‘But now you’ve lost the lot, so you’re twenty thousand down.’
‘Yes. Do try the wine, by the way.’
I did. It was Falernian. Proper Falernian, which is saying something. I took a proper gulp, because any minute now I’d be out on my ear, and good Falernian you don’t waste. Ah, well: it had to be done.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said, ‘but you’re lying.’
He blinked, as if I’d hit him. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You didn’t bribe Papinius at all. The kid was straight, I’d bet my back teeth on it. So the question is, why are you saying that you did?’
‘I...I’ve never...never been...’ He was red-faced and spluttering. I’d done it deliberately, of course: broad-stripers like Carsidius aren’t used to being called liars to their faces. There’re so many lies spouted in the senate-house that call someone a liar one minute and five minutes later you’re leaving yourself wide open to the counter-charge; with the consequence that no one uses the word at all, however deserved it is. Work out the cumulative effect on truth, justice, honesty and fair-mindedness in your average senatorial debate over the centuries and you’ll realise just why Rome is the caring, sharing mistress of the world that she is, loved and revered throughout her empire. And why all senators, silver-haired or not, friends of Arruntius and Marsus or not, are total bastards at heart.
‘One reason I can think of,’ I went on, since I obviously wasn’t going to get an answer to the question anyway, ‘was that you had Papinius killed yourself and bribery’s the lesser of the two crimes. Admit to the second and ipso facto you can’t be guilty of the first. Why the hell you’d want him dead, mind, –’
Suddenly, Carsidius stood up. I had to admit it was pretty impressive. He was a tall guy, ramrod-straight, and like I say he looked the part. There was no spluttering now, either. He glared at me, walked over to the shrine in the corner and laid his hand on top of it.
‘Listen, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Listen very carefully. I swear by all the gods of my family, by Jupiter, Mars and the pantheon, that I had no part, active or passive, in the killing of Sextus Papinius. Now. Will that satisfy you?’
‘Fine.’ I was impressed, despite myself, but I wasn’t going to show this bastard that. No way. ‘You want to swear now that you did bribe him?’
He took his hand from the shrine like it was red-hot. ‘You insult me!’
‘Damn right I do, pal!’ I was on my feet and angry myself now. ‘It seems that’s the only way I’m going to get any truth here! Now what the fuck’s going on?’
‘Leave my house!’
‘When I’m good and ready. Let’s talk keys.’
The guy was red enough for an apoplexy. ‘Valerius Corvinus, unless you leave now, I’ll –!’
‘That flat had three keys that I know about. One went to the tenant, and if the place was empty it was kept on the board in Caepio’s living-room. That was the one - according to Caepio - that Papinius took the day he died and which was found on his body. The second was on Caepio’s duplicate bunch, and he swears it never went out of his hands. The third was yours, and that one, pal, I know nothing about. But whoever killed Papinius had a key, and yours is my best bet. So if you didn’t have the kid murdered then you tell me about that key. Or was there a fourth?’
He was visibly shaking: with anger, mostly, but there was something else. ‘There was no fourth!’ he snapped. ‘If it was my key - and I take your word that another key was used - then I know nothing of the whys and wherefores involved. Why should I? Holy immortal gods, Corvinus, do you know how much property I own in Rome and elsewhere? Yes, I’ve got keys, any number of them, but I don’t keep them myself any more than I personally collect the rents!’
Bugger. Now that was something I hadn’t considered, and I should’ve done. He was right, of course: no property-owner of Carsidius’s class dirties his hands with the everyday, mundane processes that net him his yearly income. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘So who does keep them?’
‘My bailiff, naturally!’
‘Yeah, I’d sort of assumed that. He got a name?’
‘The...’ Carsidius sat down and took a deep breath. ‘His name was Faustus.’
‘“Was”?’ My guts went cold. ‘You mean he’s dead?’
‘Certainly not! At least, as far as I’m aware. If you must know, I discharged him three days ago. For reasons which have no bearing on the matter and which don’t concern you.’
Uh-huh. And my name was Cleopatra. ‘So where is he now?’ I said.
