David Wishart - White Murder

Therere worse places to hole up in when the poetry klatsch takes over the living-room and your wife throws you out for the duration than Renatiuss wineshop on Iugarius. The wines good for a start, a cheap, no-nonsense, swigging Umbrian that he brings in direct from the family farm near Spoletium but which couldve walked all the way to Rome by itself. Then theres the seedy, spit-and-sawdust ambience and matching clientele, which is a definite plus for the area. With Market Square and the Senate House just up the road, Iugarius wineshops and therere several, all with classy modern-style frescos and Gallic beechwood furniture are packed in the late afternoon with jolly, back-slapping broad-stripers and pushy young business execs. If you havent experienced the joy of these guys yourself, then believe me: the last thing you want when youre relaxing over a jug is a loud-voiced pack of the worlds lite at the next table swigging overpriced Falernian, calling the consuls by their first names and swapping hilarious anecotes about leaky aqueducts and building tenders. Renatiuss punters are tunics, which means most of the buggers have chins, speak through their mouths and would stand comparison with an intellectually-challenged parrot.

So. There I was, killing time in Renatiuss wineshop until Perillas poetry pals had finished juggling their anapaests or whatever the hell they do at their literary meetings and it was safe to go home. I was halfway down the jug with a plate of sheeps cheese on the side and getting pleasantly stewed when the mystery man turned up.

You dont see royalty much in Rome, not in Renatiuss, anyway, but if hed been a prince of the blood from one of the eastern client-kingdoms slumming it incognito he couldntve created a bigger stir; which was interesting because like I say Renatiuss is definitely tunic country and these guys dont impress easy. Yet the moment he walked in the door you couldve heard an olive bounce, and Renatius himself moved so fast to show him to a table that he blurred. That was weird, too: youd expect it in an upmarket cookshop, but any wineshop Ive ever been in you find your own table, and if there isnt one free then tough. Added to which the last time Id seen Renatius move that fast was when a stray dog wandered in and cocked its leg against the counter, and as far as I could see there was no difference between this guy and the other half-dozen punters currently soaking up the booze.

I poured myself another slug of Spoletian and inspected him over the top of my cup. It was none of my business, sure, but I couldnt help wondering what kind of semi-divine being wed got here. Scratch the prince of the blood theory. Whoever he was, the guy was no easterner, let alone royal (Idve guessed southern Italian, and if he rated more than a plain mantle Id eat my boots); Renatius wouldnt stir himself for any common-or-garden noble, home-grown or imported; and Id bet a gold piece to a meatball that none of his clientele would recognise a visiting scion of the Commagene royal house if it leaned over and bit them. So where did that leave us?

Early thirties, lad-about-town type: sharp haircut, good quality tunic and enough flashy personal jewellery to fit out an Aventine cat-house. He was no Market Square patsy, though, that was sure; there were muscles under that tunic, the arm that lifted the wine jug had tendons you could use for catapult cable, and Id hate to face those hard, cold eyes across the table in a needle dice game. All that plus the fact that the whole room bar me obviously knew him and was treating him like one of the Sacred Shields of Mars while he acted like he expected nothing less could only mean one thing. Or one of two things, rather. Our mystery pal was either a top swordsman or a ditto driver; either of which qualifications, as far as the punters in Renatiuss were concerned, put him less than one step down from Jupiter himself.

Personally, Id go for the second option. Gladiators tend to be tall, even the lighter netmen: netman or not, quick on your feet or not, you dont last long on the sand if youre a short-arse with stubby legs and no reach; not when youre matched against two hundred pounds of mean beefsteak armed to the teeth and anxious to check out the colour of your liver. This guy was a runt. A steel-and-whiplash runt, sure, but if he clocked in at any more than five-two and ninety-eight pounds then I was a blue-rinsed Briton. Which, of course, was perfect for the cars because the less there is of the driver the more chance the team has of romping home clear of the competition.

Me, I dont follow the Colours. Yeah, I can keep my end up in a barbershop conversation, and Perilla and I go to the races now and again at the bigger festivals, but Im no fan. Fansre something else, and every tunic is a fan born. Renatiuss clientele mightnt be in the league of the weirdos who paint every room in their house green or blue and sniff the favourites droppings before the race to check that its in prime running condition, but the tunic who doesnt know his way around the teams well enough to play spot the hero when he walks into the local wineshop just dont exist. So I sat back and watched developments.

Not that there were any at first. Renatiuss kid son Lucius brought the man his jug and a plate of olives, setting them down like they were honey-cakes on a shrine, and Mystery Boy was left to his own majestic thoughts while everyone else went into huddles and muttered away quietly. Every so often the guy glanced towards the door like he was expecting someone, but if so his pal wasnt showing.

Ten, fifteen minutes in, he stood up suddenly and beckoned to Lucius. Conversation in the room switched off like it would in the local temple if the cult statue decided to stretch its legs in the middle of the ceremony, but Mystery Boy didnt seem to notice. Probably he was used to it and it didnt bother him any more, one way or the other.

The kid went over like he was walking on eggs. He had to swallow twice before he got his voice to work.

Yes, sir? he said.

Wheres the privy?

I could see the blush spread over the kids face from freckle to freckle: obviously in Luciuss personal world demigods didnt ask questions to do with normal human functions. Besides, Renatiuss is pretty basic; the guy might just as well have asked for directions to the bath suite. I grinned and sipped my wine.

UhIm sorry, sir. Swallow. We, uh, we havent got one.

You havent got one. Mystery Boy didnt smile, but one of the regulars, a little wizened monkey of a guy called Charax with plaster stains down his tunic, sniggered into his winecup. So where do your customers piss?

Uh Lucius was beginning to look desperate. In the alley, sir. Round the side. Theres a wall at the end. You cant miss it.

Charax choked on his wine. Mystery Boy ignored him. He nodded to Lucius and went out, closing the wineshop door behind him.

The place erupted like a schoolroom when the master pops out for a breath of sanity.

You cant miss it, right, Lucius? Charax said when hed finished coughing his lungs out. Not on less than two jugs, anyway.

Nice one, lad. That was Renatius.

If the kid had been blushing before, now you couldve used his ears to signal ships. Understandable: hed just had his chance to impress the great man with his witty repartee and hed blown it all over the shop. Being ten is tough.

Hey, Lucius, I said. Who is the celebrity, by the way?

Luciuss jaw dropped. There were a couple more laughs, at me this time. But thats Pegasus, sir! he said.

Tone like he was speaking to an idiot, which in the race-mad kids eyes I suppose I was. Yeah, well, Id got that one right, at any rate. The guy was a driver; or not just a driver but one of the drivers, currently. Even I knew Pegasus: half the plaster statuettes on sale outside the Circus had his name on them. Not that that wouldve been any help with the face, mind, because they all came out of the same mould, whoever they were supposed to be, and the names were written on later; but the name itself, that was a different thing altogether. The Greens lead?