In at the Death

13

I must’ve been seriously whacked, because the sun was already streaming through the cracks in the shutters when I woke up. Perilla was still flat out. Good: just before I’d dropped off I’d had a stroke of pure genius re the dog-walking problem, and putting it into operation required that the lady should be firmly unconscious.

I slipped out of bed, got dressed, then went downstairs and through the peristyle into the garden. Placida was tied to one of the pillars, flat out as well and snoring. I sneaked past, carried on to the shed at the bottom and knocked.

‘Yes?’

Great; he was in. I opened the door.

Okay, we were rolling. Dogless for sure this time. Let’s hear it for subterfuge.

While I was eating breakfast I thought about the day ahead. I’d have to revisit the Aventine tenement, for a start, talk to the tenants, because if Papinius had been murdered there was an outside chance that whoever did it had been spotted. Not much of one, because tenements are usually empty in daylight hours, but a chance nonetheless. Of course, our murderer could’ve been the factor, Caepio. Take Papinius up to the top floor on some pretext or other, knock him senseless while his back’s turned, push him out the window and the job’s done. As far as motive was concerned — well, turn the bribery business around, have Papinius discover that Caepio was fiddling the damage claims and threaten to report it, and you’d be talking a valid scenario, especially if the order to kill him came from someone who really had a vested interest. Someone like Caepio’s boss, the tenement owner. Carsidius was another possibility I’d have to look into.

So pencil the tenement into the day’s programme. It’d mean an after-sunset visit, but I could cut a deal with Meton re missing dinner and have lunch in a cookshop somewhere instead.

Second was the Apollo Library on the Palatine, to see if they could give me an address for Lucia Albucilla. Papinius taking up with her could be sheer coincidence, sure, but it was worth checking. Albucilla was a friend of Soranus’s, after all, and if that bastard wasn’t involved somewhere along the line I’d eat my sandals.

Third…

Third was Papinius’s father, the consular. It wasn’t all that likely, given their relationship, or lack of one, that he’d paid the kid’s debt for him, but -

‘Everything all right, sir?’

‘Hmm?’ I looked up. ‘Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Bathyllus.Oh, by the way. Papinius Allenius. Any idea where he lives?’

‘On the Pincian, sir. But the senate’s in session today. If you wanted to talk to him you might catch him after the meeting.’

Good thinking. And if I was going over to the Palatine in any case Market Square wouldn’t be much out of my way. Things were shaping up nicely. There was only one potential glitch. ‘Uh, how’s Meton this morning?’ I said.

‘Still not quite himself, I’m afraid.’

Bad news; bad, bad news. Well, it couldn’t be helped. If I missed dinner without giving him prior warning we’d be eating turnip for the next month. Not a thing you’d like to risk. ‘Ask him if he’d care to have a word, would you?’ I said.

‘You want to talk to him in person, sir? Meton?’ Bathyllus doesn’t blanch easy, but he came pretty close. The Elder Cato might’ve looked the same way if someone had suggested inviting Hannibal and the Carthaginian senate round for drinks and nibbles.

‘Yeah. Yeah, that was the general idea.’

‘Now?’

‘As ever is.’

He swallowed. ‘Very well. If you’re sure.’

‘Just do it, Bathyllus.’

‘Yes, sir.’ He exited.

The breakfast wine was well watered. Even so, I swallowed two full cups of it while I was waiting. When you’re interviewing Meton, total sobriety is a complete bummer.

‘What is it, Corvinus? Only I’ve got stock on the boil and it wants skimming.’

I looked up. Hell. Being belted in the eye with a tunny by an enraged fishmonger hadn’t improved the guy’s physiognomy any. ‘Meton!’ I said. ‘How’s it going, pal?’ He didn’t answer, just glared at me with one good eye and the other looking like it’d collided with a paintbox. Fuck. ‘I was wondering about the menu for tonight. You got anything special planned?’

‘Hare stuffed with liver and sausage. Flavoured with oregano and cumin.’

‘Great. Great. That sounds marvellous. The sort of thing that you could, er, easily reheat, right?’

He gave me a look. ‘Baleful’ comes to mind: Meton has bale by the bucket-load, even without a black eye. ‘You kidding?’ he said. ‘No one reheats hare with liver and sausage!’