‘Neapolis. Brindisi. Capua, perhaps. He may even have taken a ship from Ostia or Puteoli and gone abroad. In any event he told me at our last...meeting that he was leaving Rome. Where he chose to go when he left my employ was none of my concern, and I certainly didn’t bother to ask.’ Carsidius had picked up a stylus from the desk. ‘Now. This interview is at an end. I would ask you not to trouble me again.’
I stood up and set the wine-cup down carefully. ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your time.’
I was heading for the door when he said: ‘Corvinus!’
I turned. ‘Yeah?’
He was sitting with a face like one of the portrait busts. ‘I’ve always been a faithful servant of the emperor. I’ve done my duty, however unpleasant I’ve found it personally. I want you to remember that.’
‘Bully for you,’ I said.
I opened the door, and left.
One minor point, and it didn’t strike me until I was out in the street and beginning to cool down. When Carsidius had taken his oath, he’d used the word ‘killing’ apropos of Sextus Papinius; not ‘death’ but ‘killing’. Yeah, sure, I’d introduced the idea of murder myself, but only as a theory, and it wasn’t a theory that Carsidius - ipso facto - would be exactly ready to entertain. So why had he done it?
Shit, it was probably nothing, just my hypertrophied imagination kicking in again. All the same, it was interesting.
So what did I make of that?
I thought it over as I walked back down towards the Caelian. The guy had played absolutely true to form. I’d rubbed shoulders - reluctantly for the most part - with broad-stripers all my life, and Carsidius was right-down-the-middle typical: ego the size of the Capitol, touchy as hell where his honour was concerned - at least, as far as the part of it other people saw went - and fully prepared to lie through his teeth while at the same time damning your eyes for daring to question his veracity. The smart-as-paint Greeks, who can be cynically accurate buggers when they like, take their word for reputation - doxa - from the verb ‘to seem’, which is spot-on. With these bastards, appearances are everything, and to hell with the muckier reality. Papinius Allenius had been dead right when he’d bracketed Carsidius with Arruntius: they were a pair and no mistake, both in the bad and the good. Ignore the veneer of Roman honestas, which is a con in any case, think in terms of Greek doxa and you won’t go far wrong. For all Carsidius’s air of outraged rectitude I wouldn’t trust the guy an inch.
Not over the killing, mind. The broad-striper code may be elastic, but it only stretches certain ways: in some directions it’s rigid and unbreakable. Like taking unforced oaths. Carsidius hadn’t had to do that business with the altar, especially there in the study with his ancestors looking on. No, I was with Caepio there: whoever had had the kid murdered, it wasn’t our poker-backed senator pal. Or at least - thinking of the actual wording of the oath I stopped and rephrased that - at the time when the murder was being planned and committed Carsidius hadn’t known about it. That would’ve been a typical bit of senatorial wriggling...
So why had he compromised his reputation by lying about the bribes? Lied he definitely had, the business with the altar - again - proved that beyond a doubt. But if he was lying, then –
I slowed. Okay, Corvinus. Think it through, boy.
Reputation. Doxa. Carsidius had admitted bribery to me, sure, but that was in a one-to-one situation, with no witnesses. His reputation - as far as the rest of the world wa
s concerned - was safe. Oh, yeah, he claimed he’d also told Balbus, but then Balbus was in the same boat. When we’d met I’d been the one to suggest that Papinius had been taking bribes. All Balbus had done was confirmed it; but - and this was the point - he’d made it clear that apart from talking to the boy himself he hadn’t taken the matter any further. So again we had the one-to-one, no witnesses scenario, because Papinius was long past confirming or denying anything. Okay. So what we had here was a closed circle. I start the bribery rumour myself, Balbus picks it up like the gift it is and passes it to Carsidius, who feeds it back to me, while telling me he’s already made his own confession to the aedile, who’s had the business shelved. Result - or this is the plan, anyway - dumb-head Corvinus goes off whistling into the sunset believing that Papinius was on the make, his boss had caught him at it and as a consequence the kid had committed suicide. End of case, end of investigation, pull down the blinds and go home...
It worked. Sure it did. The big question was why? Why should two prestigious, well-respected senators get together to produce a cover-up for a murder?
