David Wishart - In at the Death

I checked with the guy at the desk that Crispus was still infesting the building, found his office, knocked on the door — he’d moved up another notch, seemingly, to walnut panelling and ivory scratch-boards above the brass handle — and went in.

‘Hey, Crispus,’ I said. ‘How’s the lad?’

He’d been eyes-down at his desk taking notes onto a wax tablet from a paper roll. His head came up looking like Pompey’s when the Egyptian vizier pulled it from the pickle jar.

‘Oh, shit,’ he said.

I walked across the polished wood floor, pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘So how are they treating you these days?’ I said. ‘Not overworked? Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and getting your regular eight hours?’

‘What is it this time, Corvinus? As if I didn’t know.’

‘Perilla sends her regards.’

‘Stuff Perilla. Look, I’m busy.’ He held up the wax tablet. ‘The senior praetor wants this digest for the Nucerian committee meeting this afternoon and he isn’t a patient man. Plus I’ve got a dozen reports to read.’

I grinned. ‘You turned respectable, pal? Conscientious, even? Well, now, there’s a thing!’

‘Fuck off. Please.’

‘Come on, Crispus! I need your expertise, and it won’t take long. Just a bit of information, okay?’

He sighed and put the tablet down. ‘Maybe. Depending what it is. Fifteen minutes, no more. And that’s only because calling the slaves and having you thrown out on your ear would be more trouble than it’s worth.’

‘There’s my boy!’ Jupiter, this was Crispus? Respectable was right. Still, the bugger was getting older, like the rest of us. Maturing, like a cheese. He was even sporting a natty middle-management bald patch that he’d carefully combed the hair over. With his background he’d never make praetor, sure — the good old Roman political network had some standards — but he wasn’t doing too badly on the sidelines. Maybe he’d just finally decided to cash in his winnings and quit while he was ahead of the game. Pity, really; I’d quite enjoyed my occasional bouts of Crispus-baiting, and the guy had had a horrible fascination about him.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Get it over with. What do you want to know?’

‘Lucius Carsidius. He as squeaky-clean as he’s made out to be?’

His eyes widened. ‘Carsidius the senator?’

‘Is there another one?’

‘What’s your interest in him?’

‘That’s my business, pal. He above board, or what?’

‘Of course he is. He’s one of the straightest men in Rome.’

Bugger. One thing about Crispus — and I couldn’t see it having changed, even in his new-model, born-again conscientious civil servant persona — was that he genuinely loved gossip for its own sake. Oh, sure, he could be duplicitous as hell when he liked, he could lie through his teeth when it suited him, but when he said a guy was straight in that disappointed tone there wasn’t any room for manoeuvre and you might as well put the shutters up and go home. Still, I owed it my best shot. ‘Crispus,’ I said. ‘No one is absolutely straight, especially if he’s a sodding senator. So give.’

He spread his hands. ‘You want the worst? Okay. Fourteen years back, the time of the Numidian war, he was on the North African staff. He was prosecuted before the senate for selling corn to the enemy. The case collapsed for want of evidence and he was acquitted nem con. That do you?’

I sat back. ‘That’s it? That’s the worst?’

‘You asked for it, you’ve got it. Nothing else, public or private. To my certain knowledge.’ He sniggered; a flash of the old Crispus. ‘And believe me, Corvinus, I would know.’

‘Jupiter, pal, that’s impossible! There must be something!’

‘You want a potted biography? Because that’s all I can give you. His father served with Germanicus on the Rhine, and Carsidius grew up hero-worshipping him. When Germanicus died he kept up with the family, Agrippina and young Nero especially. Eight years back, when Nero was exiled, he was one of the few senators who spoke up for him against the emperor, which didn’t do him much good politically but earned him a lot of brownie points with the more responsible broad-striper elements who he is now very much in with. He’s not ambitious — never made consul, stuck at praetor — but word is he did any job he had well and came out the other end smelling of roses. End of lecture.’

‘Crispus, you are not helping here.’

Crispus shrugged. ‘I’m telling it like it is. They don’t come cleaner than Carsidius. He’s no time-server, never has been. Since the business with Nero he’s made his peace with the Wart and supported him right down the line, sure, but in the process he made no secret of his friendship with the Julians, especially when they started…dying off. That didn’t do him any harm. Quite the reverse. Tiberius might’ve hated Agrippina’s guts, but he never was one to hold a grudge, and Carsidius didn’t suffer.’

‘So he gets on well with Crown Prince Gaius?’

That got me a long look. ‘No,’ Crispus said slowly. ‘No, I can’t say that he does. Possibly for reasons that…well, you know as well as me. But then he’s not alone there, and like I said he’s no time-server. Stupid, in my view. Nothing wrong with a bit of judicious arse-licking, especially these days.’

Yeah; right. In a few months’ time — it couldn’t be longer — the Wart would be dead and Gaius would be emperor. Everyone knew that: the bugger might be twiddling his thumbs on Capri waiting to step into the imperial sandals, but in effect, through his sidekick Sertorius Macro, he already controlled Rome for definite and the empire by extension. ‘Crispus,’ I said. ‘If I told you that Carsidius had admitted bribing a junior city officer to accept a beefed-up property damage claim, what would you say?’

Crispus gave a bark of laughter. ‘I’d say you were talking through your ears, boy. Carsidius wouldn’t stoop to bribery if his life depended on it.’

Uh-huh. So much for that, then. Clear and unequivocal. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Leave Carsidius. Let’s move on to Mucius Soranus.’

‘Ah.’ Crispus smacked his lips. ‘Now that’s more like it! What do you want to know?’

‘Whatever you’ve got.’

‘We’re dragging the sewers here. That bastard’s crooked as a snake’s backbone.’

I grinned: definite pleasure, there, and relief. Also perhaps just a touch of respect: one professional talking about another. Maybe the new Crispus was only skin-deep after all. ‘Yeah. I already knew that, as it happens,’ I said. ‘Any details? Current, as it were?’

‘You kidding, Corvinus? How long’ve you got? Me, I’ve a report to write.’

‘Fine. Just to go with one name, then. Sextus Papinius. Papinius Allenius the consular’s son.’

‘Allenius’s son.’ Crispus shot me a look and sniggered. ‘Oh, yes. Right. You mean the kid who threw himself out of a tenement window a few days back. That what all this is about?’

‘Could be.’

‘Soranus was bleeding him, sure. What for I don’t know, but he’d got his hooks in good and proper. You have any idea yourself? I mean, one good turn deserves another.’

‘Uh-uh.’ We’d got the old Crispus back in spades: the guy lived from information, the grubbier the better, and blackmailing blackmailers was a nifty little earner. ‘Sorry, pal. I was hoping you might be able to tell me.’

‘Damn. You levelling?’

‘I’m levelling.’ I was, too: I didn’t owe Soranus any favours, and handing the bastard over to Crispus’s not-so-tender mercies would’ve been poetic justice. ‘Never mind. What’s his connection with Lucia Albucilla? You heard of her?’

‘Sure. Satrius Secundus’s widow. She and Soranus are an item, or they were until recently. Wild lady. She took up with him right after her husband died. Some say she gave Secundus the push herself to open up a little space. Some say she and Soranus were screwing already long-term, but’ — and he winked — ‘if they were then given her other long-term attachment it was three in a bed. Me, I have my doubts. Soranus wouldn’t’ve minded, but Sejanus was another matter, he was strictly hetero. Weird, but there you are. It takes all sorts.’