‘Is that so, now?’ No answer. Not that I expected one, of course: it’d been the equivalent of saying ‘Pardon?’ to the Delphic Pythoness. ‘It’s, ah, just that I’d kind of planned to give dinner the go-by tonight. As such. In effect, as it were.’

Meton scowled. ‘You’re eating out?’ He made it sound like I was intending to screw a sheep coram populo on the Speakers’ Platform.

‘No. No! But…’

He was flexing his fingers, the way he did when he got agitated. Hell. ‘Listen, Corvinus. Ariston, down the game market, you know how often he gets a really good hare? We’re talking quality free-range here, none of your hutch-bred tat. Same goes for the liver. Prime milk-fed calf’s, marinated for two days in wine must. And I made the sausage myself. Old Patavinian recipe, beats Lucanian into a cocked hat. With the hare and liver, it’ll be a dream. And you are asking me to fucking reheat?’

He hawked and spat on the tiles.

Gods! This could get nasty. ‘Meton, pal,’ I said. ‘Look. Let’s be reasonable about this, okay? It’s no big thing. All I’m trying to tell you is that I’ve got to go down to the Aventine tonight. Unavoidable business. So I’ll miss dinner.’ I paused for this to register. Nothing; not a flicker. I might as well’ve been talking Babylonian. Ah, well; press on. ‘There’s, uh, there’s this thing called a compromise. It means that if you — ’

‘The Aventine? You’re going over to the Aventine?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay. Cardoons.’

I blinked. ‘What?’

‘Cardoons.’

‘What’s “cardoons”? Some sort of recherche swear-word?’

‘What’s “recherche”?’

We stared at each other. Impasse. Or whatever. I cracked first. ‘Ah… recherche means that I don’t know what “cardoons” means.’

Pause. Then: ‘It’s, like, your compromise.’

He’d lost me. Not that that was difficult in Meton’s case, mind. His way of thinking wasn’t just lateral, Archimedes could’ve used it for lifting water. ‘Uh…“cardoons” means “compromise”?’ I said. ‘Like “pax” or “feins” or “barleys” or whatever the hell kids say when they want time out in a game?’

‘Nah. A cardoon is a kind of fucking artichoke. Everyone knows that.’

‘But artichokes don’t — ’ I stopped. Bugger; I was losing the plot completely here. Start again. ‘Meton. Pal. Hold it there, okay? Just pretend I’m stupid, right? For purposes of argument.’

He grinned, revealing a set of teeth like the tombs on the Appian Road. ‘Easy. Done it.’

‘Great. Now, could you maybe just extrapolate a little?’ Then, when the scowl came back: ‘Explain, sort of?’

‘If you’re going to the Aventine you’ll pass the vegetable market.’

‘Uh…yeah. Yeah, I suppose so. If I went out of my way a bit.’ Like straight past it and right down all the way to the Tiber. Hell!

‘There’s a stall there, south-west corner. Belongs to a woman called Flavilla Nepia. She sells the best cardoons in Rome.’

Click. Finally. ‘Got it,’ I said.

‘Buy the small ones, okay? As many as you can get. The big ones can be stringy.’

‘And that’s your compromise? A bag of this Flavilla Nepia’s cardoons?’

‘Yeah. I’d go over there myself, but I’m pretty busy at the moment so you can do it for me.’

‘Right.You’ve got a deal. Now — ’

‘You soak them in water and vinegar before you cook them, you know. Otherwise they go dark.’

‘Is that so? Well, well, that is fascinating. Now I’m sorry, but I’ve got — ’

‘And when you do cook them, you have to remember to add some flour to the water to keep them nice and white.’

‘Really? Well, thank you, Meton. Always an instructive pleasure talking to you, and as ever I have really enjoyed our conversation. Only now I’m a bit pushed for time, so — ’

‘They’re rubbish cold. You got to eat them hot, with some cheese grated on top. Some prefer Bithynian, but me, I find it too salty, and anyways since they started using them linen wrappings you can’t find good Bithynian in Rome worth a fuck. Vestinian’s not bad at a pinch, sure, and it’s easy come by, but we’re definitely talking second rate there. A good Sarsinan, now, that’s another matter, you can’t beat Sarsinan on cardoons. The only trouble with Sarsinan is if you use too fine a grater the — ’

‘Right. Right!’ Jupiter! ‘So the bottom line is, Meton, that I can look forward to really yummy reheated hare with liver and sausage tonight, can I?’

