In at the Death

9

I found a wine-shop off the Sacred Way that didn’t mind dogs and settled down with a half jug to think.

Oh, sure, the solution all made sense, every bit of it, and if Papinius hadn’t got his sixty thousand from bribes then where the hell had he got it from? I didn’t have an answer to that; I didn’t even have the ghost of an answer. Besides, if he was crooked and he knew he’d been rumbled then suicide was a logical way out. Not the only way, but an obvious one to a guy with Papinius’s background and character. No problems there. Everything fitted together like the stones of a good mosaic.

Only…

Only there was the niggle that just wouldn’t go away. I kept sticking on two things. One was Atratinus’s insistence — backed up by my own gut feeling — that Papinius was as straight as they come; the second was how the kid had died. Razor, knife, sword, poison even at a pinch, fair enough; but no aristocratic Roman, if he’s got a choice in how he’s going to kill himself, chooses to jump from a tenement window. That’s just not the way we do things. It’s just too bloody infra dig.

Besides, from what Atratinus had told me Papinius hadn’t signalled it. And although I hadn’t asked Caepio direct, he hadn’t implied that the kid was unduly upset or preoccupied immediately beforehand, either. That wasn’t natural. Plus there was the absence of a suicide note…

That Papinius had committed suicide out of guilt and the fear of exposure made sense, complete sense, sure, no argument. But it just didn’t…fucking…fit!

I took a long swallow of wine. I hadn’t been in this place before, and I doubted that I’d bother to repeat the experience because the wine was over-priced and second-rate. No wonder the guy behind the bar hadn’t objected to a flatulent Gallic boarhound on his premises. Lucky for me, really, but then I was getting used to breathing through my mouth.

Right. So let’s assume that the perfect, logical solution was a load of balls. Start with the assumption that Papinius wasn’t crooked, he wasn’t taking bribes, and — most important of all — he didn’t kill himself. Also, shelve the problem of the sixty thousand sesterces for the moment, plus the whole question of what did happen in that Aventine tenement.

Where did that leave us?

Either with Balbus lying through his teeth for reasons of his own, or with the whole business being a setup. That was where.

The first scenario was about as likely as a flying pig. I didn’t know Balbus personally, but I knew him by reputation and the guy was lily white: good at his job, honest, trustworthy — as far as any career politician can be honest and trustworthy — and with no dirty laundry in the basket, at least any that gossip could pull out. And Roman gossip is pretty thorough. Besides, what would he gain by fingering young Papinius? He couldn’t be on the fiddle himself and trying, somehow, to cover his tracks through a subordinate; the commission had been set up by the Wart in person, Tiberius was no fool where sniffing out peculation was concerned, and he got very serious about crooked government officials. The game just wasn’t worth the candle, and if Balbus was bucking for consul in a few years — which he would be, as aedile — then he’d be a fool to put his reputation on the line for a few thousand silver pieces, even if we did have a change of emperor by that time.

So scratch that. Balbus wasn’t lying, at least not intentionally; he’d told me the truth as he saw it. Which meant we were left with the setup theory…

Only that was flying-pigs country as well. If Papinius had been set up then why and for what? Who the hell would bother fitting a no-account, nineteen-year-old kid into a frame and then — presumably — faking his suicide?

Shit; the whole boiling was one endless frustration: look at it one way and it made sense, only it didn’t; turn it round and the same thing happened. The hell with it. I took a deep breath, then another slug of wine, and tried to calm down…

Okay. So forget logical theorising. We play it both ends against the middle, dig into the laundry basket at random and see what crawls out.

I’d still got two names to talk to, Mucius Soranus and Papinius’s girlfriend Cluvia. It was still early, the Saepta wasn’t too far off and the Cipian Mount was on the way home. Sod the wine; if I hurried, and Placida co-operated, I could manage both and still be back in time for Meton’s fish.

I reanimated the petomaniac dog and left.