It didn’t make sense; none of it. Nor did the business with the keys. That had been another lie on Carsidius’s part, and not a very good one, either. Sure, he might well have had a bailiff called Faustus, but trying to shift the blame onto him and then telling me in the next breath that the guy had just been coincidentally sacked and had left Rome for parts unknown was in the tap-dancing oyster bracket. Keys were important, I knew it in my water. Carsidius knew it too, which was why the bastard had practically fallen over himself to fob me off. The question - again - was why?
It was starting to rain: big drops from a blackening sky. I covered my head with my cloak and picked up speed.
One last, last thing. That ‘something else’ besides anger in Carsidius’s look, when I’d asked him about the key.
It had been fear.
19
Well, that’d been short and sweet. I got home in plenty of time for a leisurely bath, a second-of-the-day shave and a less-than-hurried change into a decent lounging-tunic. Lippillus wouldn’t’ve minded if I’d got in on two wheels as usual, and neither would Marcina, who was a very nice lady indeed, but Perilla would’ve had my guts for sandal-straps. They arrived just short of sunset: bang on time, in other words, but then Lippillus knew and loved our Meton. Fifteen pre-dinner-drink minutes before zero hour was allowed; give it twenty and you were pushing things. Once, we’d had a couple of Perilla’s poetry-klatch cronies over for a meal and they were an hour late. We were having soles, and soles were what we got. In a way. How the surly bugger managed it I’ve no idea, but you could’ve walked on them to Puteoli.
‘Hey, pal!’ I said as the door-slave brought them through the peristyle into the garden; luckily, the rain had passed off and we had a fine evening. ‘Bathyllus, a drink for the Watch commander.’ I’d got in a jar of Signinan, special: Signinan’s mostly medicinal, but the top vintage - and this one was top, ten years old if it was a day - was something else, dry as a bone and when it was chilled sheer perfection. Lippillus was no wine expert, but he knew good stuff when he tasted it, and on a Watch commander’s pay that didn’t happen all that often. ‘Marcina. You want wine or are you having one of Perilla’s fruit juices?’
‘Wine, please, Marcus.’
No ordinary Roman matron, Marcina Paullina. She’s North African, a good foot taller than Lippillus, and a total stunner.
‘Do it, little guy,’ I said. Bathyllus soft-shoed off.
‘How’s the dog?’ Lippillus said.
‘Oh, Placida’s settling in very well.’ Perilla smiled. ‘Isn’t she, Marcus?’
‘Uh...yeah. Yeah, she is. In a manner of speaking.’
Lippillus was grinning. ‘You’re lucky, then,’ he said. ‘I was talking to Quintus Pilius earlier. He’s Watch commander for the Fifth and Sixth, says there’s this thing up on the Viminal belonging to a woman called Sestia Calvina, and you would not believe –’ He stopped. ‘Have I said something wrong?’
I was grinning too. Perilla had coloured up to her earlobes. ‘No, pal, not at all,’ I said. ‘We’re fascinated. Carry on.’
‘Ah...there’s not much to tell, really.’ Lippillus shot Perilla a nervous sideways glance. You could’ve used the set of her lips to draw lines. ‘Pilius was probably exaggerating.’
‘That so, now?’
‘I mean, nothing could possibly –’
‘Wine, sir.’ Bathyllus had come up with the tray. Saved by the butler. Never mind, I’d get the whole story later.
Lippillus took a cup, and while Perilla’s and Marcina’s attention was on their own drinks he turned away and said quietly: ‘You got a moment, Marcus? In private, before we start?’
Uh-oh. He might be wearing his best party mantle, but currently the guy had his Watch commander’s face on. Also, I hadn’t missed the fact that Marcina had taken Perilla’s arm and was leading her out of earshot like she and Lippillus had arranged things in advance. Which, I would bet, they had.
So. Business.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, of course I have.’
‘Lucceius Caepio hanged himself last night.’
Oh, shit. ‘He did what?’
‘Titus Mescinius sent to tell me just before we left. He thought you might be interested.’
I glanced over at Perilla. Her head was turned in our direction, but Marcina was keeping her busy. So; arrangement was right, and very sensible: to Perilla, a dinner party was a dinner party, and if she caught us talking murder there’d be hell to pay later. ‘You have any details, pal?’
