There was a door slave in a natty blue tunic sitting on the bench outside. I gave him my name, though not my business, and he went to check if the master was At Home.
He was, seemingly, and I was shown through to the study.
Mid-fifties, tall, broad, fit-looking, with strong features and short wiry grey hair going white at the temples. He wasn’t alone; there were three other men with him of much the same age, all wearing senatorial broad-striper mantles.
We were in heavy company here. Bugger. Possibly not the time to broach the topic of an illicit love affair and an illegitimate son.
‘I’m delighted to meet you, Valerius Corvinus,’ Longinus said. ‘Knew your father well. Fine man. Now. What can I do for you?’
‘Uh … I’m sorry, sir,’ I said. ‘You’re busy and it’s not urgent. I’ll call again later when you’re alone.’
I half-turned to follow the slave back out, but his hand grasped my shoulder.
‘Nonsense, my dear fellow, I wouldn’t hear of it!’ he said, letting the shoulder go and patting it. ‘And my friends certainly won’t mind. They only called to welcome me back to Rome. Here.’ He pulled up a spare stool. ‘Sit yourself down.’
Hell. ‘Really, sir, I’d rather-’
‘Sit!’ I sat. ‘I’m forgetting my manners. Julius Graecinus, Anicius Cerialis and Valerius Asiaticus. No relation of yours, I hasten to add. Hails from Gaul originally, poor devil.’
As, from the looks of him, did Graecinus: they both had typically Gallic fair complexions and the tell-tale reddish hair. Cerialis, on the other hand, was pure upper-class Roman. I nodded, and they nodded back. Pretty frostily, I thought. Despite what Longinus had said, they didn’t look too pleased at the interruption.
‘Right, Corvinus. I’m fully at your service,’ Longinus said. ‘Fire away.’
‘Ah … it’s about the death of Naevius Surdinus,’ I said. ‘He was your consular colleague, ten years back?’
‘Yes, indeed he was. And before that a good friend of long standing.’ Longinus frowned. ‘Terrible thing, that accident. Terrible. What a way to go. Poor old Lucius.’
‘It wasn’t an accident, sir. He was murdered. I’m, uh, looking into it as a favour to his niece, Naevia Postuma.’
Now, I have to be very careful about the next bit. There was shock, yes, that was to be expected. But I had the distinct feeling that there was something else, a stillness and a sharpening of interest, like the atmosphere in the room had changed somehow. Trouble was I couldn’t tell where it originated; it could’ve been with any one of them, or with all four. All I knew was that it was there.
‘You’re joking,’ Longinus said.
‘No, there’s no mistake. The evidence is quite clear. He was killed deliberately.’
‘Have you any idea who did it?’
‘Who the actual killer was, yes. One of the garden slaves saw a freedman coming from the direction of the tower at about the right time, and acting suspiciously. A middle-aged guy with a scar or a birthmark on his left cheek.’ I shrugged. ‘That’s more or less all I know at present. Who organized the murder and why, well, your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Sweet holy Jupiter!’ Longinus was staring at me. ‘So how can I help you? I haven’t seen Lucius since I left for Asia almost a year ago. And not for a good two months before then, either.’
This was the tricky bit. ‘Uh … it’s rather personal, sir. I think perhaps we’d better talk in private.’ I turned to the others. ‘No offence, gentlemen.’
‘Nonsense, Corvinus. I’m sure you can’t ask me any questions that I’d be embarrassed to answer. And Graecinus here was a very close friend of Lucius’s as well.’ Yeah; now he happened to mention it, I remembered that Leonidas, the estate manager, had given a Julius Graecinus as one of Surdinus’s bosom philosopher mates. ‘You carry on, my dear fellow; ask away. Anything I can tell you I will, and gladly.’
Well, he’d had his chance. Even so, I wasn’t looking forward to this. ‘I understand you’d been friendly with the family for a long time, sir.’
‘That’s right. I told you, for thirty years and more. Lucius and I were quaestors together, cut our political teeth on the same teething ring, you might say. We’ve kept up the friendship ever since.’
‘I, ah, don’t mean just with Naevius Surdinus. I mean with the family as a whole.’ Jupiter! ‘Specifically with Surdinus’s wife, Cornelia Sullana.’
That got me a straight look. ‘Corvinus, just exactly what are you saying?’ Longinus snapped.
I was beginning to sweat. Easy this wasn’t, and I could see now how the guy had got to the top of the senatorial appointments tree. Cassius Longinus, for all his good-old-boy manner — or maybe because of it — was no pussycat. I’d imagine he and his great grandfather would’ve had a lot more in common than just their names.
‘I was told that, uh, the two of you had an affair,’ I said. ‘Some twenty-five years back. Maybe a bit more.’
He was goggling at me. I didn’t dare even look at the other three.
Then he laughed.
‘Who the hell told you that?’ he said.
‘Actually, it was the lady herself. Cornelia Sullana. It isn’t true?’
‘Have you met the woman, Corvinus? She has a face like a hatchet and a voice like a bloody saw! Of course it isn’t bloody true!’
‘But …’
‘Look, get this through your head once and for all, here and now. I can’t stand bloody Cornelia Sullana. Never could. Pompous, overbred, whining. I’d no more take her into my bed than I would my farm bailiff’s prize sow. The gods know why Lucius married her in the first place. Oh, she’d name and money, yes; in that sense she was a good catch, but he never liked her. And I was quite definitely his friend, not hers.’
‘Then why should she claim you had an affair when you didn’t?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea. You’d best ask her.’ He got up. ‘And now if that’s all you came for, my dear fellow, we’ll call the visit at an end, shall we? Nice of you to come. You can find your own way out, can’t you?’
Gods!
FIFTEEN
It was still a long way from dinner when I got back to the Caelian, and Perilla was working in her study. Or, at least, she had a book-roll open and was taking notes.
‘Oh, hello, Marcus,’ she said absently. ‘Just a moment. I want to get this down first.’ I waited while she scribbled a line or two on the note tablet beside her then laid the stylus aside. ‘There we are.’
‘What’s the book?’ I said. Not that I was really interested, but it’s always politic for a man to show an interest in his wife’s little hobbies. Besides, we were on her territory here. Unfortunately. Being in Perilla’s study always makes me nervous. Oh, sure, studies should have a book-cubby or two included, no argument, that’s what they’re for — at least for appearances’ sake. But not a good dozen of the buggers stacked full of books whose titles make your eyes water. Particularly when they’re there for more than decoration.
‘Aristarchus of Samothrace’s recension of the “Iliad”. Julia Procula lent it to me.’
‘Is that so, now?’ I paused. ‘Uh … what the hell’s a recension?’
‘Oh, Marcus! A critical revision. Sort of … well, a bit like cleaning the accumulated grime off a painting and restoring it to its original appearance. Removing all the interpretations and amendments made by later scholars operating on premises based on what was, to them, contemporary usage and getting back to what the author really meant. Aristarchus works on the principle that you can only understand what an ancient writer is saying by interpreting the words or sentiments by comparison with other, similar passages in the author’s own works, and not by anachronistic reference to present import. Or, of course, with passages in the works of his contemporaries, should these exist. Fascinating!’
‘Ah … yeah. Yeah.’ Jupiter alive! Well, I had asked.
‘For instance, did you realize that for Homer the word phobos didn’t mean “fear” but “rout”, as in rout in battle? And the verb phobeisthai meant to flee, to be routed?’