He sniffed. ‘Bugger that, Corvinus. I’ll do you meatballs.’

I watched the guy lumber off to skim his stock, then left the table and went through to the peristyle. Time to put Operation Ditch Placida into action.

She was up and waiting for me, tongue lolling. Yeah, well, she wasn’t a bad dog really, not considering the fact that she was a total barbarian with as much of the social graces as would fit on a pinhead, but letting myself be dragged across Rome for a third day in succession just wasn’t on.

I unhitched her and fixed the lead onto her collar. Great joy and excitement.

‘Come on, Placida,’ I said. ‘Walkies.’

We headed across the atrium at speed. Bathyllus was buffing bronzes.

‘You’re off, then, sir?’ he said.

‘Yeah.’ I tugged Placida into the closest I could get to a standstill. ‘Tell Perilla I’ll be skipping dinner but that I’ve cleared it with Meton. Oh, and by the way, he’s gobbed on the dining-room floor again.’

Bathyllus’s eyes closed briefly. ‘Thank you for that information, sir,’ he said. ‘Shall I open the front door for you?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, that might be an idea.’

We scrabbled through the lobby, through the open door and down the steps. I let Placida pull me the length of our garden wall plus next door’s house, paused to make sure that no one was watching, then took the sharp left down the alley and another left at the end, back parallel to the way I’d come.

Outside our garden gate, Alexis was waiting as per instructions. Alexis is our gardener, and the smartest cookie on the staff.

‘There you go, pal.’ I transferred the lead. ‘Take her down the Appian Road, turn her loose, let her chase a few rabbits and piss on a tomb or two. Stay out as long as you like, the longer the better. I’ll be out until this evening, after dinner, but if you keep her in your shed when you get back I can pick her up from there. Okay?’

Alexis grinned. ‘If the mistress finds out, sir, she’ll kill us both.’

‘True. But then what can go wrong? Thanks, pal. I won’t forget this. Ever.’

Free!

Okay. The senate meeting wouldn’t be out for a good three hours yet, minimum: the gods knew what these broad-striper buggers talked about in the Curia Julia, but they took their time over it. My best plan was to start off over at Apollo’s temple on the Palatine, where the library was.

Gods, it was great to be dogless!

The good weather was holding as I took the road that led from Head of Africa towards the Scaurian Incline, up the eastern slope of the Palatine and across the top of the hill to its western edge. Libraries always make me nervous. It isn’t just the books — I’ve never been partial to that musty smell of old papyrus and glue — but raise your voice above a whisper in these places and you’re liable to have your balls frozen off by glares from half a dozen different directions at once. Get caught chewing on a takeaway pastry while you’re browsing and it’s a nails-and-hammer offence with no appeal. The Apollo Library serves a purpose, sure, but you wouldn’t like to spend time there when you didn’t have to. Give me a wine-shop any day of the month.

I found the guy in charge and introduced myself.

‘Ah, the Lady Rufia Perilla’s husband?’ He was a dry old stick who looked like he’d been put together with papyrus and glue himself. Probably around the time of Alexander. ‘Charming woman. And a real pleasure to meet you, sir. How can I help? A book, perhaps? We have several of those.’ He chuckled. Yeah, well: librarian humour is pretty basic.

‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I was hoping you might help me trace one of your regular clients. A lady by the name of Lucia Albucilla.’

‘Really?’ His eyebrows rose. ‘Well, well. We’re not the, aha, the Danaid Porch here, you know. That’s further along. I don’t think I could actually — ’

I sighed. ‘Look, I don’t want to chat her up, pal, I just want the answers to a few questions, right?’

