Finished Business

by David Wishart

  On the other hand, if the conspiracy was at a fairly high level – and again, given that there definitely had to be at least one broad-striper involved, that was more than likely – then the chances of success and survival were a lot higher. Duty rotas could be arranged, the right men chosen, the situation stage-managed so the target was in a minority of one. In which case, if it got that far then Gaius was a dead man walking …

  The door of the wine shop opened. I looked up, but it was just a couple of ordinary punters, working-tunic types. I frowned and took a swallow of the wine. It was seventh hour now, easy, and chummie was late; which, considering how anxious he’d been to talk to me, was surprising, at best. Oh, sure, he’d probably had duty in the morning, which was why he hadn’t been able to come earlier, and something unexpected may have come up; but he’d chosen the time himself, and he’d’ve factored that possibility in as best he could. I was beginning to get worried.

  Half an hour and most of the jug later, the worry had turned into a certainty: for whatever reason, the guy was not going to show. Fuck. So what did I do now? I emptied the last of the wine into my cup, chewed on the last bit of sausage, and considered the options. Not that those were very thick on the ground: carry on waiting, in case he’d just been seriously delayed, or cut my losses and go, in the hopes that he’d contact me again. If he was in a state to contact me again, that was: I had a bad, bad feeling about that side of things.

  Of course, maybe I could find him instead. That’d be tricky, sure, but not impossible; most Praetorian tribunes were older career soldiers with as many as twenty years’ experience under their belts already, usually ex-auxiliary cavalry commanders making their way up the promotion ladder to an appointment in charge of a legion. Young purple-stripers from good families learning the ropes in good old-fashioned fast-track style would be in the minority. And at least I knew what he looked like.

  So, time for another quick word with Gaius Secundus. I finished the wine and set off for Palatine Hill.

  He was in his office, going through a list of facts and figures with his chief clerk. He looked up as I came in, and frowned.

  ‘Marcus?’ he said. ‘What’re you doing back?’

  ‘Just a quick question, pal. It won’t take long.’ I closed the door behind me.

  ‘That’s fine, Acastus,’ he said to the clerk. ‘Give us a few minutes in private, will you?’ I stood aside as the guy went out. ‘Now.’

  ‘You’re sure I’m not disturbing you?’

  ‘No problem. Bread-and-butter stuff, a faulty consignment of hides. It can wait. So what’s the question?’

  ‘I need to find a young tribune. Purple-striper, probably Praetorian.’ I described him.

  ‘Sounds like Sextus Papinius,’ he said. ‘Or his brother Lucius. They’re both tribunes, with the Third and Fifth Cohorts.’ The frown was back. ‘What’s your interest?’

  ‘We’d arranged to meet today. He didn’t turn up. You know where I can find him?’

  The frown deepened. ‘If he’s on duty, then at the Praetorian barracks. But you’d find it difficult to get in there. They’re not too keen on civilian visitors.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘Actually, the chances are that he’s free at present. You happen to have a private address? At least, somewhere I can contact him?’

  Secundus hesitated; there was something wrong here, I could see that. ‘Marcus,’ he said, ‘this has something to do with the case, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. As a matter of fact it has. That make a difference?’

  ‘Yes, it does. Quite a big one.’ Another hesitation. ‘Look, we talked about this, right? Whatever it is, leave it alone. Leave it absolutely alone, because it’s too dangerous. I told you, you can get hurt.’

  ‘Warning duly noted, pal,’ I said. ‘But this is important. Really, really important. Believe me, I wouldn’t push if it wasn’t.’

  ‘And you are pushing?’

  Shit, I hated this: Secundus was a good friend – one of my best, and putting the pressure on was something I did not want to do. Still …

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, I’m afraid I am.’

  That got me a straight look. Finally, he shrugged and looked away.

  ‘You might find him at his adoptive father’s house,’ he said. ‘“Him” being either Sextus or Lucius, it doesn’t matter which one. That’s on Patricius Incline near the junction with Viminal Hill Street.’

