David Wishart - In at the Death

Maybe.

The Trigemina Gate’s on the river side of the city, beyond Circus Valley and opposite the north-west corner of the Aventine. That stretch, following the river and all the way south to Pottery Mountain, is definitely industrial area, mostly the heavy or bulk variety because the raw material can come up or down the Tiber by barge and doesn’t have to be transported overland all that far. So we weren’t exactly short of stonemasons’ yards here. Accordingly, I gave it a fair crack of the whip; I asked at every yard and every wine-shop from the Sublician down to Drusus and Germanicus Arch.

No one had heard of either Sextus Aponius or Quintus Pettius.

Okay, so check. So much for the accidental stonemasons; the buggers had been tailing me right enough. The question was why? And who had sent them? Not that I wasn’t grateful, mark you.

Well, at least I’d done my duty by Perilla. What with the trip over to the Gate and subsequent detours up and down the river bank, Placida couldn’t complain that she wasn’t getting her share of exercise. I wasn’t going to do an Alexis and risk letting her off the lead, though, even in the comparatively open ground near Pottery Mountain. Chasing rampant Gallic boarhounds over half the Thirteenth Region was a pleasure I could do without.

I got back home in time for a quick lunch before my arranged appointment with Lucius Carsidius. Perilla wasn’t in, so I left Placida sleeping it off in Alexis’s shed and headed up to the Esquiline.

Carsidius was everything I’d expected: a handsome, upright, silver-haired senator who just radiated respectability, honesty, trustworthiness, love of honour and the embodiment of everything that has made Rome great. Dad would’ve loved him. More, he’d chosen to see me in his private study, where the eyes of a dozen generations of his family in the form of portrait busts glared down at me as if I’d just pissed under their noses on the fancy mosaic floor.

He was also, very plainly although he tried to hide it, nervous. And…angry. There was no other word for it.

Odd.

‘Valerius Corvinus,’ he said, rising. ‘Do come in, please.’ Then, to the slave who’d brought me in: ‘Bring us some wine, Flavius. Corvinus, you’ll find that chair most comfortable if you’d care to sit.’

I sat. He did the same, behind his desk. We looked at each other.

‘I’m — ’ I began.

He held up a hand. ‘I know why you’re here,’ he said. ‘To ask me about the death of young Sextus Papinius. But first I’m afraid that I have a confession to make. Rather a serious one, as it happens.’

‘Uh…you have?’ I said.

‘Yes. You see, I bribed him.’

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I stared at the guy.

‘You did what?’ I said.

‘I gave Sextus Papinius twenty thousand sesterces. In exchange for his accepting some false information regarding the damage to several pieces of property I have on the Aventine.’

My brain had gone numb. ‘Uh…run that past me again, pal,’ I said. ‘You’re telling me, free, gratis and for nothing, under no compulsion or threat whatsoever, that you slipped the boy a backhander?’

‘Yes.’ His face was unreadable, although I thought I detected a slight hint of distaste. ‘I’m not proud of myself, not in the least. Quite the reverse. And I’ve already confessed to Laelius Balbus, in exchange, of course, for an assurance that the matter ends here and there will be no prosecution. Under the circumstances that would be in no one’s interests.’ The door behind me opened and he glanced over my shoulder. ‘Ah. Here’s the wine. Just pour it and go, Flavius, we’re discussing business.’

He did. I looked at Carsidius over the wine-cup. ‘How much did you say you’d given him?’ I said.

‘Twenty thousand sesterces.’

‘You’re sure it wasn’t fifty?’

‘Fifty? Why fifty?’

‘Fifty seems a nice round number. Although sixty would be even better.’

‘No. It was twenty thousand, and it represented a…shall we call it a ten percent commission on what I personally would make from the deal.’ His lips twisted. ‘No doubt he made similar arrangements with other customers but I know nothing of them.’

‘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!’