I hadn’t gone two hundred yards before I knew — for definite this time — that I was being followed. Oh, sure, Perilla would’ve pooh-poohed the feeling, because it wasn’t logical, but even with all the little practical distractions like discouraging Placida from mugging passing bag-ladies for their shopping, cleaning up after donkeys and shoving her nose against slow-moving strangers’ bottoms the back of my neck was prickling all the way, and that’s something I’ve learned not to ignore. Who was tailing me exactly I didn’t know; the area round the Square and the Sacred Way is one of the busiest in Rome, the narrow streets don’t help matters, and taking your eyes off an overenthusiastic boarhound even long enough to glance over your shoulder is not a good idea. Still, I’d’ve bet every coin I’d got left in my belt-pouch that someone was there. Which was strange. Who the hell would bother, and why?

Not that it’d be difficult, mind. Street life in Rome may be pretty eclectic, but you don’t see many purple-stripers being dragged along behind Gallic boarhounds. I’d be a hard mark to lose. They’d only have to follow the cursing.

Ah, well; I’d enough on my plate at present to worry about. Whoever they were, so long as they behaved themselves they could do as they liked. I shoved the problem to the back of my mind and pressed on towards the Saepta.

Atratinus had said that Cluvia managed a perfume shop. Pretty useful. For somewhere like the Saepta, that’s like saying someone runs a philosophy school in Athens or a fish restaurant in Massilia: close your eyes and heft a brick in any direction you like up the Saepta Julia and chances are you’ll hit either a perfume seller or a haut-couture mantle-maker. Me, I’d call that a public service, myself, but then I’m prejudiced.

So finding Cluvia wasn’t easy, especially with Placida on the team: like I say, the Saepta caters to a pretty upmarket clientele, and slavering Gallic boarhounds straining at the ends of leashes aren’t too popular with the well-dressed and pristine. Once I’d dragged her out of a litter she fancied sharing with a screaming dowager and persuaded her that the little yapping brute belonging to the spangle-haired young gentleman having hysterics in the nail-bar didn’t want to play chase-your-tail up and down the concourse she wasn’t too popular with me, either.

Gods!

I finally tracked Cluvia down to a little corner-booth off the main drag. There was a window-shopper hanging about — she could’ve been sister to the woman in the litter — but she took one look at Placida coming panting towards her, screamed and bolted. So much for customer relations. I grabbed the beast’s collar and pulled her to a slavering halt.

The woman behind the counter was a looker, but most of it was artificial and if she was a day under thirty I’d eat my sandals.

‘Ah…excuse me,’ I said. ‘Is — ?’

‘We don’t sell flea powder.’ She was staring at Placida with a sort of fascinated horror. ‘Try Constantinos’s next to the baths.’

‘Uh…no, actually, I wanted to talk to you about — ’ I stopped, because she was pointing and the horror in her face had gone up a notch. I glanced down. Placida was dragging her backside along the floor tiles with an expression of intense and ecstatic concentration. ‘Oh, that’s okay. She’s been doing it on and off since Julian Square. Itchy anal glands, I think. Or maybe she just wants your attention.’

‘Really? Then she’s got it. That is totally gross!’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m not a customer. My name’s Marcus Corvinus and I just wanted to ask you a few questions about your boyfriend.’

Pause. This time it was me who got the stare, straight off a glacier. Eventually she said, and you could practically count the icicles: ‘Did you, indeed? And which boyfriend would that be, now?’

Oh, great.‘Uh…Papinius?’ Then, when the death-stare didn’t shift: ‘Sextus Papinius? Your name is Cluvia, isn’t it? Or have I got the wrong shop?’

She turned round to the marble shelf behind the counter and began straightening the display phials with little jerks of her fingers. If ever a back radiated anger then Cluvia’s was the one. ‘No,’ she said, and I could almost hear her teeth clench. ‘I know perfectly well who you mean. But boyfriend’s the wrong word because we’re not an item any more. I suggest that if you want to know anything concerning Sextus Papinius you ask him yourself.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s — ’ I began, and then my brain caught up with my ears. Fuck. ‘You, ah, didn’t know, then?’

‘I didn’t know what?’

There wasn’t any way out of this. ‘That he’s, uh, dead. Look, lady, I’m sorry, I thought — ’

The fingers had stopped. One of the phials tipped over, rolled off the shelf and smashed on the shop floor. Cluvia collapsed like a string-cut puppet, and I was just in time to get my hands beneath her armpits before she hit the floor herself.