  ‘Adoptive father?’

  Again, he hesitated. Then he said: ‘Anicius Cerialis.’

  Fuck.

  It was one of the older properties in the street, reached by a gate in a high wall with a small garden behind it. The gate was closed, but above it I could see the tops of three or four palm trees which screened the first floor of the house itself, and ivy had spilled over the wall on the street side. There was a slave sitting in a cubby next to the gate – dozing, rather – and I dawdled in covering the last few yards before taking the final, irrevocable step of waking him and telling him my name and business. Even after thinking it over on the walk from the Palatine, I still wasn’t sure what was the best way to play this. If the slave passed me straight on to the master himself, and if – as seemed pretty likely – Cerialis was mixed up in the plot, then breezing in with the news that his adoptive son had effectively been on the point of blowing the gaff but hadn’t turned up for the crucial meeting would not be the smartest of moves. There again, what other reason or excuse for visiting would I have? The whole situation was a complete bugger.

  In the event, I was saved the trouble. The gate opened, and two of the house slaves came out carrying a ladder and a pile of cypress branches. My stomach went cold. Oh, shit. Cypress branches could mean just one thing.

  There had been a death in the family.

  The gate slave woke up and saw me staring.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’ Now we were close up, I noticed his freshly shorn fringe.

  ‘Yeah. Uh …’ I indicated the other slaves, who’d set the ladder against the wall and were fixing the branches to the gate bars. ‘You had a bereavement here?’

  ‘The young master, sir. Master Sextus. It only happened this morning.’

  Oh, fuck. ‘So how did he die?’

  ‘A fall from his horse, sir. He was out riding on Mars Field. You’re a friend of the family?’

  ‘No. Not exactly. But it was Sextus I came to see. At least, I think it was.’

  He frowned. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I only knew him by sight. It might’ve been his brother Lucius.’

  ‘Master Lucius is at home, sir. I could take you to him if you like.’

  ‘Ah … is your actual master at home, pal? Cerialis himself?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. He had senatorial business this morning, and he’s been out since breakfast. A messenger was sent directly we had the news, but that was less than an hour ago and he hasn’t returned yet.’

  Well, that was something, at least. And if I was really, really lucky then Lucius was the one I wanted after all, and his brother’s death was just a horrible coincidence.

  On the other hand, there weren’t any flying pigs overhead.

  ‘That would be great,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

  I hadn’t given my name, intentionally, and I had my fingers crossed that the guy wouldn’t ask it. Which for a wonder he didn’t. Maybe, in view of the circumstances, the usual niceties of announcing a visitor had slipped his mind, or maybe we’d just got beyond that point with the exchange over the death. In any case, he led me through the gate and the garden to the house.

  Whoever had brought the news, they’d brought the body as well. Sextus Papinius was lying on a couch in the atrium, and evidently the undertakers’ men hadn’t been yet because he hadn’t been properly laid out, simply covered feet to chin with his military cloak. He was my tribune, all right: his face had been washed clear of mud, but there was still a trace of it at the hair-line. The head lay at a slightly crooked angle.


  Gods!

  I’d been looking at the corpse, and I hadn’t noticed the other guy in the room, who was sitting on a folding stool in the corner. There was a jug of wine and a cup beside him. He got up and came towards me, swaying slightly.

  ‘Who’re you?’ he said.

  Lucius, obviously, and I could see why Secundus had thought my description could go both ways. He was slightly older and more broadly built, but he had the same features.

  ‘A friend of your brother’s,’ I said. ‘We’d arranged to meet today for a cup or two of wine, but he didn’t show. I thought I’d drop round, see what the problem was. What happened, exactly?’

  The guy was more than half-cut, but apart from a poached-egg-eyed stare he was holding it well. He shrugged and looked away, and I drew a small breath of relief.

  ‘He was out riding on Mars Field,’ he said. His voice was dull, mechanical. ‘His horse shied at something and threw him; he landed on his head and broke his neck. That’s all I know.’

