In at the Death

14

I had a good hour to kill, maybe two, before the Senate meeting finished. That suited me fine, because I had a lot of hard thinking to do. Over to Renatius’s on Iugarius, then, for a seat and a half jug of wine.

Early as it was, there were two or three punters at the bar, but I didn’t know any of them, so I just nodded.

‘Haven’t seen you for a while, Corvinus.’ Renatius was cutting up greens for the lunchtime salad option. ‘The usual, is it?’

‘Yeah.’ I took the coins from my purse and laid them on the counter while he filled the half jug with Spoletan. I eyed the greens. ‘Uh…incidentally. You ever hear of a thing called a cardoon?’

‘Course I have. It’s a kind of artichoke.’

‘Right. Right. Just checking.’

He brought the jug over and pulled a cup down from the rack. ‘You want anything with that? Cheese? Olives? Sausage?’

‘No, I had a late breakfast. Cheers, pal.’ I picked up the wine and the cup, took them over to a corner table, sat down and poured.

So. That little meeting had been interesting. Whatever was going on — and something was, that was clear, although I hadn’t a clue what it could be — Lucia Albucilla was in it up to her carefully-crimped fringe. More, she was running scared: the way, when I’d come in, that she’d been sitting staring at nothing, inside her own head, how she’d jumped when I’d first spoken to her and the expression on her face before she had herself under control all showed that the lady had private problems and was living on her nerves. Above all, to claim that she’d never even heard of Sextus Papinius when Cluvia was under the impression they were already an item was a sign of sheer bloody panic. As far as the question of whether the two actually were an item was concerned, I’d keep an open mind. There was the age difference for a start. Sure, granted, there are any number of society ladies who run a toy-boy, in some circles he’s practically a fashion accessory, but usually these women are fifty plus, dress like twenty and act like fifteen. From what I’d seen of her Albucilla just didn’t fit the mould. On the other hand, why Papinius should be attracted to Albucilla made more sense, especially since I already knew he went for older women. The kid was mature for his age, he was an idealist-cum-wannabe sophisticate, and he’d been brought up by his mother. Yeah, I could see Papinius making the first approach. In which case Albucilla might just be flattered enough to play along.

I took a swallow of the Spoletan. It’s good stuff, or Renatius’s is, anyway; not nearly up to Latian standards, but a good swigging wine perfect for getting the brain cells working. Over at the bar, two of the punters had started up a dice game: strictly illegal in a public place and where money’s involved, but that’s a technicality that no one pays any attention to. Renatius wasn’t even making a token gesture to stop it.

Albucilla had been pretty cagey over her friendship with Soranus as well. That was more understandable. If the bastard was bent — which he was — she wouldn’t want that connection pointed up. Especially if, somewhere along the line, blackmail was involved…

Hell. I needed more facts!

Then there was Acutia. I’d met the lady years back, when we were in Antioch chasing up the Germanicus connection. She’d been a local-poetry-klatsch pal of Perilla’s, married to Publius Vitellius on the governor’s staff, and even allowing for her literary interests she was your total archetypal bubblehead. She’d be a widow now, of course, unless she’d remarried, because Vitellius had slit his wrists at the time of the witch-hunt after Sejanus fell, and good riddance to the bastard. Acutia puzzled me seriously. Oh, sure, given she was in Rome there was no reason why she and Albucilla shouldn’t be friends or meet at the Apollo Library, particularly if Acutia was still on her poetry jag. No problem there, none whatsoever. But why, when she caught sight of me and Albucilla together, should she act like she’d just strolled out onto the sand in the arena and found that the cats were loose?

Odd, right? And suspicious as hell.

She’d wanted to talk to Albucilla about something important, that had been clear enough. Oh, yeah, there was the slight possibility that I might be over-dramatising: like I said, when I first met her in Syria the lady had been a complete bubblehead, and to a woman like Acutia something important could cover anything down to an invitation to a honey-wine party or the latest snippet of society gossip. I knew that, I’d been around bubbleheads most of my adult life, both the male and female varieties. Still, taken together with her reaction when she spotted me I couldn’t help wondering if there wasn’t a lot more to it. There had been genuine panic in her voice. Panic and fear, which chimed with the way Albucilla had reacted to me.

