David Wishart - In at the Death

‘He’s only twenty-seven.’ That was defensive. ‘And he’s good fun.’

Yeah, right. He would be, at that, and I could see the attraction someone like Mucius Soranus’d have for lads like Atratinus and his mates. It was only when they lost the puppy-fat from between their ears and started counting the coins in their purse, or lack of them, that they might begin to have second thoughts about the bugger’s reasons for giving them the time of day. And the difference between twenty-seven and nineteen, in terms of experience, is a lifetime. I let the pause develop before I asked, as casually as I could manage: ‘He, ah, get you interested in gambling at all?’

Not casually enough. Atratinus stopped eating and gave me a straight look, his expression definitely sulky. Then he shrugged and picked up his spoon again. ‘A little,’ he said. ‘Where’s the harm in that? Like I said, he’s good company.’

Yeah, right, sure he was: the way I’d heard it, Soranus made his living out of being good company. If you could call it living. And I couldn’t, under the circumstances, leave things there.

‘Did Sextus owe him money?’ I said. Silence. Atratinus had put down his spoon again, and I was getting the blank adolescent stare full power now all the way from the other side of the age gap. Shit. ‘Come on, pal, this is important! Or it could be.’ I waited; nothing. ‘Look, I’m not Rupilia and I’m no poker-arsed paterfamilias making silly value judgments, okay? All I want to find out — just like you do — is why your friend killed himself. I can’t do that if you hold out on me. So give.’

Atratinus reached for his wine-cup, took a long swallow and set the cup down empty.

‘Okay,’ he snapped. ‘Your answer’s yes. Satisfied?’

I leaned back. Hell. Still, it had to be something like this. Money or a serious love affair gone sour would’ve been my two best bets.

‘How much?’ I said.

‘I don’t know. Quite a lot. Or quite a lot for Sextus, anyway.’

‘He wasn’t a gambler. I know that much, at least. Or I thought I did.’

‘Soranus has his ways. Oh, he’s a friend, I’m not slagging him off, and it was Sextus’s business, no one twisted his arm. In any case, everyone gambles in our set. It’s expected.’

Gods! Yeah; that was the bottom line, it was expected. I wasn’t surprised, not really; I’d been there myself at that age and lost more shirts than you’d see in a Suburan laundry. But there again, with what my grandfather had left me as personal income I was lucky, I could afford it. Sextus Papinius couldn’t, and it wasn’t his fault: reluctant gambler or not, the lad wouldn’t’ve been human if he’d broken ranks to that degree, and at his age it’s easy to get out of your depth before your brain kicks in and stops you. The real responsibility lay with adult bastards like Mucius Soranus who knew full well what was happening and encouraged it. Lived off it.

‘Was that why Papinius killed himself?’ I said gently. ‘Because of a gambling debt to Soranus that he couldn’t pay?’

Atratinus glared at me for a long time. Then he shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Yes, it’s possible. But I don’t…fucking…know! All right?’

Uh-oh; sensitive ground. Back off, Corvinus. ‘Okay. Okay, pal,’ I said. ‘No hassle. We’ll leave it at that.’ In any case, I’d be raising the question with Soranus himself before either of us were much older, and the gods help the bastard if he didn’t give me a straight answer first shot. ‘Let’s change the subject. Tell me about the job aspect of things.’ I was making conversation now, going through the motions. As far as the main reason for Sextus Papinius killing himself was concerned, I reckoned I’d cracked it. Not that the answer didn’t leave me feeling sick to my stomach.

Atratinus was looking pale, but at least the anger had gone out of his eyes. ‘There’s not much to tell,’ he said. ‘We started together, when the commission was first set up three months ago. Sextus was on top of the work, he enjoyed it, he got on well with everyone. No problems there, that I can swear to.’

‘He was appointed on his father’s recommendation? Papinius Allenius, the ex-consul?’

‘That’s right. Allenius bypassed the senatorial staffing board and put the request direct to Ahenobarbus himself. Sextus was pretty proud, because he and his father hadn’t seen much of each other. You know about that side of things?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I do.’ Odd; but then like Rupilia had said her ex was the old-fashioned type who took his responsibilities seriously. Certainly he couldn’t’ve made more effective — or expensive — use of his consular clout, because Domitius Ahenobarbus was one of the commission’s four top men, the husband of old Augustus’s granddaughter Agrippina and so Prince Gaius’s brother-in-law. A five-star imperial, in other words, or four-star anyway. And in the political game you didn’t use up an imperial’s favours lightly. No wonder Rupilia had said she and Sextus were grateful. ‘So what did the work actually entail?’

‘We’re the commissioners’ legs and eyes.’ Atratinus had started back in on his meatballs, and he was a lot calmer now. ‘There’re six of us altogether. It’s our job to check out the compensation claims that’ve been made inside our particular section of the total area. Check them out physically, I mean, as well as on paper. If a property owner claims his property was completely burned down, or damaged beyond repair, we visit the site itself to make sure he’s telling the truth. Same with the lesser damage claims. You’d be surprised what some chancers’ll try to get away with when there’s an imperial-backed compensation scheme up and running, but no cash changes hands until we’ve authenticated the claim six ways from nothing. You understand?’

‘Yeah.’ Typical Wart: the old bugger might be ready to peg out at long last — I’d give him six months, max — but he hadn’t lost any of his marbles. Tiberius had always been careful with money, the state’s especially, and where spending it was concerned — even when his public street-cred demanded that he be generous — he was cannier than a Paduan sheep-farmer. ‘So it’s a responsible job?’

‘Damn right it’s responsible.’ Atratinus took a swig of his wine. ‘You can’t take anything for granted. Like I said, some of the property owners are bent as hell, and not all of them are tunics or plain-mantles, either. We don’t have the final say, of course — that’s up to the aediles, or the commissioners themselves in the last analysis — but there’s so much property involved that we’re given a pretty free hand.’

‘And Sextus’s patch was where?’

‘The south-west corner of the Aventine. Where he — ’ Atratinus stopped abruptly.

‘Where he died,’ I said quietly. ‘Right.’

‘The tenement where it happened wasn’t one of the damaged ones, but the manager had a flat there. He was responsible for two or three burned-out properties further up the hill.’

‘What was his name again? Caepio, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right. Lucceius Caepio.’

‘You happen to know the actual owner?’

Atratinus frowned. ‘No. There I can’t help you, not off-hand, anyway. I could check up, if you like. It’ll be on record.’

‘No, that’s okay. I’ll be talking to Caepio shortly myself.’ Going through the motions. I took another gulp of Massic, but it didn’t help. ‘Uh…one last thing, pal. Did Papinius tell anyone he was visiting that particular tenement at that particular time?’

I don’t know why I asked the question; maybe it was my suspicious nature, maybe it was because throwing yourself out of a tenement window wasn’t exactly the preferred method of suicide for someone with Papinius’s background. In any case, although I’d kept my voice neutral the kid was no fool. He glanced up quickly from his meatballs.