‘Corvinus, you’re very lucky. If I’d known that fact before you arrived I would have lied to you with absolutely no compunction whatsoever. As it is, I’ll tell you categorically that Uranius wouldn’t harm anyone. He may not look it, but he is a very gentle man. A gentleman, indeed.’ His lips twisted. ‘Slave or not, Uranius is a gentleman. Now if you have no further questions...’
The atmosphere had turned definitely chilly, and I had the distinct feeling that I’d outstayed my welcome. ‘I’m sure it’ll all work out,’ I said, getting up. Like hell I was. ‘Gentleman’ or not, if Uranius hadn’t been over on Iugarius shoving a knife into Pegasus then where had he been? And why the big secret? ‘In any case, I won’t take up any more of your time. Thanks a lot, friend.’
‘Time is something I have a great deal of, certainly too much to worry about anyone taking it up. And I don’t believe I want your thanks. Nor do I consider us friends.’
‘No.’ I felt, suddenly, tired. ‘No, you probably don’t, on either count. But I appreciate the help anyway.’
He didn’t answer. I let myself out and closed the door after me.
Okay; so Gentleman Uranius wasn’t off the hook yet, not by a long way. Still, I’d been impressed by how far Silvius had been prepared to go to defend him, and it certainly chimed with all the other reports. Despite the business of the phantom rehearsal, I’d be almost ready to call the guy a red herring and throw him back, only on the evidence of my interview with him I’d bet a flask of imperial Caecuban to a worn copper piece that he had something to contribute. To do with the case, I mean, not some little personal secret he was keeping schtum on for reasons of his own. I’d used the word ‘appointment’ with Silvius. That hadn’t been intentional, but maybe my subconscious had been working: we still had the problem of who Pegasus had been planning to meet in Renatius’s. If Uranius had known six days in advance that he’d miss the choir practice...
No; that horse wouldn’t run. They may’ve got on as well as two dogs over the same dinner dish, but Pegasus and Uranius were both Whites drivers; they saw each other every day, or they could’ve done, and if one of them wanted to talk to the other then there wouldn’t’ve been any reason to make clandestine arrangements. Unless of course Uranius had somehow suckered Pegasus into thinking he’d be meeting someone else...
That thought stopped me, but I put it to one side for the present. Ah, hell; we’d get to the truth eventually, and there was no point theorising in a vacuum. The fact remained that the guy was hiding something, and I couldn’t rule him out until I knew what it was.
I’d have to have another little talk with Uranius.
13.
The weather was still holding when I got back to the Caelian. Bathyllus was outside the front door, buffing up the knocker. He did a double-take when he saw me.
‘You’re early, sir,’ he said.
‘Yeah. It’s getting to be a habit.’ Well, another trip uptown to the stables would’ve put me in grave danger of missing Meton’s dinner deadline, and I’d done enough for one day. Besides, I had my domestic responsibilities to consider. ‘Uh...how are you, sunshine?’
Bathyllus gave me what only amounted to a quarter-major-domo- power sniff. ‘Much as usual, sir. Shouldn’t I be?’
Hell; I wouldn’t get a better chance, despite Perilla’s warnings. ‘Since you mention it, little guy –’
I stopped. Bathyllus wasn’t listening. The cleaning rag drooped from his hand and he was staring past my shoulder with an expression on his face like a calf with a belly-ache. I turned round.
The door of the next house –Petillius’s place – had opened and a woman had come out. Alexis hadn’t been kidding: large was right, and it was the first word that came to mind. Housekeepers don’t come small as a rule – the kitchen pickings are too lavish – but this one would’ve tipped the scales at two hundred pounds, easy. She didn’t so much walk towards us as roll in state, like Cleopatra’s barge coming into dock.
‘Afternoon, Bathyllus,’ she said. ‘Lovely weather, isn’t it?’
I glanced at the guy. You could’ve used his face to roast chestnuts, and he was hissing slightly. ‘You want to answer the lady, pal?’ I murmured. ‘Quickly, for preference?’
The hissing stopped, but the colouring went up a notch. He swallowed and gave a sickly grin. I winced: grins and Bathyllus just don’t go together. ‘Yes!’ he squeaked. ‘Delightful! Quite spring-like!’
Oh, Jupiter in a bucket! Whatever chat-up lines Paris had used on Helen when she’d come sailing out of the Spartan royal palace I’d bet a sturgeon to a sardine that that wasn’t one of them. I nudged our Trojan hero manqué in the ribs, but it seemed that was all we were going to get this side of the Greek Kalends.
‘Uh...you’re Tyndaris, right?’ I said. ‘Petillius’s new housekeeper?’
‘I am, sir.’ She dimpled in three of her four chins. Not a bad looker, by any means, facially; there was just a hell of a lot of her. Twice what there was of Bathyllus, for a start. ‘And you’re Valerius Corvinus, no doubt. Master’s mentioned you several times.’
Yeah; probably, from the brittle brightness of her tone, with the prefixed phrase ‘that wine-soaked bugger next door’. If we got on okay with our new neighbour above the level of the bought help it was largely because of a live-and-let-live policy. Petillius might be a big, jolly, florid-faced man who’d double the clientele in a month on looks alone if he ever took on the running of a wineshop but he was a convinced water-drinker with a down on wine that would’ve beaten Demosthenes’s hollow. The first time I’d seen him our kitchen brigade were loading up the cart with a month’s worth of empty wine jars bound for disposal on Pottery Mountain, and the look I’d got would’ve fried a rissole. First impressions count. Ever since then, the best I’d been able to expect was a slight nod. Blink, and you’d miss even that.
‘So, Tyndaris,’ I said, ‘how’re you settling in?’
‘Very well, sir, thank you. Being in Rome’s nice. I was in Baiae last. A nice town with very nice people, sir. Quiet out of season, but nice, you know?’