So let’s go the whole bean-bag and assume that whatever she wanted to talk about had something to do with Sextus Papinius…

I took another swig of wine. It didn’t help.

Bugger. I was building sandcastles here, and I knew it. Come to that, I was building sandcastles without any sand. Sure, Albucilla and Papinius were connected, because she’d been the kid’s lady-friend, or whatever. Also, she had links with Soranus who was definitely in the frame. Albucilla I could see working out somewhere along the line, no problem. But Acutia? Where did she fit in? If she fitted in at all. Or maybe I was just letting my suspicious nature lead me by the ears…

All I had was questions where what I needed was facts. The case just didn’t make sense.

Leave it for now, Corvinus. Give your head a rest. At least I wasn’t being dragged through the streets of Rome at the end of a boarhound.

I stood up, hefted the jug and wine-cup, and went over to the bar to shoot the breeze with Renatius and the punters.

The sun was well past the half-way point and almost into its third quarter when I left the wine-shop and walked up Iugarius towards Market Square. The Senate meeting might not’ve broken up yet, but I could sit on the steps of the Julian Hall across the road from the Curia and watch for the doors to open. It beat a hike to the Pincian, anyway, and I didn’t know Allenius’s address. I just hoped that he wasn’t still in mourning — if he ever had been — and had skipped the session.

In the event, I’d cut it fine. I was just passing the Temple of Saturn when I saw the first broad-striper heading towards me through the crowd. Shit. I pushed through and stopped him.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ I said. ‘Was Papinius Allenius at the meeting?’

He gave me a pop-eyed stare. ‘Yes. Yes, I believe he was.’

‘You happen to know if he’s gone yet?’

The guy turned, scanned the crowd for a moment and then pointed. ‘There he is,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to be quick if you want to talk to him, though. He’s on the grain surplus commission and they’ve got a meeting this afternoon.’

‘Fine. Fine, thanks.’ I slipped between a couple of narrow-stripers haggling over a shipment of roofing-tiles, trod on the toes of a plain-mantle who’d decided he needed some valuable time out and was standing staring at the sky and finally ran the guy down just short of Vesta’s temple.

He wasn’t all that pleased about it, mind.

‘Papinius Allenius?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ he snapped. ‘What do you want?’ He was a tall, thin-faced guy in his mid to late forties who looked like he lived on a diet of bread, lemon juice and rectitude. He reminded me a lot of my own father: Dad had had that same look of pokered-rectum respectability. In fact — although I’d never met the man before to my knowledge — twenty years back they’d probably been bosom chums. I noticed he wasn’t wearing a mourning-mantle, and he was freshly shaven.

‘My name’s Valerius Corvinus, sir,’ I said. ‘I was hoping to have a word with you about your son.’

He stared at me for a moment. Then he nodded. ‘Your name has been mentioned to me, Corvinus. I have a meeting shortly, but I can spare a very few minutes if that will suffice. We’ll ajourn to the Temple of the Twin Gods, if you don’t mind. It’ll be quieter.’

‘Sure. No problem.’

We left the main drag and headed down Vestals’ Alley. Twin Gods wasn’t exactly private — nowhere in Market Square is private, that time of day — but at least we’d be out of the crowd. He went up the steps and stopped beside a pillar.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘before we go any further let me say that I viewed Sextus as no son of mine. I had very little contact with him after the divorce, nor with his mother, except what duty compelled, and I can tell you absolutely nothing about the reasons for his suicide. Is that clear?’

I blinked. ‘Uh…right. Right.’

‘It’s as well for you to understand my position right from the start.’

‘Sure.’ Jupiter! ‘But you did get him his job? With the Aventine fire commission?’

