In at the Death (Marcus Corvinus Book 11)

by David Wishart

‘What you’re actually saying is that you don’t think Sextus Papinius committed suicide after all. That he was murdered.’

  Well, it was nice to hear it first from someone else. It didn’t sound so stupid that way.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, I suppose I am.’

  Bathyllus came in with the skivvies. ‘Have you finished, sir?’

  ‘Clear away, Bathyllus, but give us ten minutes before the dessert. And tell Meton that was excellent. As usual.’ Nothing wrong with a bit of unsolicited smarm when you have a sulking chef to contend with.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He lifted plates. ‘He’ll be extremely gratified.’

  Which reminded me. ‘Oh, Bathyllus. Incidentally, before I forget. Decimus Lippillus and his wife are coming round for dinner the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Very well, sir. I’ll pass on the message.’

  ‘Lippillus asked if we could have fish.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Right. Tell the stroppy bugger from me it’s non-negotiable. If he wants to brawl with half the fishmarket and get himself slugged with a tunny that’s his concern.’

  ‘I’ll...work on it, sir. Perhaps a little more tact and some rephrasing would be in order.’

  I grinned and reached for my wine-cup. Bathyllus buttled out.

  ‘So,’ Perilla said. ‘If it was murder then why was it murder?’

  ‘I haven’t a fucking clue.’

  ‘Marcus!’

  ‘Yeah, well. Look, lady, you said it yourself: all the hard evidence points to suicide. All I’ve got on the murder front is a half-baked gut feeling.’

  ‘Don’t mix your metaphors. Or whatever that was.’

  ‘Okay, Aristotle. You want to indulge in a bit of unscientific theorising yourself, then?’

  ‘Certainly not. Even so, you need to start somewhere. A list of questions would help.’

  I lifted the wine jug and refilled the cup. The lady was right, and if I put the googlies into words maybe something would suggest itself. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘First question: why choose the tenement as a place to kill himself?’

  ‘It could have been a spur-of-the-moment decision. And if he was visiting it in any case as part of his job –’

  ‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘He wasn’t, or not by prearrangement. Not according to Caepio the factor, anyway. Caepio said he’d only called in on spec to check on a couple of figures, and it turned out that that was only an excuse to get the top-flat key. Whatever his reasons for going up there the kid had everything planned beforehand.’

  ‘This is assuming, of course, that the factor is telling the truth.’

  ‘Perilla, look, I know that, okay? We’re drawing in crayons here. Just keep things simple at this point, fine?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Shit; I hated it when she put on that demure look. She was right, sure; dead right: Caepio could be lying through his ears, especially since he hadn’t mentioned the missing key until circumstances forced him to. But like I said we were on the nursery slopes. ‘Connected with that,’ I said. ‘Why the window? If he was planning on suicide from the start and just wanted a quiet place to do it, then why the hell didn’t he bring a knife or a razor with him and go out like a proper Roman gentleman? Why choose to take a nose-dive into a fucking crowded street?’

  ‘Marcus, if you’re going to swear then –’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, right. Sorry. The answer’s obvious, anyway, given the murder option. He didn’t, he was pushed; probably knocked unconscious first, because he didn’t shout or scream. Only then we’re into a whole new can of worms. Who killed him and why? How did they know he’d be there? Why was he there? A dozen new questions and then some. Make them up for yourself, lady, but if you can give me a hard answer to any of them I’ll eat this fucking napkin.’

  ‘There’s no point in getting annoyed, Marcus. I can actually see the problem. What’s your second question?’

  ‘The bribes. If Papinius wasn’t taking bribes then why was Laelius Balbus so sure that he was?’

  ‘Discounting completely the possibility that Balbus might be lying?’

  ‘Come on, Perilla! Crayons, remember?’

  ‘Very well. Was he sure?’

  ‘He said he didn’t have definite proof, but yeah, I’d say so. And Balbus is a smart cookie.’

  ‘Did he talk to the boy about it?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, he did.’

  ‘And Papinius admitted it?’

  I opened my mouth to answer, then stopped. Shit; I hadn’t thought of that. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Not for certain. Balbus didn’t say; he only said it had registered.’