‘Not many. His wife found him when she came home this morning. You know she was in Capua, visiting her sister?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, Caepio told me.’ My brain had gone numb. Bugger, what a mess! ‘Was the suicide genuine?’
Lippillus gave me a sharp look. ‘As far as I know. Or at least, as far as Mescinius does. There any reason why it shouldn’t be?’
I was thinking back to how the guy had looked and acted the day before. It was possible, sure. Caepio had been desperate enough, and frightened enough - the gods knew why, or what of - to have taken his own life, but another suicide was too coincidental for comfort. ‘No,’ I said slowly. ‘Or at least nothing definite. Even so –’
‘There were no suspicious circumstances. At least that’s what Mescinius says.’ Hah! ‘Suicide note, the lot.’
‘Did Caepio’s wife identify the handwriting?’
That got me another sharp look. ‘Not as such. When she talked to Mescinius the lady wasn’t in any fit state to swear to her own name, and anyway he didn’t think to –’
‘– ask.’ I banged the flat of my hand against the portico pillar. ‘Right, par for the fucking course! Jupiter bloody God Almighty!’
Lippillus shrugged. ‘Mescinius may not be the greatest brain in the world, Marcus, but he’s a good Watchman. And at least he let me know. He didn’t have to do that.’
‘No. I suppose not.’ I took a swallow of the Signinan. Hell!
‘Besides, I haven’t finished. One thing he did do, with you in mind, was have a quick poke around. He found this in Caepio’s desk. Just the one, which was why he noticed it.’ He reached into a fold in his mantle and brought out a key.
I took it, and the hairs stirred on the back of my neck: keys; this whole thing came down to keys. ‘It fits the top flat, right?’ I said.
‘Right. It didn’t come from Caepio’s bunch of duplicates, either, that was one thing Mescinius did check. And it isn’t the one the kid had on him when he died, because Mescinius never got round to sending that back. Interesting again?’
‘Yeah.’ I was still staring at the key. ‘Very.’
‘Want to tell me why?’
‘You really want to know?’
He grinned and shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I don’t, at that. I told you at the start, the Thirteenth’s not my patch. Now. Duty done.’ We’d been speaking almost in whispers. He
raised his voice. ‘What’s for dinner?’
‘Meton’s been slaving his little socks off. Listen and drool. Poached eels in a nut-and-onion sauce, baked bluegill with quinces and a shellfish ragoût. Plus - ta-daaa! - a small sturgeon slow-cooked in saffron and wine must. That do you?’
‘Great! Let’s –’
– at which point Perilla screamed:
‘Placida!’
I whipped round, just in time to see a familiar grey-black figure streak towards me through the peristyle with what looked like an oversize book-roll in its mouth. Close behind was Meton, armed with a cleaver, and three or four assorted kitchen skivvies...
Oh, fuck! The sturgeon!
I grabbed Meton by the scruff of the tunic as he passed. Stopping him wasn’t easy - me, I’d back a chef who’s just lost a sturgeon slow-cooked with saffron and wine must against a qef-stoned German berserker any day of the month - but I managed it somehow. Then I spun him round and kneed him hard in the balls.
‘Marcus!’ Perilla put hand to mouth in horror as our prize chef sank groaning onto the path.
‘Shock tactics, lady,’ I said. If he’d caught up with Placida she’d definitely have rustled her last larder, and total fucking menace though she was I didn’t want that on my conscience.
Besides, sinking Meton was worth a sturgeon any day of the year.
The skivvies were milling. ‘It’s okay, lads,’ I said. ‘We’ll take it from here. Anyone see where she went?’
‘Ah...that was the dog, wasn’t it?’ Lippillus said.
‘Yeah.’ I was scanning the garden. No sign: she’d gone to ground with the sturgeon attached. Bugger. Double bugger. Well, that was that, then. It’d be inedible now in any case.
‘Sestia Calvina’s dog?’ Lippillus said.
‘That’s the bunny.’ I told you he was quick. ‘We’ll just have to make do with the sundries. Sorry about this, pal.’
He was grinning.
‘Don’t be. Best dinner party I’ve been to in years.’
‘I thought Meton took it very well, all things considered,’ Perilla said as we were getting ready for bed.
In at the Death (Marcus Corvinus Book 11) Page 16