Oh, shit. Nice one, Corvinus. Very tactful.

At which point -

‘Ow-ooo-owowow-ooo!’

Bugger. That we could do without.

‘Shut up, Placida!’ I snapped, giving her a back-heel kick. ‘Settle!’

The woman in the trinkets shop next door — she’d been taking an obvious interest right through the conversation — had moved like greased lightning out from behind her own counter and round the back of Cluvia’s. I felt the dead weight lift. Jupiter, the woman was strong!

‘Thanks, sister,’ I said.

That got me another glare, hundred-candelabra strength, delivered at point-blank range. By this time women — customers and stallholders — were flocking in from all directions like hens to a spilled bucket of barley. Let’s hear it for female solidarity. Speaking of which -

‘Ow-ooo-ooo-ooo!’

Oh, shit. ‘Not you, sunshine!’ I hauled Placida clear and backed off while the ladies formed a protective screen as effective as a legionary shield-wall and did whatever the hell women do under these circumstances.

There was a clothes booth further along where a male shopkeeper was goggling at the scrum from above his racks. ‘I’ll…ah…just wait over there, shall I?’ I said.

‘You do that, chummy!’ the first woman snapped over her shoulder. ‘And take that bloody Cerberus look-alike with you!’

I beat a retreat across to the clothes booth, dragging the howling, hysterical Placida behind. The guy stepped back quickly.

‘What the hell happened there?’ he said.

I grabbed Placida’s muzzle and forced it closed while she grizzled her way into silence. ‘I told her her boyfriend had just died. Ex-boyfriend, rather.’

‘Oh, bugger.’ The guy was small, dapper and unassuming, with the nervous-eyed, hunted look that I supposed went with the job surroundings: as far as I could tell where male stallholders were concerned he was in a minority of one. ‘I’d keep well clear for a bit, then, mate.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, right.’

‘Nice dog. It is a dog, isn’t it?’

‘That depends on the time of the month.’

He gave a nervous giggle and backed away a bit more.

Over by the perfume counter the scrum was already beginning to break up. From its centre came Cluvia, walking towards me. She didn’t look too hot, but at least she was mobile. Wrestles-With-Bears gave me a final glare and went back to her bangles. I took a firm grip of Placida’s collar and forced her down.

‘What did you say your name was?’ Cluvia said. She sounded a bit distant, like she was taking trouble over the words.

‘Corvinus. Marcus Corvinus. I’m…ah…a friend of Sextus’s mother.’

‘Really. So how did it happen? How did Sextus die? An accident?’

‘Uh-uh.’ I swallowed. ‘He killed himself.’

‘Oh.’ She frowned and made a jerky movement with her hand in the direction of the exit. The bracelets — she was wearing at least three of them — jangled on her wrist. ‘Can we go outside, do you think?’

‘No problem.’ I was watching her carefully. It’d hit her hard, sure, but she had herself under control now. More or less. A tough lady, Cluvia. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I — ’

‘Forget it. It doesn’t matter.’

We left the hall in silence, the now-placid Placida walking between us, and found a bench against the wall of the Agrippan Baths. She sat down and I waited while she took a few deep breaths.

‘All right,’ she said finally. ‘Tell me.’

I told her, while she looked down at her hands. The fingers were covered with rings and the nails were well-manicured. Thirty-something she might be, but the lady took good care of herself. I’d noticed that the female-solidarity pack had freshened up her hair and makeup, too.

‘Why did he do it?’ she said when I’d finished.

‘I don’t know. Not exactly.’

‘Could the reason have had anything to do with Mucius Soranus?’

The question came straight out, like she’d been meaning to ask it from the very first and had just been waiting her chance. I glanced at her sharply. ‘What makes you think that?’ I said.

‘Because he’s a bastard. And there was something between him and Sextus.’

‘How do you mean, “something”?’

‘I don’t know. But Sextus hated him for it.’ She frowned. ‘No. Hate’s the wrong word. So’s “frightened”. Something between the two, maybe.’

