David Wishart - In at the Death

‘None.’

‘Because I was wondering — seriously wondering — if the kid wasn’t on the make.’

Balbus…froze. There’s no other word for it. The guy simply went rigid, every muscle, like concrete setting.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he said at last.

‘Taking backhanders. Bribes. From the claimants he was responsible for interviewing.’

We stared at each other, the silence lengthening. Finally Balbus said, quietly: ‘How did you know?’

Bugger. Well, the odds that I was wrong hadn’t been all that good to start with. Even so… ‘I didn’t,’ I said. ‘Not as such. But making the connection doesn’t exactly take a huge leap of intuitive genius, pal. He was in debt to a money-lender up to his eyeballs, with no way out. Then suddenly he’s in the position to buy himself off. The job he’s in, the chances he has, the money had to come from bribes.’

Balbus cleared his throat. He looked sick. ‘I had no proof,’ he said. ‘No real proof, that is. Not that it matters now, of course. The boy’s dead and there’s an end of it. Practically speaking, it makes no difference; we’ll double-check his assessments and if there are discrepancies they’ll be rectified. As far as the people who slipped him the cash are concerned…well, I don’t think we’ll be hearing any complaints from them.’

‘So,’ I said, leaning back in my chair. ‘How did you know?’

‘I told you. I didn’t either, not for certain. I still don’t. All my evidence was circumstantial and cumulative: a claim passed that seemed on the high side, but not suspicious enough to merit further investigation, a hint from one or two honest quarters that Papinius seemed to be angling for a back-hander — again, in a way that was ambiguous enough for him to deny convincingly. That sort of thing. I didn’t, of course, know anything about the debt aspect or I might’ve felt justified in taking more direct action.’

‘So how were you handling it?’

‘With very soft gloves. Like I said, he was a nice lad in himself, serious-minded, an ex-consul’s son and with a good, caring mother. Efficient and conscientious, too, prime future senior administrator material. If I’d reported the matter his career would’ve been finished, at the very least. Possibly he’d’ve been exiled, certainly he’d be disgraced for the rest of his days. I didn’t want to do that, Corvinus, especially since as I’ve said I’d no actual proof. One mistake and the boy’s whole life is ruined, and I wasn’t even certain he’d made the mistake. You understand me?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, I understand.’ Hell!

‘So I had a quiet word with him. Unofficially, off the record, in private. No one knew anything about it, about any of it. Not even my suspicions. I’d been careful over that from the start, and I told him I had. I didn’t make any accusations, just presented him with the facts. Such facts as I had. He…well, I think it registered. In fact, I’m sure it did.’

‘When was this?’

‘Three days ago. The morning of the day he died.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Shit. Well, then; that was that. A combination of guilt and the prospect of public disgrace and a ruined career, with no realistic way out. No wonder the poor sap had killed himself. Case solved, close the lid. What the hell I was going to tell Natalis, mind — let alone his mother — I didn’t know. Not the truth, certainly: it might not actually kill Rupilia but a truth like that she could do without. Still, that was my problem. I stood up. ‘Thanks, Balbus. You’ve been very helpful.’

‘Yes…well…’

I turned to go. My hand was on the door-handle when he called out: ‘Corvinus!’

I looked back. ‘Yeah?’

Balbus must’ve read my mind. ‘Don’t tell Rupilia,’ he said. ‘She’s a good woman, and she loved her son. Like I say, it doesn’t matter any more. As far as Rome’s concerned, the thing’s over and done with.’

I nodded, and left. Over and done with. Right.What I needed now was a drink.

The fool! The bloody young fool!

Only…

On the way down the steps of the building to pick up Placida from where I’d left her tied to the general’s statue I met Marcus Atratinus coming up. I still felt sick, but when I saw him the niggle came back with a vengeance. Hell, I couldn’t just ignore it: I owed myself, and the dead kid, that much at least before we finally put the cap on things.

‘Hey, Atratinus,’ I said. ‘One question. Straight answer, under oath, no faffing. You up for that?’

He gave me an uncertain grin. ‘Of course. Whatever you like.’

‘Was Sextus Papinius an honest man? Yes or no, no half measures. Go for it.’

The grin faded and he looked at me like I’d grown an extra head. The look wasn’t too friendly, either. ‘Sextus Papinius,’ he said carefully, ‘never did a dishonest or a mean thing in his life.’ Then, turning towards the temple of Jupiter Stayer of the Host next door, he raised his hand. ‘You want your oath then you’ve got it: So help me, Jupiter.’

I frowned: the niggle was there, full strength now. Hell. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, thanks, pal. That was what I was afraid you’d say.’

I left him staring, hand still raised. Complicated was right.

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.