‘I told you, Corvinus.’ Vatinia was obviously keeping herself in check only with an effort: her colour was mounting. ‘Aulus always was wild, a law to himself. The legal aspect of things wouldn’t have mattered to him. Oh, the girl wouldn’t have had the title of wife, but if he could have engineered it she would have had the position.’
‘I’m sorry, lady,’ I said, ‘but that’s nonsense. She was Caesius’s property, pure and simple. If your son had tried to remove her, take her to live with him, it would’ve been straightforward theft, and the law would’ve been down on him like a ton of bricks. He would’ve known that, and so would Caesius. So why the overreaction? What else had she done to deserve it?’
And Vatinia’s face … shut. There was no other word to describe it. She stood up and shouted: ‘Phrontis!’
The major-domo came hurrying in. ‘Yes, madam?’
‘This gentleman is leaving. Now. And he is not to be readmitted on any future occasion. Not for any reason. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, madam.’ He was glaring at me. ‘Sir? If you would, please?’
Well, so much for that, then. I stood up.
‘Sure. No problem.’
He led me out without a word, and the front door closed behind me.
Jupiter! I’d touched a nerve there, and no mistake. Though what the fuck it was I couldn’t think.
One thing was certain, though: I needed to find out more about what exactly had happened twenty years back. With Andromeda herself dead, there was only one way to do that now, if it was possible at alclass="underline" talk to the woman Caesius had sold her to. Which meant, having just ridden all the way to Rome and back, joy of joys, I now had to go to Tibur.
Bugger!
TWENTY
I set off early next morning.
Well, at least it got me away from Mother for the day and a half that I’d allowed for the round trip, which was a definite plus. The lady being the card-carrying militant non-drinker that she is, where the wine was concerned I’d been pretty abstemious at dinner the previous evening. Even so, I’d still got the glare and pointed sniff of disapproval over the duck with saffron nut sauce every time I topped up my cup, with the result that Aunt Marcia’s best reserve Alban had tended to slip past my tonsils like third-rate Veientanum. Priscus, I noticed, had been ostentatiously mixing extra water from the water-jug into his ration; except when, between the main course and the dessert, Mother went out to powder her nose, at which point he’d poured himself a surreptitious whopper and downed most of it in one. He’d been putting away Euclidus’s veal cutlets with fennel like there was no tomorrow, too, and considering Mother usually fed the poor old bugger on groats and alfalfa, it wasn’t surprising.
Yeah, well, no doubt his married life had its balancing compen-sations. Not that, at his age, they could’ve been very strenuous or exciting.
Anyway, there I was in Tibur. It’d been an easy enough ride, good weather all the way, and although the road connecting it with Castrimoenium is gravel-surfaced rather than paved I’d covered the twenty-odd miles in fairly good time, certainly a lot less than I’d budgeted for. It wasn’t a place I’d ever been to before; a pleasant little town about the same size as Bovillae, maybe a tad bigger, with a setting high above the plain that’s impressive as hell if you like your scenery to be on the rugged side, don’t suffer from vertigo, and don’t mind streets that you practically have to wear pitons to climb.
Luckily, though, the house belonging to the guy I was (hopefully) going to be staying with — a doctor friend of Clarus’s father — was near the gate I came in through. No problems there, fortunately: Clarus had given me clear directions plus a letter of introduction, while the old doctor turned out to be a widower desperate for company and only too pleased to put me up for the night. I got a pretty funny look when I asked him where I’d find the local brothel, mind.
I found stabling for my horse and then went straight round to the address he’d given me. The place was in a narrow street off the centre of the lower town, appropriately enough near the main meat market. I pushed open the door …
‘Good afternoon, sir!’ A youngish slave in a natty mauve tunic who’d been sitting on a bench in the small entrance lobby sprang to his feet.
‘Uh, hi, pal,’ I said, closing the door behind me. ‘A good afternoon to you. I was wondering if-’
‘Of course you were, sir. And the answer is yes.’
‘Ah … pardon me?’
‘A stranger in town, are you? Or perhaps you’ve just heard of our amazing two-for-one pre-festival offer?’
‘Your what?’ Jupiter! I didn’t believe this! ‘Hang on a minute, sunshine; just let me finish, OK? I only wanted to-’
‘Quite natural! And believe me, we can cater! If you’ll take a moment to read our extremely comprehensive and reasonably priced list of staff and services displayed on the wall to your left I’m sure we can accommodate you.’
Sod this for a game of soldiers. I reached out and grabbed him by the neck of his tunic, and he froze, goggling. ‘Now look,’ I said. ‘I only want to talk to the boss, OK? Strictly business. She around at present?’
‘Ah …’ He swallowed. ‘Possibly. If you’d care to wait I’ll enquire.’
‘Fine, pal. You do that small thing.’ I let him go, and he scuttled off. Gods, I hate this modern high-pressure salesmanship.
I looked round. The place, or the lobby, at least, was a bit cramped, but not bad for a provincial town, and streets ahead of its equivalent in Bovillae. The decoration — mini-fresco of badly drawn nymphs and satyrs partying in a sylvan landscape, plus a surround on all four walls of painted rectangles representing wooden panelling — looked new, for a start, which I supposed was fair enough: it could only have been eighteen months or so since the fire that had given Andromeda her freedom, and the brothel had almost certainly moved to different premises. Mind you, if the front man was anything to go by the general laid-back ethos of these places had certainly changed a lot since my young day, that’s for sure. Ah, well, you couldn’t stop progress.
Mauve-tunic came back. ‘If you’d like to follow me, sir,’ he said stiffly. I did, along a short corridor. He opened a door and stepped aside.
I’d been expecting a sitting room like Andromeda’s, but what I got was a functional office with a desk and document cubbies. Not that that had been its original purpose: the building must’ve been a private house at one time, and quite a swish one, because the room was pretty big and its far end looked out on to a peristyle court with a small garden. The result was that at this time of year it was cold as an icebox, despite two sizeable charcoal braziers. I was glad I’d kept my cloak on.
‘Thank you, Publius,’ said the woman sitting behind the desk. ‘Off you go, dear.’ Mauve-tunic closed the door behind me, and I took stock. Sixties, easy, but made-up to the nines. Auburn wig that would’ve made two of the normal variety, with a fair bit left over. Nose like the business end of a trireme and earrings that, if they moved, would clank rather than tinkle. Not exactly a subtle dresser, was Andromeda’s ex-mistress.
She didn’t look all that friendly, either. The eyes above the trireme’s beak were as frosty as the air in the room.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘What do you want?’
‘Opilia?’
‘Opilia Lucinda, yes.’
‘Valerius Corvinus. I’m looking into a couple of murders on behalf of the senate over in Bovillae.’
‘Are you, now?’ The heavily made-up eyebrows went up a notch, and she smiled. ‘That’s nice. So?’
‘One of them was your freedwoman. Andromeda. She was found dead yesterday morning. In her flat above the brothel.’
The smile disappeared and the expression on her face under its inch or so of powder and rouge suddenly went blank. There was a cup of what looked like neat wine on the desk beside her. She picked it up, drained it at a swallow and closed her eyes. I waited.