  ‘“Registered”? Isn’t that an odd word to use? I would have expected either an admission or a denial.’ She shook her head. ‘Never mind. Leave it for now. Carry on.’

  ‘Fine.’ I took another swallow of the Setinian. ‘Three: if Papinius wasn’t taking bribes then why the loan? No bribes, no blackmail, right?’

  ‘Unless - as you say - the suspicion, and the proof, of guilt were strong enough to justify it, true or not. Or perhaps Soranus was blackmailing him for something else.’

  ‘Gods alive, he was an ordinary nineteen-year-old kid! What else could he put his hand up to that was worth fifty thousand sesterces to keep under wraps?’

  ‘Hmm.’ She was twisting a lock of her hair. ‘You’re certain he did pay the money to Soranus?’

  ‘Lady, I told you. I’m not certain of anything. Soranus denied it, but then he would, wouldn’t he? And if it didn’t go to him then who did it go to?’

  ‘All right,’ Perilla said. ‘Fourth question.’

  ‘Four’s just that: the sixty thousand payback. Where would a kid like Papinius get that sort of cash?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, Marcus, he wouldn’t have to. Given certain circumstances.’

  I stared at her. ‘What? But –’

  ‘If we’re being absolutely accurate, he’d only have to find the ten thousand interest. That is, if he still had the principal intact.’

  I let that sink in, at least, as far as it went, which wasn’t saying much at this point. Bugger, she was right; technically, at least. Although then we’d be left with the problem of why he’d needed the fifty thousand in the first place, and why he hadn’t paid it over.

  ‘Question five,’ Perilla said.

  ‘Five is –’ I started, but then I stopped as the yawn hit me. ‘Look, I don’t know about you, but I’m whacked and my brain’s beginning to hurt. Let’s call it a night, shall we?’

  ‘If you insist.’

  I kissed her. ‘Come on, Aristotle. Bed. Tomorrow’s another day.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  There was a cough behind me. Bathyllus had oozed in on my blind side. Impeccably timed, as always. ‘Will you be wanting the dessert now, sir?’ he said.

  ‘No, I think we’ll skip it after all, sunshine.’ I took a last swallow of wine, just to empty the cup. ‘Oh, Bathyllus. One thing, little guy. Before we pack in.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘A lady by the name of Albucilla. Ring any bells?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Lucia Albucilla?’ Perilla said. ‘Satrius Secundus’s widow?’

  I turned back. ‘You know her?’

  ‘Not personally. But I have heard the name, and I’ve seen her about once or twice. She uses the Apollo library.’

  Hey! ‘You know where she lives?’

  ‘No. Why would you be interested in Lucia Albucilla?’

  ‘Papinius’s ex-girlfriend mentioned her as the reason why she is an ex. And Albucilla, seemingly, is a pal of Soranus’s.’

  ‘Ah.’ Perilla was frowning. ‘I’d’ve thought she would be a little old for Papinius, myself. She must be in her thirties. Early thirties, at least.’

  ‘That so, now?’ The library came as a surprise, too: Albucilla could be no society bubblehead, which was what I’d thought originally. But then Cluvia hadn’t been that type either, she was about the same age, and from all a
ccounts Papinius wasn’t your lack-brained young Market Square dandy. ‘She have a reputation as a cradle-snatcher at all?

  ‘Albucilla? I’ve no idea. But then as I say I don’t know the woman personally.’

  Hmm; well, I’d just have to add a chat with her to my things-to-do list. If she frequented the Apollo Library on a regular basis then they should be able to help me with an address. But that was for tomorrow, and I felt another yawn coming. I took Perilla’s elbow and eased her off the couch.

  ‘Let’s hit the stairs, lady,’ I said, ‘before my head opens up round the ears. Goodnight, Bathyllus.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir. Pleasant dreams.’

  Frustrations or not, I still felt happier. Suicide’s tricky, but you know where you are with a murder.

  Apropos of which, I hadn’t mentioned the feeling that I was being followed; but then Perilla wouldn’t’ve understood that.

  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 recherché swear-word?’

  ‘What’s “recherché”?’

  We stared at each other. Impasse. Or whatever. I cracked first. ‘Ah... recherché 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.