Pontius set the cup of Alban down on the counter, and Crispus sank it in a oner. Yeah, well, seeing me away from the context of the praetors’ offices in Rome where he usually hung out must’ve come as a shock, at that, but at least he was looking a bit brighter now. Or a bit less grey, at least. I motioned to Pontius to give him a refilclass="underline" his best Alban wasn’t cheap, but Crispus was a guest, in a way, and he needed it. Besides, it was the festival.
‘So, pal,’ I said. ‘How’s the department? Keeping you busy, are they?’
‘Busy enough, thank you,’ he said stiffly.
‘Work for the government, do you, sir?’ Pontius hefted the jar of Alban. ‘There’s nice. Finance, would it be?’
‘Crispus here’s attached to the foreign praetors’ office,’ I explained. ‘Travelling rep.’
‘It’s good to have friends,’ Gabba said. He pushed over his cup. ‘Especially if they’re buying.’
‘Nice try, Gabba.’ I reached for my own cup and took a swallow. ‘Bugger off.’
‘You’ll be involved with the murder case, then,’ Pontius said, sipping his own drink. ‘When they catch whoever’s responsible.’
‘What murder case?’ Crispus said suspiciously.
‘Over in Bovillae. They’ve got Corvinus here looking into it for them. That’s right, isn’t it, Corvinus?’
‘Yeah, well, I …’
‘Nothing to do with me.’ Crispus set the empty cup down. ‘And I’ll tell you now, you conniving bastard — ’ this to me — ‘it won’t be, either. You won’t get me mixed up in one of your investi-gations, not this time. It’s the festival, I’m on holiday, and moving in or not, now I know you’re here if you and that fury of a wife of yours even think about dropping round for a housewarming I’ll set the dogs on you. In fact, I’ll buy in an extra lot just in case. I might even invest in a leopard.’ He stood up. ‘Clear?’
‘Oh, come on, pal! Aren’t we overreacting just a tad?’
‘No.’ He made a move for the door. ‘Thanks for the wine, have a good Festival, give my regards to the hellcat. And now just stay out of my life until hell freezes, OK?’
Well, I’d tried to be nice. Perilla would’ve been impressed. The wine hadn’t been cheap, either. ‘Suit yourself,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you around.’
‘Not if I see you first.’
I turned back to my drink. The door opened.
‘So, Corvinus,’ Gabba said. ‘What about this Quintus Caesius, then?’
The door closed, slowly.
‘Caesius?’ Crispus said from behind me. ‘That who the dead man was?’
I turned round again. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘You know him?’
‘If it’s the same person.’ He was looking sick. ‘It’s not a common name. Oldish guy? Silver hair, mid-sixties, thereabouts?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Jupiter! We were talking just a few days ago. Well, maybe a bit longer now. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’
He came back over to the counter and sat down.
‘Where was this?’ I said sharply.
‘Rome, of course. At one of the clubs I use. The Crimson Lotus.’
Yeah, well, it added up. Anthus had told me that Caesius went through to Rome pretty often on business, and if he was in the habit of using the local brothel in Bovillae then the odds were he wouldn’t be averse to putting his feet up and letting his hair down in the far more salubrious fleshpots of Rome. The fact that he shared a club with Crispus, mind, came as a bit of a surprise, given Crispus’s predilections, but there again any self-respecting Roman club of that nature would cater to a fairly wide clientele. Particularly in these experimental days, when said clientele as individuals would have pretty catholic tastes.
‘So where’s this Crimson Lotus, then?’ I said.
‘On Pallacina Road. Mars Field end.’
Between the Quirinal and the Pincian. Right. Good address. ‘You, uh, knew him well?’
‘Hardly at all. I only met him a couple of times. We chatted about property here in the Alban Hills; in fact, he was the one who put me on to the Satellian estate originally. Nice man. Civilized. A cut above some of the riff-raff you get in these places.’
The barest sniff; there spoke our wannabe swan.
‘Did you know he was from Bovillae? Or that he was a magistrate?’
‘No. That he was only visiting Rome, certainly. But he didn’t say, and of course I didn’t ask.’
‘No?’
‘Certainly not. No more than I’d’ve acknowledged prior acquaintance with him if we’d ever met on his home ground, or he with me on mine. The club does have rules, you know, Corvinus, and some things just aren’t done. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be getting along.’
Gods! This pillar of respectability was the Crispus we knew and loved? Yeah, well, tolerated, anyway. Evidently, he’d joined the milk-and-water, poker-rectumed Establishment with a bang. He’d be giving up muck-raking next, and we’d be looking up at herds of flying pigs.
‘Come on, Crispus,’ I said. ‘Truce, OK? It’s the festival. We’ll split a fresh jug and I swear to you that neither me nor Perilla will go anywhere near your property. Especially when you’re entertaining prats like the foreign judges’ panel. Deal?’
He fizzed for a bit. Then he shrugged and held out his hand.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Deal. But only because it’s the festival. And it doesn’t apply outside the town limits.’
‘Fine with me,’ I said. I shook, and made a top-up sign to Pontius.
‘That’ll be a jug of the Alban, then, will it, Corvinus?’ Pontius said.
I groaned. Bugger. Well, I couldn’t weasel out without tarnishing the image. And he had given me a lead. Of sorts, anyway.
It might be an idea, for completeness’ sake, to get a picture of Caesius off his home ground. I had to talk to Opilia Andromeda again, sure, but I didn’t have much else planned where the case was concerned at present, and Rome wasn’t far. Maybe a quick visit to the big city wouldn’t go amiss, at that.
The Crimson Lotus it was.
FIFTEEN
Given decent weather and a lack of heavy traffic, once you hit the Appian Road it doesn’t take long to get from the Alban Hills to Rome or vice versa — which, of course, is why the area’s so popular with well-heeled businessmen and high-ranking public sector employees like Crispus who can afford to pay the increasingly ludicrous prices that property agents are asking for a rural retreat away from the stresses of urban life. Even travelling by snail-pace carriage, if he knocks off work early in the afternoon by the time the lamps are lit for dinner your lucky second-home owner can be sinking his first cup of Alban in situ and listening to the crickets chirping amid the bosky silence. Which meant that having left the villa on the stroke of dawn I was edging my horse through the minor traffic jam at the Appian Gate by just shy of mid-morning.
As ever, it was strange being back in the big city after the peace and quiet of the countryside, particularly in the run-up to the festival. Not unpleasantly so: maybe it’s my imagination, sure, but from about the beginning of December onwards the streets of Rome seem much more crowded than they usually do, and whatever the weather — it was filthy that day, as it happened, mild and wet, with some of the narrower roads covered with half-liquid mud up to the top of the horse’s hooves — there’s a sort of deliberate, cheerful bustle about the place that you don’t get at other times of year. Friendlier, too: even the juggernaut septuagenarian bag-ladies homeward bound from the market with the day’s shopping will give you a cheery smile as they mow you down or force you into the gutter. Nearer the actual day, if you’re lucky, they might even throw in a ‘Happy Festival’ over their shoulders for good measure.
So, anyway, there I was, back in the Queen of Cities and Pride of the Empire. There was no point in heading for the Crimson Lotus much before sundown: these places, catering as they do for the better-off professional with daytime commitments, tend to keep late hours. Bread-and-butter stuff first. I went round to the Caelian to unpack my overnight bag and seriously piss off the bought help, who with the family away — and more important Bathyllus, who ruled the place with a rod of iron — had no doubt loosened their collective corsets, got out the booze and nibbles, and put their feet up for the duration.