He beamed. ‘Of course. Of course. Forgive me. Not that I’d disapprove of a little dalliance, far from it. No harm in that. Why, in my younger days — ’ He stopped. ‘Well, that’s beside the point. Lucia Albucilla, you say? Splendid woman. Superb carriage. She reminds me very strongly of — ’

‘Pal.’ I laid a hand on his arm. ‘Just an address. Please? If you’ve got it?’

‘Certainly. Certainly. A moment, Valerius Corvinus, while I check the records. We keep very thorough records, you know. You’d be surprised how many people accidentally leave the building with a book caught up in their mantle. Women especially. I have been advocating body searches for years, but — ’

‘Ah…the address, pal? Please?’ Before we all dropped dead of advanced age. Gods!

‘Yes. Yes of course.’ He went over to the desk. ‘The filing system is my own. Alphabetical, and thoroughly cross-referenced. Albucilla will be under A, naturally, or I could find her under L for Lucia. I always cross-reference, you see. It does obviate a certain amount of confusion. Then she has another entry under M, because — ’

‘Great. Very ingenious. Very thorough.’

‘Oh. Yes, yes, of course. Well, no doubt you’re a busy man, Valerius Corvinus. I’ll just…yes.’

I twiddled my thumbs while he looked through the cards.

‘Here we are.’ He pulled one out. ‘The Caeliolan, near the temple of Ancient Hope. Will that suffice?’

‘Marvellous. Thanks a lot, friend. I’m — ’

‘Of course, she is on the premises at the moment.’

‘She is what?’

‘Here, sir. In the reading room. She came in about an hour ago.’

Jupiter in a bloody pushchair! ‘Then why the fuck didn’t you tell me at the start?’ I said.

He blinked. ‘Because you asked me for her address, sir. And, Valerius Corvinus, I have never in my thirty years of — ’

‘Where is the sodding reading room? Or do you fucking have to look that up alphabetically as well?’

He drew himself up bristling. ‘Over there. Past the statues of the Graces. Let me say, however, that never in all my thirty years as senior librarian have I been exposed to such — ’

‘Right. Right. Thanks, pal. Much obliged.’

I left him to his card index.

Albucilla was easy to spot, because while the place was pretty full of punters she was the only woman. She was sitting near one of the windows with a book-roll open on her lap, although she didn’t seem to be reading it, just staring into space. Splendid carriage was right: I was getting the full profile with the sun behind it, and unless a lot of the top half was mantle I could understand how she’d have my pal the librarian dribbling into his gruel. Strong jawline, too.

I walked over. ‘Uh…Lucia Albucilla?’ I said. Her head whipped round; I doubt if she’d even heard me coming. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘That’s all right. I was miles away.’ She smiled, or tried to. The face matched the jawline: handsome rather than beautiful, with the features looking like they’d been hacked out of marble. She was the colour of marble, too; a dead, pasty white that together with her makeup left her looking like a doll. I reckoned Perilla’s estimate of early thirties for her age was well on the low side. By present showing she could’ve been forty, easy.

‘My name’s Valerius Corvinus,’ I said. ‘I was wondering if I could talk to you about Sextus Papinius.’

There it was again: the same flicker of the eyes I’d got with Soranus. She turned her head away. ‘I don’t think I know a — ’ she began.

‘Come on, lady!’ We were getting Looks now from the other punters, and I lowered my voice. ‘Of course you do! The kid who killed himself five days back.’

‘Oh, that — ’ She stopped and took a deep breath, then turned back to face me. The smile hadn’t shifted, but it looked ghastly. ‘Yes. Sextus. I’m sorry, how silly of me. Forgive me. It is a little close in here, isn’t it?’

It wasn’t, particularly, that I’d noticed: this was October, after all, and the window was open. Still, I wasn’t going to argue: the punters’ Looks had moved up a notch to Glares, and the next thing that’d happen would be a visit from the library’s tame satyr. That I could really do without, especially in the guy’s present mood. ‘You want to talk outside?’ I said.

‘Yes. Yes, perhaps it would be better.’ She rolled up the book, fastened its laces — I noticed that her hands were shaking —, laid it on the table beside her and stood up. ‘We can go into the garden.’