‘Why should he be frightened of Soranus?’

‘He wasn’t. I told you, it’s the wrong word, and Sextus wasn’t frightened of anyone. He didn’t hate anyone, either. Sextus was a lovely boy. You don’t meet — ’ She stopped, pulled a handkerchief from her tunic sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘He owed Soranus money. From gambling debts.’

‘Yes. That’s right.’

‘A lot?’

‘I don’t know. A few thousand, maybe.’

‘As much as fifty?’

She looked up, startled. ‘What? No!’

‘He borrowed fifty thousand silver pieces from a money-lender in Julian Square a few months ago. You didn’t know?’

‘That’s ridiculous! Sextus wasn’t a gambler! Not that much of one!’

Yeah. Check. ‘Odd thing was, he paid it back just before he died. Plus ten thousand interest.’

She was staring at me now. ‘Corvinus, what is all this?’ she said. ‘Did you come just to break the news to me that Sextus was dead — though why a friend of his mother’s would bother to do that I don’t know — or was there another reason?’

‘You know Minicius Natalis?’

‘The faction-master of the Greens? Yes, of course. Not personally, but Sextus used to talk about him. He spent a lot of his time at the Greens’ stables.’

‘Natalis wants to know why the boy did it. He’s asked me to find out.’

‘Oh. I see.’ She looked down at her hands again. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey, then. I don’t know anything about his reasons. As you’ll no doubt have noticed, I didn’t even know he was dead.’

‘You said you weren’t seeing each other any more.’ Jupiter, I hated this tactful stuff, but it was a question that had to be asked. ‘Was that your doing or his?’

‘His.’

Yeah, well, I’d sort of got that impression from the whole conversation, but it was good to have it confirmed. ‘Care to tell me why?’

‘You could’ve guessed that yourself.’ Her voice had toughened, but she still didn’t look up. ‘He’d found someone else. A lady’ — she stressed the word, but there were other harmonics there — ‘by the name of Albucilla. She’s a friend of Soranus’s.’ The eyes lifted. ‘That’s another reason I don’t like the man, if you’re interested.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Another name. Well, I needed all the leads I could get. ‘You know anything about her?’

‘No. I don’t particularly want to, either.’

‘Fine, fine.’ The tone would’ve had Cleopatra’s asp handing in its poison sacks. Not that it mattered: the name was enough at present. Back off, Corvinus. ‘No problem. So, uh, tell me more about Sextus.’

‘Like what?’

I shrugged. ‘Lady, I’m at sea here. I’m just taking what I can get and hoping somewhere it’ll make sense.’

‘I said. He was a lovely boy, the kind you don’t meet very often, almost like someone from a story-book. A thinker, not just a pair of hands.’ She sniffed again. ‘Generous, and I don’t mean just with money. Good fun, when he wanted to be. He had a strong sense of justice. And he was very proud of his family.’

This was a new one. ‘His family?’

‘Yes. His father, especially. Sextus was very proud of his father. He wanted to be worthy of him. That’s why he took his job on the fire commission so seriously.’

Shit. Well, score another point against the corruption angle. Still, Rupilia had told me at the start that he’d been grateful, and like I said Allenius had come through in spades where using up valuable clout was concerned. It was a pity the kid had died when he did. Me, I knew from personal experience how looking at relationships through adult eyes can change things.

Maybe I’d have to have a talk with Sextus Papinius’s father after all.

‘Get back to Soranus,’ I said. ‘I thought they were friends.’

Cluvia stood up. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve told you all I can. As far as Mucius Soranus is concerned, I’ve nothing definite to give you. Sextus was…very secretive. Even with me. I don’t like Soranus, I never have; he’s a manipulator, a parasite, and Sextus would’ve been much happier staying clear of him. But then he always did have a mind of his own, and maybe it’s just my prejudice talking. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a shop to look after.’

She left, and I watched her go. Well, that was that; certainly food for thought. Someone from a story-book, eh? High praise, indeed.

Okay. Last trip of the day, through the Subura to the Cipian and your all-round-popular slug Mucius Soranus.