  ‘He was on his own?’

  If he’d thought about it, it was a pretty odd question to ask, but I reckoned that Lucius here wasn’t exactly in thinking mode at present. In the event, he didn’t even blink.

  ‘No. Bassus was with him,’ he said. ‘He was the one who brought him back.’

  ‘Bassus?’

  ‘His quaestor friend. Titus Bassus.’ This time I did get an oddish look; maybe Lucius wasn’t as drunk as he appeared. ‘You say you’re a friend of Sextus’s, and you don’t know Bassus?’

  ‘Yeah, well …’

  ‘They were practically inseparable, been friendly since they were kids. Bassus is more like an older brother to him than a friend.’ Now his expression was definitely suspicious, and there was something else there as well; a spark in the eyes that looked very like incipient panic. ‘Just who are you, exactly? What’s your name?’

  Shit. ‘It’s not important, pal,’ I said, turning to go. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m intruding. You’ll have things to see to, and I won’t take up any more of your time.’

  ‘Fuck that! You’re going nowhere!’ His hand grasped my shoulder. I shook him off, maybe with more force than I’d intended, because he stumbled and fell heavily against the couch. Before he could recover himself, I was out and away.

  Jupiter!

  TWENTY

  So. That had been illuminating, if you like.

  Accident, nothing; that was obvious. Sextus Papinius had been rumbled and his mouth shut before he could blab. I remembered that, when he’d talked to me on the Sacred Way, he’d not only been scared out of his wits, but he’d also been constantly looking over his shoulder like he suspected he was being watched. Which the odds were he had been, and it had effectively done for him. The modus operandi was interesting, too: where had a broken neck figured already in this case?

  Right.

  I really had to talk to Bassus. He’d be needed, naturally, to provide the circumstantial evidence of an eyewitness, but the corollary of that was that, once you knew damn well it was murder, he had to be lying through his teeth. And that meant he was involved in the plot himself. What got me – sickened me, to tell you the truth – was that there was a better than good chance that Lucius Papinius was in it as well, maybe even to the extent of collusion over his brother’s death. He had to be – why else would he spend the hour after the body was delivered to the front door in getting systematically smashed? Plus there had been the dead-voiced account of events, like he’d been told exactly what to say when someone asked for them, and that weird business at the end: the guy had finally put two and two together, realized who I was, panicked, and lost the plot completely.

  Gods, the more you went into this thing, the worse it got, like some sort of hydra sprouting extra heads. And Lucius, like his brother, was a military tribune, with all the implications that brought with it. I had the horrible feeling that we’d only just scratched the surface.

  So how did I find Bassus? I couldn’t go knocking on Secundus’s door again, that wouldn’t be fair. I’d twisted the poor guy’s arm right up his back once already in the name of friendship, and unless I absolutely had to, I wouldn’t be doing that again in a hurry. The same, in a way, went for Crispus: he wasn’t exactly a friend, but I reckoned I’d pretty well shot my bolt in that direction for the time being. Anyway, there was no need: Lucius Papinius had told me that he was one of the quaestors, and a visit to the Public Finance Office would net the information, no problem. After all, as far as they’d know, there was no skulduggery involved, just an innocent request for information.

  So that’s where I went.

  Like every organization in a position to allocate and monitor their own expenditure, the Public Finance Office had done themselves proud. Oh, sure, the quaestorship is the lowest rung of the senatorial magistracies’ ladder, and the quaestors only serve for a year, but the faceless administrators who staff the offices – mostly freedmen – do most of the work, and hold their young masters by the hand as they guide them through the maze of contract legislation, building regulations, fire-prevention requirements and the like. They are a permanent fixture, and they do like things to be nice. Especially the décor.

  At least it’d been tastefully done, with the mural in the entrance hall showing a neutral lake scene complete with an architecturally complex villa rather than the rampant crowd of topless maenads that the clerks who had to sit there all day would probably have preferred, but that’s government thinking for you.