She led the way and I followed her in silence. The garden was through the portico that led off the entrance hall, in an angle between the library building and the temple itself: a careful arrangement of formal walks and flower-beds with more statuary than you could shake a stick at. Apart from an old guy fast asleep — or possibly dead — on a bench in the corner it was empty. We found another bench under a plane tree and sat down. The lady was a better colour now, but she was still nervous as a cat.

‘I was so sorry to hear about Sextus,’ she said. ‘He was a lovely boy.’

‘Yeah. So everyone tells me.’ I wasn’t quite sure how to play this. From what Cluvia had said, and from the fact that she was a friend of Mucius Soranus’s, I’d been expecting a sort of femme fatale. I could still have got one, mind, because in her own way the lady was a looker, but if she was she was the well-groomed polished kind that you see at all the best dinner parties.

‘You didn’t know him, then?’ she said.

‘No. I’m just looking into his death. As a favour to his mother and Titus Natalis of the Greens.’

That got me another flicker, but she’d obviously got herself in hand and if I hadn’t been looking for it I might not’ve noticed. ‘Really?’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that there was anything to — ’

‘His ex-girlfriend Cluvia said that you, uh, knew him pretty well latterly. Through a mutual friend, Mucius Soranus.’

Her hand was resting on the arm of the bench. The fingers tightened momentarily. ‘Cluvia is a — ’ She bit back on the word, but not soon enough for me to miss the sudden hardness of tone that suggested there was steel under the polish. Then it was gone and she tried another smile. ‘I think as an informant Cluvia may have given you completely the wrong impression about our relationship. I liked Sextus, but he was an acquaintance rather than a friend, and he was certainly not — as your tone seems to imply — a lover. Not even in the most minor sense. If you want an explanation for her attitude, I can only suggest jealousy.’

‘Is that so, now?’ I kept my voice non-committal.

‘Yes, it is. Sextus, I know from certain remarks he made, was becoming tired of her, and obviously she was looking for a scapegoat. I happened to be the one she chose. As far as Soranus is concerned, the situation is similar. He’s quite definitely an acquaintance, not a friend.’ She stood up. ‘Now, if that’s clear I’m afraid I can’t help you any further.’

I didn’t move. ‘So if Papinius was an acquaintance,’ I said, ‘what sort of acquaintance was he?’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’

The hell with tact. ‘He was a nineteen-year-old kid, lady, and you’re almost old enough to be his mother. What did you have in common? There must’ve been something.’

Silence. Then she said: ‘I…really, Corvinus, I see no point in continuing this conversation. I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey, but I honestly can’t help you further.’ She turned away, just as another woman came hurrying through the portico.

‘Lucia!’ Raised voice; obviously agitated. ‘Thank Juno I’ve caught you! Have you — ?’

Then the woman saw me, and she stopped dead. Her hand flew to her mouth, covering it, and her eyes widened in a shock that was almost comic. I glanced back at Albucilla. I couldn’t see her face — it was turned towards the new arrival — but her whole body froze. The woman came towards us, more slowly now; she’d almost been running to begin with. There was something familiar about her, but I couldn’t recall a name offhand.

Albucilla turned back to me. ‘It was nice meeting you, Valerius Corvinus,’ she said quickly. ‘Do tell Sextus’s mother how sorry I am about her son’s death.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, I’ll do that.’

I nodded to the second woman — Jupiter, what was her name again? — and walked across to the portico. Just before I went inside, I looked back. The two were standing side by side, staring at me.

The librarian was at his desk, talking to a late-middle-aged purple-striper with an obvious toupe. I went over.

‘Ah…excuse me,’ I said.

‘Yes?’ The satyr wasn’t exactly friendly. To put it mildly. Nor, by some sort of osmosis, was the other guy. The two of them were glaring like I’d just propositioned them.

‘That lady who’s just gone out into the garden. You mind telling me her name?’

‘Acutia. Although, my dear sir, I can’t see that it’s any business of yours.’

Acutia! Yeah, of course she was. I remembered her now; it’d been years and she’d aged, but she still had that mousey look about her. ‘Did you tell her I was there?’

‘Certainly not! Why should I? She asked to speak to the Lady Albucilla and I so directed her.’ He drew himself up again. ‘And now perhaps you’ll have the grace to explain why — ’

But I was already heading for the exit.

Shit. What was going on?