He looked at me down his nose and took his time answering. Finally, he said: ‘I know my duty, Corvinus, and I have never in my life shirked it. Sextus’s post was part of that duty. It was a completely separate issue and has nothing to do with anything else. Now if you’ll excuse me — ’

‘Did you give him — lend him, whatever — sixty thousand sesterces?’

He’d been turning away. Now he turned back, mouth hanging. ‘Did I do what?’ he said.

‘The kid borrowed fifty thousand from a money-lender about a month ago. Just before he died, he paid it back, plus the interest. You’ve no idea where that came from?’

‘None whatsoever,’ he snapped. ‘Certainly not from me. It’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

He wasn’t lying. I suspected that, like Dad, Allenius didn’t believe in telling lies, except as a last resort, when he’d do it with style. Twisting the truth and slithering out from under, that’s something else again; any career politician manages that easy as breathing, and Dad — and, I’d suspect, Allenius — did it all the time. But the denial came out too flat to be ambiguous, and the shock on Allenius’s face was too real to be fake.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Just asking.’

‘Very well.’ He glanced up the alley, towards the Sacred Way. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me I really must — ’

‘One last thing,’ I said. I hadn’t intended to ask the question, but Papinius Allenius was as good a source for the answer as any. ‘You know a senator by the name of Carsidius?’

‘Yes. Of course I do.’

‘He, uh, “reputable”, if you know what I mean?’

I knew it was a mistake before the words were out of my mouth. Allenius drew himself up straight and gave me the full, arrogant broad-striper glare, point-blank range: the look that for centuries has had foreigners from Britain to Parthia wondering if their underwear is showing. ‘Reputable?’ he snapped. ‘Reputable? How dare you, Corvinus! Lucius Carsidius is a close and deeply respected friend not only of mine but of the most honourable lights of the Senate. And if you imagine for one moment that men of unimpeachable honour and integrity such as Vibius Marsus or Lucius Arruntius would associate with someone whose morals were less than the very strictest, then — ’

‘Uh, right. Right,’ I said quickly, backing off: the guy was working himself up into full Ciceronian denunciatory mode, and heads were beginning to turn fifteen yards off. ‘I understand.’

‘And so you should!’ He was glaring at me. ‘“Reputable”, indeed! Now if you’ve finished with your questions I have a meeting to go to. Good day to you!’

Before I could answer, he set off down the portico steps, and this time he didn’t look back.

Shit. I grinned and shook my head: yeah, Dad to a fault. And Arruntius and Marsus, eh? Now, there were another two names from the past!

Funnily enough, from the same bit of the past as Acutia…

Hell. Coincidence, it had to be. When he’d chosen them as examples Allenius had been right: the pair of them were the Roman senate, or at least between them they led the most reputable bit of it. If Carsidius was part of their gang then he was Respectable with a capital ‘R’, and you couldn’t say that about every broad-striper by any means. Some of these bums on the Curia Julia’s benches belonged to crooks and swindlers who’d leave the worst the Subura or Ostia could produce looking like eight-year-old apple-scrumpers. Just because your family name’s Cornelius or Junius doesn’t mean you’re not as bent as a Corinthian whore’s hairpin; quite the reverse, because most of the time that’s how your ancestors made their pile in the first place and feathering your own nest at other people’s expense is practically a family duty.

At least Carsidius had his vote of confidence. Whether the bugger deserved it or not was another matter.

Well, so much for that little interview. I’d never met young Papinius, but I could see why the two hadn’t got on: the parallels with me and my own father were too close for comfort. All the same, Dad and I had made it up before he died, and although we were always chalk and cheese we’d at least reached a modus vivendi. Papinius and his father evidently hadn’t been so lucky. Sad, sure, desperately sad, but that’s how things go. It wasn’t too uncommon, either.

Still, there were a few things that didn’t quite gel there. As I followed Allenius down the steps and rejoined the crowd I was thinking hard.