David Wishart - No Cause for Concern

‘You think there could’ve been a leak on our side after all?’

I shrugged. ‘I’m not taking any chances. But if I find the guy has unfortunately and coincidentally decided to slit his own throat in the interim as well, then I’ll know where to start asking questions. Right, Lucius?’

The little clerk swallowed. ‘Sir, I wouldn’t!’ he said. ‘Honestly!’

‘See that you don’t, then,’ I said, and left.

It was too late in the day now for the long hike down to Circus Valley; besides, I reckoned we’d done pretty well. Publilius could wait for tomorrow.

Bric-a-brac was dignifying things. What Publilius sold was junk, or the next thing to it: iron bedframes with half their struts missing, cooking pots that were more patches than original metal, third-hand tunics, and a selection of miscellaneous items such as bronze letters for (or possibly prised from) inscriptions. Not, I knew, that what was on sale would be the mainstay of the business. That’d be the middleman service shopkeepers like Publilius provided linking the gentlemen who made sure certain items fell off the back of a delivery cart and the said items’ eventual end-users.

I was examining a worm-eaten wooden leg that I’d seen leaning against a brazier with its grate burned out when the man himself oiled over.

‘Morning, sir,’ he said. ‘Anything I can do for you?’

‘Sure.’ I put the leg down where I’d found it. ‘Marble statues.’

‘Buying or selling?’

‘Just expressing an interest at present, pal,’ I said. ‘You deal in them?’

‘I might do.’ He was cautious. ‘That depends. Say you give me a such-as?’

‘Okay. Such as a crateful. Sent to you in the past couple of days by someone called Gaius Astrapton. Plus three other crates, contents miscellaneous, sender ditto. Ring any bells?’

He looked blank, then angry. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he said. ‘And what’s this about?’

‘Just answer the question, friend.’

‘Then the answer’s no. I don’t know nothing about no crate of statues. Nor any other crates. And I don’t know no Gaius Astrapton, neither. Now push off. I’ve got a business to run.’

I was puzzled; there hadn’t been a glimmer there, not a glint. If he was lying then he was damn good at it. Or he’d been warned I was coming.

‘How about Sempronius Eutacticus?’ I said. ‘You heard of him?’

He blinked. ‘Yeah. I’ve heard of Eutacticus. So?’

‘He was the one gave me your name and asked me to drop round and see you,’ I said. ‘Astrapton was his accountant. Seemingly, he’s been going into business off his own bat, and Eutacticus is really, really keen to know the details. According to his records, he’s sent you four crates in all in the last eight months. Now stop fucking around, pal.’

Publilius scowled. ‘I told you,’ he said. ‘I don’t know nothing about no statues, nor crates neither. You don’t believe me, you can look for yourself.’

‘I’ll just do that, if you don’t mind.’

I went into the shop. It was bigger than I thought it would be: he’d knocked through the wall of the private building behind it and taken over one of the rooms. The rear section was separated off from the front by a curtain, which I pushed aside and went through. Publilius followed.

‘Look all you like,’ he said.

There was plenty of stuff, sure, piled up wall to wall. Better stuff than he’d got on show outside, too: bales of cloth, furniture with all the bits attached, a wide selection of ornaments and a complete Corinthian dinner service. There was even a water-clock. Still, nothing that looked like it’d make a hole in two million sesterces, let alone the pile of cash itself filling a sizeable chest in the form of gold bricks. Because, with that amount of loot involved, that’s what it would mean. And no intact crates, singular or plural.

‘ Satisfied?’ he said.

‘No.’

‘Then that’s your hard luck. What you see is what you get.’

I grabbed him by the neck of his tunic. He froze.

‘Listen carefully, pal,’ I said, ‘because I’m only going to say this once. Eutacticus is out two million sesterces through your friend Astrapton, and he is consequently not a happy bunny. Me, I couldn’t care less about the money, or about Eutacticus for that matter, and I’m the good guy. Talk to me now and I’ll say you co-operated right down the line, that you thought the whole thing was legit. Keep your mouth zipped and the next person to ask won’t do it so politely. In fact, considering that the next person will be a large and very unpleasant gentleman by the name of Satrius, politeness in any form will be right off the agenda. Understand?’

I let him go. He was breathing heavily as he straightened his tunic.

‘Now you listen,’ he said. ‘I’m a small-time fence, right? Admitted, no argument, everyone’s got to live. You bring me a set of snail-spoons or a silver wine jug or even a fucking dinner table and I’ll pay you top rate without asking no questions. If you’re buying then I’ll cut you a good deal so long as you don’t ask for no bill of sale. But that’s as far as I go. I’ve heard of Eutacticus, sure, who hasn’t? But I don’t know no Astrapton, and I don’t know nothing about no fucking mystery crates. If Eutacticus himself wants to come and ask me I’ll tell him the same thing. So get off my back, right?’

Hell. As far as sounding convincing went, you didn’t get much better. Maybe we’d been mistaken after all. Avenue closed. So what did I do now?

The answer to that was easy. When all else fails, rattle some bars and see what jumps.

It was time to have a word with Paetinius. Not the son; the father.

If you made the usual allowances for artistic licence and flattery, the elder Patinius was a dead ringer for his portrait in the atrium: little, tubby, and smug. That is, until you looked at his eyes, which were ice-grey chips of marble.

‘I won’t pretend I don’t know why you’re here and who you represent, Corvinus,’ he said, putting his hands on the desk – we were in the study – and lacing the fingers together. ‘Or that you’re welcome in my house. Sestia told me all about your last visit. She also said that she practically threw you out. Can you give me a reason why I shouldn’t do the same?’

I gave him my best smile. ‘Yes, I can, pal,’ I said. ‘It’s because you’re curious.’

‘Curious about what?’

‘What I know and don’t know. How far I’ve got. How safe you are. That sort of thing. Me, I’d like to know that too, because at the end of the day I think you’re in this up to your neck. So look on this as a trade.’

The eyes rested on me for a moment. Then he grunted and got up.

‘Come with me,’ he said.

He led me through to the atrium and up to the family shrine in the corner. There was a pan of incense smoking on it, in front of the little images of the household gods. He pointed to it.

‘Know what that’s for?’ he said.

I shrugged. ‘No. Anything special?’

‘It’s a thank-you offering. For that bastard Eutacticus’s son and heir being dead. Potential son and heir.’ He reached over to the bowl of raw incense on the small table next to the shrine and added another pinch to the smoking pan. ‘That answer your question?’

‘You’re admitting it? That you had Titus Luscius killed?’

‘I’m admitting or denying nothing. Why should I make your job easier? Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. But if I did, I’ve no regrets. No fears, either, because I’ve got people of my own, and if Publius Eutacticus wants to start something I can give as good as I can get. On the other hand, if I didn’t then whoever did has my blessing. That clear enough for you?’