‘Just leave it at that, Sextus,’ he said to the workman. ‘We’ll finish the job tomorrow.’ Then, to me: ‘Involving that Nigrinus bastard? The guy who was going to punch your lights out in the wineshop?’
‘Possibly. Probably, in fact. But not directly, at least for the present. It’s a long story. You got the time to split a jug?’
He grinned and wiped his forehead with a rag. ‘Make it a cupful. Cass was expecting me back an hour ago. Unless you want to come straight round to the house, of course. You staying?’
‘No, not this time. At least, I am, but we’ve made arrangements.’ I told him about Fulvina’s villa. ‘And a quick cup is just fine with me, because I’ll have to be getting back too.’
‘Fair enough.’ He took the gate key from his belt and laid it on the cart’s tailgate. ‘Lock up when you go, right, Sextus? I’ll see you in the morning.’ He turned back to me. ‘Balbus’s it is. But no more than a few minutes, mind, because Cass’ll kill me. You too, when I tell her.’
Yeah, that I’d believe: Agron’s wife, Cass, was a lady that you did not cross. ‘Deal,’ I said.
The wineshop wasn’t far, opposite the theatre at the corner of Boundary Marker Street and on Agron’s way home. We went in, I ordered two cups of Massic, and we took them to one of the side tables.
‘So,’ Agron said. ‘What exactly is this case of yours?’
I took a sip of the wine. ‘You know a guy by the name of Marcus Correllius? Local businessman. One of the town’s Great and Not-so-Good, if I’ve got it right.’
Agron frowned. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard of him, certainly. And from what I’ve heard, Not-so-Good’s putting it mildly. He involved in this?’
‘In a way. He’s dead, murdered or as good as.’ I gave him the details. ‘Me, I’d like to know why, but it turns out I’m in a minority of one. Even his wife seems to be glad enough to be shot of him. When I called round she practically threw me out on my ear.’
Agron was still frowning; a serious-minded guy, Agron, at the best of times, but he was currently looking even more serious than usual.
‘You want a piece of advice?’ he said.
‘Sure. Always in the market.’
‘Then drop it. Just take this case of yours, at least the Correllius part, to the deepest hole you can find, drop it in, and pile the dirt on the top. When that bastard was alive he wasn’t a safe man to mess with. If someone killed him then it goes double where they’re concerned.’
Ouch. Even so, I shook my head. ‘I can’t do that, pal. You know I can’t.’
He grunted. ‘Then be careful. Be very, very careful. You hear me?’
I took a swallow of my wine. ‘So, ah, why would that be? If he was an out-and-out crook, surely the authorities-’
‘Listen, Marcus.’ Agron set his cup down on the table. ‘I’ve just heard vague stories, right? Stories and rumours, third, fourth hand. I don’t actually know anything. On the face of it, Marcus Correllius is – was, now, from what you’re saying – one of the town’s top businessmen. As far as the legal side of things goes, he’s squeaky-clean respectable, and he was careful to keep it that way. But there’ve been … accidents. People who’ve run foul of him have got themselves hurt, one way or another. Businesswise, financially, physically, you name it. Sometimes fatally hurt, OK?’ I remembered the wineshop owner Vinnia’s husband. ‘Nothing anyone can prove, that’s the point. Certainly nothing to implicate Correllius himself. So my advice, particularly if no one’s twisting your arm over this, is just back off. It isn’t worth the risk. Understand?’
‘Yeah, I understand. Point taken.’
‘But it won’t make a blind bit of difference, yes?’
I grinned. ‘How about a Publius Fundanius? You heard of him as well?’
He was staring at me. ‘Gods alive, Corvinus! You certainly know how to pick them, don’t you?’
‘It’d seem so, yeah. He’s crooked as well?’
‘Fake as a wooden denarius. Everything I said about Correllius applies to him too. In spades.’
Uh-huh. I’d thought it might, at that. Bugger. ‘OK. To change the subject. Or rather, not to, but you know what I mean. You manage to trace Siddius yet? The careless crane operator who dropped or didn’t drop that load of amphoras over at the docks?’
‘No. No luck so far. I’m still trying.’
A pity; Siddius was someone I really wanted to talk to. Even so, Agron and his contacts had jobs and lives of their own to see to. I couldn’t expect a twelve-hours-a-day job, and I couldn’t expect miracles.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘You need any help here? Help in general, I mean. This isn’t your town, and I know some pretty big lads who’d be glad to act as minders. Watch your back for you, that sort of thing.’
I shook my head again. ‘Uh-uh. Thanks, Agron, but I’m OK. At least, I think I am.’
‘Thinking isn’t the same as being sure, and it can get you killed. I’ll say it again: Ostia isn’t Rome. We may be a small pond here, but our big fish have pretty large teeth, and it’s those bastards’ pond.’
‘I won’t forget.’
‘Fair enough. But remember, the offer’s always open if you change your mind.’ He drained his cup and stood up. ‘Right. I’d best be shifting. Keep in touch, OK?’
‘Sure. We’ll have you and Cass round to dinner at the villa once Meton gets his act together.’
‘Look forward to it. Say hello to Perilla for me.’ He turned to go, then turned back. ‘And Corvinus. One last warning: no heroics, agreed? If you can’t be smart then be sensible.’
‘You’ve got it.’
He left. I finished my own wine, took the cups back to the counter, and set off for the villa.
SEVENTEEN
I got back in time for a quick steam in the bathhouse before the dinner gong went. Then, changed into a fresh tunic, I joined Perilla in the garden. Bathyllus had had the local minions carry out the requisite furniture, and he was currently supervising the ferrying of the starters.
‘We eating al fresco then, little guy?’ I asked him as I stretched out on the other couch.
‘That was my idea, Marcus,’ Perilla said. ‘It’s a lovely evening, and it’d be a shame to eat inside. Besides, it’s part of the holiday.’
‘Fair enough.’ I held up my wine-cup for Bathyllus to pour. ‘So what are we having tonight, Bathyllus?’
‘Braised chicken with a pungent ginger dressing, pureed greens with a lovage-savory sauce, and a chickpea and fennel casserole, sir. Meton brought the ingredients in the coach with us from Rome.’
Yeah; that made sense: Meton likes to do his market shopping first thing, as soon as the stalls open for the day. And he would’ve as soon sent out for a takeaway from the nearest cookshop as trust the local staff to order in before we arrived. He might be a surly bugger when he liked, which was most of the time, but where food was concerned he was a professional to his grubby fingernails.
‘Great.’ I reached out for a quail’s egg and dipped it in fish sauce.
‘So.’ Perilla did the same. ‘How did your afternoon go?’
I gave her the rundown. ‘The Correllius menage is a weird set-up. And my informants – Agron and my butcher pal – were pretty much agreed that the guy was crooked as they come, or the next thing to it.’
‘It’s odd that his wife wasn’t interested in finding out who stabbed him, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, well, there could be several reasons for that. Barring the simplest one that she’s just a cold-hearted bitch.’ I leaned over for the wine jug and topped up my cup. ‘Which she is, no question. Mind you, from what I know of Correllius they weren’t exactly a well-matched couple. He had a good twenty years on her for a start, and he was a real barrel of lard, while she wouldn’t’ve been out of place at a Top Five Hundred get-together. Soignee. That the Greek word?’
‘It’ll do.’
‘Right. That lady was soignee in spades.’
Perilla selected a fried broad-bean rissole. ‘Do you think she might’ve been behind the stabbing herself?’ she said.