thousand sesterces. And he was planning on more.’
Gods alive! The guy had been haemorrhaging money like there was no tomorrow.
And, of course, for him there hadn’t been …
‘You didn’t try to stop him?’ I said.
Gallio just looked at me. ‘Of course I tried,’ he said. ‘What do you think? But in the last analysis the property was his, to do with as he thought fit, and Master Surdinus was a very stubborn man. There was very little I could do.’
‘You didn’t tell anyone? Like his son, perhaps?’
‘Naturally I did. However, in the younger Surdinus’s case, the same strictures applied. There was nothing he could do about it either. His father was perfectly sane, so there was no question of diminished responsibility. Not legally, anyway. He had a perfect – and absolute – right to do as he pleased.’
And Tarquitia hadn’t told me. Nor, for that matter, had his son.
Shit.
I carried on down Iugarius to its end, by the Tiber. We were definitely downmarket here: the ground between the blunt end of Capitol Hill and the river, like that whole stretch of riverside south to Cattlemarket Square and beyond, is low-lying, and even nowadays after all the improvements to the drainage system and the riverbanks themselves, it’s prone to flooding. Added to which, in summer the stink from the Tiber and the thriving insect population are definitely two of the area’s most notable features, meaning that anyone of a sensitive disposition who can afford to own or rent elsewhere on higher ground, or at least somewhere that doesn’t smell so obviously of Tiber mud and sewage, generally does just that, for reasons of simple self-preservation. Mind you, there’re plenty who can’t or don’t, and the area round the vegetable market is seriously full of tenements that make up a micro-community of their own. Well-off it isn’t: the Poppies’ clientele would be low-spending regulars, porters and stallholders from the market, with a sprinkling of local tradesmen with actual shops to their names to add a bit of class and raise the tone.
I found the place with a bit of help from a passing bag-lady trudging home with her string bag loaded down with assorted root vegetables, and tried the front door. Locked, of course – it was far too early for customers – and knocking on it didn’t produce an answer, either.
Bugger.
Well, I hadn’t come all this way to give up that easily. There was an alleyway at the side, and investigating it revealed a small courtyard full of empty wine jars and a back door to the place through which a guy was carrying a couple of fresh jars to add to the pile.
‘Hi.’ I waited until he’d dumped them and straightened up. ‘Could I have a word, do you think?’
‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘I’m busy and we’re closed. Open an hour before sunset. Come back then, OK?’ He turned to go back inside.
‘It’s about Tarquitia.’
He stopped and turned back, and I saw his eye catch the purple stripe on my tunic beneath the cloak.
Rapid reassessment. Yeah, well, rank does have its privileges.
‘Ah … right, sir,’ he said. ‘What about her?’
‘She used to work here, yes?’
He was still looking at me suspiciously, which was understandable: you wouldn’t get many purple-stripers hanging around area like this, and even fewer would be interested in the staff of a third-rate nightclub like the Five Poppies. Not interested enough to have a name to hand, certainly.
‘Yeah, she did,’ he said at last. Then he shrugged. ‘What the hell? You’d best come inside.’
I followed him in. The place – it was just one room, and not a big one, at that – was pretty basic, with a few plain wooden tables and stools, a bar counter with its wine rack behind and a low stage at one end. Someone had decorated the walls, though, with murals, and they were surprisingly good: Silenus on his donkey, hung with grapes and holding up a wine cup; what looked like a rout of Bacchanals; and a
Gods alive! The guy had been haemorrhaging money like there was no tomorrow.
And, of course, for him there hadn’t been …
‘You didn’t try to stop him?’ I said.
Gallio just looked at me. ‘Of course I tried,’ he said. ‘What do you think? But in the last analysis the property was his, to do with as he thought fit, and Master Surdinus was a very stubborn man. There was very little I could do.’
‘You didn’t tell anyone? Like his son, perhaps?’
‘Naturally I did. However, in the younger Surdinus’s case, the same strictures applied. There was nothing he could do about it either. His father was perfectly sane, so there was no question of diminished responsibility. Not legally, anyway. He had a perfect – and absolute – right to do as he pleased.’
And Tarquitia hadn’t told me. Nor, for that matter, had his son.
Shit.
I carried on down Iugarius to its end, by the Tiber. We were definitely downmarket here: the ground between the blunt end of Capitol Hill and the river, like that whole stretch of riverside south to Cattlemarket Square and beyond, is low-lying, and even nowadays after all the improvements to the drainage system and the riverbanks themselves, it’s prone to flooding. Added to which, in summer the stink from the Tiber and the thriving insect population are definitely two of the area’s most notable features, meaning that anyone of a sensitive disposition who can afford to own or rent elsewhere on higher ground, or at least somewhere that doesn’t smell so obviously of Tiber mud and sewage, generally does just that, for reasons of simple self-preservation. Mind you, there’re plenty who can’t or don’t, and the area round the vegetable market is seriously full of tenements that make up a micro-community of their own. Well-off it isn’t: the Poppies’ clientele would be low-spending regulars, porters and stallholders from the market, with a sprinkling of local tradesmen with actual shops to their names to add a bit of class and raise the tone.
I found the place with a bit of help from a passing bag-lady trudging home with her string bag loaded down with assorted root vegetables, and tried the front door. Locked, of course – it was far too early for customers – and knocking on it didn’t produce an answer, either.
Bugger.
Well, I hadn’t come all this way to give up that easily. There was an alleyway at the side, and investigating it revealed a small courtyard full of empty wine jars and a back door to the place through which a guy was carrying a couple of fresh jars to add to the pile.
‘Hi.’ I waited until he’d dumped them and straightened up. ‘Could I have a word, do you think?’
‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘I’m busy and we’re closed. Open an hour before sunset. Come back then, OK?’ He turned to go back inside.
‘It’s about Tarquitia.’
He stopped and turned back, and I saw his eye catch the purple stripe on my tunic beneath the cloak.
Rapid reassessment. Yeah, well, rank does have its privileges.
‘Ah … right, sir,’ he said. ‘What about her?’
‘She used to work here, yes?’
He was still looking at me suspiciously, which was understandable: you wouldn’t get many purple-stripers hanging around area like this, and even fewer would be interested in the staff of a third-rate nightclub like the Five Poppies. Not interested enough to have a name to hand, certainly.
‘Yeah, she did,’ he said at last. Then he shrugged. ‘What the hell? You’d best come inside.’
I followed him in. The place – it was just one room, and not a big one, at that – was pretty basic, with a few plain wooden tables and stools, a bar counter with its wine rack behind and a low stage at one end. Someone had decorated the walls, though, with murals, and they were surprisingly good: Silenus on his donkey, hung with grapes and holding up a wine cup; what looked like a rout of Bacchanals; and a
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