  I went up to the freedman on the nearest desk.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘You have a Titus Bassus as one of your officers?’

  ‘Certainly, sir. Titus Herennius Bassus, that would be. I don’t know if he’s around at present, though. If you’d like to wait, I’ll go and check for you. Your name and business?’

  I had my mouth open to answer when a young guy in a smart mantle with a senatorial stripe came down the stairs. He must’ve caught the freedman’s last few words, because he said, ‘What is it? Anything I can do?’

  ‘The gentleman’s looking for Herennius Bassus, sir.’

  He turned to me. ‘Oh, gods, it’s not about the bloody replacement finials for the Temple of Jupiter Stayer-of-the Host, is it?’ he said.

  ‘No, I’m—’ I began.

  ‘Thank the gods for that. Titus isn’t in today; he’s out riding in Mars Field, the lucky beggar.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ I said. ‘Only, ah, something came up and he had to cut it short. You happen to know where I’d find him now?’

  ‘Not a clue. He isn’t back on duty until tomorrow morning. Was it urgent?’

  ‘Pretty urgent, yeah.’

  ‘Damn.’ The young man frowned. ‘You could try his father.’

  ‘His father?’

  ‘Up at the imperial offices on the Palatine.’ I must’ve looked blank, because he said: ‘Herennius Capito. He’s one of the imperial procurators-fiscal. He might know.’

  ‘Thanks, pal, I’ll do that,’ I said, and left.

  Interesting; so Bassus’s father was in government admin on the imperial side of the fence, was he? And pretty highly placed at that. Some procurators are freedmen – the name, of course, means nothing more than agent – but the imperial procurators-fiscal have the direct management of the emperor’s personal income and private estates, and they tend to be much bigger fish – knights, not senators, but no less important or influential for the thinner stripe. Quite the reverse, because it’s on the imperial side of the fence that the real governmental power lies, direct or indirect. And ‘fence’ it is: ever since old Augustus divided the government and everything connected with it between himself and the senate, the two sides have been as separate as the two faces of a coin. Oh, sure, they come into contact now and again where and when necessary – the empire couldn’t function if they didn’t – but essentially they’re two distinct worlds operating in parallel. Which was very relevant indeed. Granted, I might be leaping to unwarranted conclu
sions; just because young Bassus was implicated in the plot didn’t mean that his father had to be. But if he was then we had a third strand here: first the senate, represented by Cassius Longinus and his pals; then the military, by the two Papinii; now the imperial household itself.

  Heads of the hydra was right.

  Imperial admin officers – the ones on the private side, anyway, like Capito – have their offices in the administrative wing of the palace itself. So up to the Palatine I went, passed unchallenged between the two Praetorians on guard, and was directed by the clerk on reception to a room on the mezzanine floor. I knocked, opened the door, and went straight in.

  There were two guys there. The one sitting behind the desk was late-middle-aged, in a narrow-striper mantle; the other, standing in front of it, had a senator’s broad stripe. He turned round sharply as the door opened, and I saw that he was much younger, in his late twenties. They were obviously, from the facial resemblance, father and son.

  They were obviously also, from the expressions on the faces, in the throes of a family conference. A fairly urgent, unpleasant one, at that.

  ‘I’m busy,’ Capito snapped. ‘What is it?’

  Fair enough; if that was the way he wanted to play it, fine with me. It’d save a lot of pussyfooting around, certainly.

  ‘Actually, pal’ – I closed the door behind me and set my back to it – ‘I wanted a word with your son here. About the death this morning of a military tribune by the name of Sextus Papinius.’

  I was watching the younger man’s face when I said it, and I couldn’t miss the flash of panic – the same look I’d got from Sextus’s brother, Lucius. He glanced back at his father.

  ‘Dad—’ he began.

  ‘I’ll handle this,’ Capito said. He hadn’t taken his eyes off me, and his face was set. ‘Who are you? And what makes you think you can barge in here without an appointment?’