The door of the wine shop opened. I looked up, but it was just a couple of ordinary punters, working-tunic types. I frowned and took a swallow of the wine. It was seventh hour now, easy, and chummie was late; which, considering how anxious he’d been to talk to me, was surprising, at best. Oh, sure, he’d probably had duty in the morning, which was why he hadn’t been able to come earlier, and something unexpected may have come up; but he’d chosen the time himself, and he’d’ve factored that possibility in as best he could. I was beginning to get worried.
Half an hour and most of the jug later, the worry had turned into a certainty: for whatever reason, the guy was not going to show. Fuck. So what did I do now? I emptied the last of the wine into my cup, chewed on the last bit of sausage, and considered the options. Not that those were very thick on the ground: carry on waiting, in case he’d just been seriously delayed, or cut my losses and go, in the hopes that he’d contact me again. If he was in a state to contact me again, that was: I had a bad, bad feeling about that side of things.
Of course, maybe I could find him instead. That’d be tricky, sure, but not impossible; most Praetorian tribunes were older career soldiers with as many as twenty years’ experience under their belts already, usually ex-auxiliary cavalry commanders making their way up the promotion ladder to an appointment in charge of a legion. Young purple-stripers from good families learning the ropes in good old-fashioned fast-track style would be in the minority. And at least I knew what he looked like.
So, time for another quick word with Gaius Secundus. I finished the wine and set off for Palatine Hill.
He was in his office, going through a list of facts and figures with his chief clerk. He looked up as I came in, and frowned.
‘Marcus?’ he said. ‘What’re you doing back?’
‘Just a quick question, pal. It won’t take long.’ I closed the door behind me.
‘That’s fine, Acastus,’ he said to the clerk. ‘Give us a few minutes in private, will you?’ I stood aside as the guy went out. ‘Now.’
‘You’re sure I’m not disturbing you?’
‘No problem. Bread-and-butter stuff, a faulty consignment of hides. It can wait. So what’s the question?’
‘I need to find a young tribune. Purple-striper, probably Praetorian.’ I described him.
‘Sounds like Sextus Papinius,’ he said. ‘Or his brother Lucius. They’re both tribunes, with the Third and Fifth Cohorts.’ The frown was back. ‘What’s your interest?’
‘We’d arranged to meet today. He didn’t turn up. You know where I can find him?’
The frown deepened. ‘If he’s on duty, then at the Praetorian barracks. But you’d find it difficult to get in there. They’re not too keen on civilian visitors.’
‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘Actually, the chances are that he’s free at present. You happen to have a private address? At least, somewhere I can contact him?’
Secundus hesitated; there was something wrong here, I could see that. ‘Marcus,’ he said, ‘this has something to do with the case, hasn’t it?’
‘Yeah. As a matter of fact it has. That make a difference?’
‘Yes, it does. Quite a big one.’ Another hesitation. ‘Look, we talked about this, right? Whatever it is, leave it alone. Leave it absolutely alone, because it’s too dangerous. I told you, you can get hurt.’
‘Warning duly noted, pal,’ I said. ‘But this is important. Really, really important. Believe me, I wouldn’t push if it wasn’t.’
‘And you are pushing?’
Shit, I hated this: Secundus was a good friend — one of my best, and putting the pressure on was something I did not want to do. Still …
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, I’m afraid I am.’
That got me a straight look. Finally, he shrugged and looked away.
‘You might find him at his adoptive father’s house,’ he said. ‘“Him” being either Sextus or Lucius, it doesn’t matter which one. That’s on Patricius Incline near the junction with Viminal Hill Street.’
‘Adoptive father?’
Again, he hesitated. Then he said: ‘Anicius Cerialis.’
Fuck.
It was one of the older properties in the street, reached by a gate in a high wall with a small garden behind it. The gate was closed, but above it I could see the tops of three or four palm trees which screened the first floor of the house itself, and ivy had spilled over the wall on the street side. There was a slave sitting in a cubby next to the gate — dozing, rather — and I dawdled in covering the last few yards before taking the final, irrevocable step of waking him and telling him my name and business. Even after thinking it over on the walk from the Palatine, I still wasn’t sure what was the best way to play this. If the slave passed me straight on to the master himself, and if — as seemed pretty likely — Cerialis was mixed up in the plot, then breezing in with the news that his adoptive son had effectively been on the point of blowing the gaff but hadn’t turned up for the crucial meeting would not be the smartest of moves. There again, what other reason or excuse for visiting would I have? The whole situation was a complete bugger.
In the event, I was saved the trouble. The gate opened, and two of the house slaves came out carrying a ladder and a pile of cypress branches. My stomach went cold. Oh, shit. Cypress branches could mean just one thing.
There had been a death in the family.
The gate slave woke up and saw me staring.
‘Yes, sir?’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’ Now we were close up, I noticed his freshly shorn fringe.
‘Yeah. Uh …’ I indicated the other slaves, who’d set the ladder against the wall and were fixing the branches to the gate bars. ‘You had a bereavement here?’
‘The young master, sir. Master Sextus. It only happened this morning.’
Oh, fuck. ‘So how did he die?’
‘A fall from his horse, sir. He was out riding on Mars Field. You’re a friend of the family?’
‘No. Not exactly. But it was Sextus I came to see. At least, I think it was.’
He frowned. ‘Pardon?’
‘I only knew him by sight. It might’ve been his brother Lucius.’
‘Master Lucius is at home, sir. I could take you to him if you like.’
‘Ah … is your actual master at home, pal? Cerialis himself?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. He had senatorial business this morning, and he’s been out since breakfast. A messenger was sent directly we had the news, but that was less than an hour ago and he hasn’t returned yet.’
Well, that was something, at least. And if I was really, really lucky then Lucius was the one I wanted after all, and his brother’s death was just a horrible coincidence.
On the other hand, there weren’t any flying pigs overhead.
‘That would be great,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’
I hadn’t given my name, intentionally, and I had my fingers crossed that the guy wouldn’t ask it. Which for a wonder he didn’t. Maybe, in view of the circumstances, the usual niceties of announcing a visitor had slipped his mind, or maybe we’d just got beyond that point with the exchange over the death. In any case, he led me through the gate and the garden to the house.
Whoever had brought the news, they’d brought the body as well. Sextus Papinius was lying on a couch in the atrium, and evidently the undertakers’ men hadn’t been yet because he hadn’t been properly laid out, simply covered feet to chin with his military cloak. He was my tribune, all right: his face had been washed clear of mud, but there was still a trace of it at the hair-line. The head lay at a slightly crooked angle.
Gods!
I’d been looking at the corpse, and I hadn’t noticed the other guy in the room, who was sitting on a folding stool in the corner. There was a jug of wine and a cup beside him. He got up and came towards me, swaying slightly.