In at the Death (Marcus Corvinus Book 11)

by David Wishart

  Not that it’d be difficult, mind. Street life in Rome may be pretty eclectic, but you don’t see many purple-stripers being dragged along behind Gallic boarhounds. I’d be a hard mark to lose. They’d only have to follow the cursing.

  Ah, well; I’d enough on my plate at present to worry about. Whoever they were, so long as they behaved themselves they could do as they liked. I shoved the problem to the back of my mind and pressed on towards the Saepta.

  Atratinus had said that Cluvia managed a perfume shop. Pretty useful. For somewhere like the Saepta, that’s like saying someone runs a philosophy school in Athens or a fish restaurant in Massilia: close your eyes and heft a brick in any direction you like up the Saepta Julia and chances are you’ll hit either a perfume seller or a haut-couture mantle-maker. Me, I’d call that a public service, myself, but then I’m prejudiced.

  So finding Cluvia wasn’t easy, especially with Placida on the team: like I say, the Saepta caters to a pretty upmarket clientele, and slavering Gallic boarhounds straining at the ends of leashes aren’t too popular with the well-dressed and pristine. Once I’d dragged her out of a litter she fancied sharing with a screaming dowager and persuaded her that the little yapping brute belonging to the spangle-haired young gentleman having hysterics in the nail-bar didn’t want to play chase-your-tail up and down the concourse she wasn’t too popular with me, either.

  Gods!

  I finally tracked Cluvia down to a little corner-booth off the main drag. There was a window-shopper hanging about - she could’ve been sister to the woman in the litter - but she took one look at Placida coming panting towards her, screamed and bolted. So much for customer relations. I grabbed the beast’s collar and pulled her to a slavering halt.

  The woman behind the counter was a looker, but most of it was artificial and if she was a day under thirty I’d eat my sandals.

  ‘Ah...excuse me,’ I said. ‘Is –?’

  ‘We don’t sell flea powder.’ She was staring at Placida with a sort of fascinated horror. ‘Try Constantinos’s next to the baths.’

  ‘Uh...no, actually, I wanted to talk to you about –’ I stopped, because she was pointing and the horror in her face had gone up a notch. I glanced down. Placida was dragging her backside along the floor tiles with an expression of intense and ecstatic concentration. ‘Oh, that’s okay. She’s been doing it on and off since Julian Square. Itchy anal glands, I think. Or maybe she just wants your attention.’

  ‘Really? Then she’s got it. That is totally gross!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m not a customer. My name’s Marcus Corvinus and I just wanted to ask you a few questions about your boyfriend.’

  Pause. This time it was me who got the stare, straight off a glacier. Eventually she said, and you could practically count the icicles: ‘Did you, indeed? And which boyfriend would that be, now?’

  Oh, great.‘Uh...Papinius?’ Then, when the death-stare didn’t shift: ‘Sextus Papinius? Your name is Cluvia, isn’t it? Or have I got the wrong shop?’

  She turned round to the marble shelf behind the counter and began straightening the display phials with little jerks of her fingers. If ever a back radiated anger then Cluvia’s was the one. ‘No,’ she said, and I could almost hear her teeth clench. ‘I know perfectly well who you mean. But boyfriend’s the wrong word because we’re not an item any more. I suggest that if you want to know anything concerning Sextus Papinius you ask him yourself.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s –’ I began, and then my brain caught up with my ears. Fuck. ‘You, ah, didn’t know, then?’

  ‘I didn’t know what?’

  There wasn’t any way out of this. ‘That he’s, uh, dead. Look, lady, I’m sorry, I thought –’

  The fingers had stopped. One of the phials tipped over, rolled off the shelf and smashed on the shop floor. Cluvia collapsed like a string-cut puppet, and I was just in time to get my hands beneath her armpits before she hit the floor herself.

  Oh, shit. Nice one, Corvinus. Very tactful.

  At which point –

  ‘OW-OOO-OWOWOW-OOO!’

  Bugger. That we could do without.

  ‘Shut up, Placida!’ I snapped, giving her a back-heel kick. ‘Settle!’

  The woman in the trinkets shop next door - she’d been taking an obvious interest right through the conversation - had moved like greased lightning out from behind her own counter and round the back of Cluvia’s. I felt the dead weight lift. Jupiter, the woman was strong!

  ‘Thanks, sister,’ I said.

  That got me another glare, hundred-candelabra strength, delivered at point-blank range. By this time women - customers and stallholders - were flocking in from all directions like hens to a spilled bucket of barley. Let’s hear it for female solidarity. Speaking of which –

  ‘OW-OOO-OOO-OOO!’

  Oh, shit. ‘Not you, sunshine!’ I hauled Placida clear and backed off while the ladies formed a protective screen as effective as a legionary shield-wall and did whatever the hell women do under these circumstances.

  There was a clothes booth further along where a male shopkeeper was goggling at the scrum from above his racks. ‘I’ll...ah...just wait over there, shall I?’ I said.

  ‘You do that, chummy!’ the first woman snapped over her shoulder. ‘And take that bloody Cerberus look-alike with you!’

  I beat a retreat across to the clothes booth, dragging the howling, hysterical Placida behind. The guy stepped back quickly.

  ‘What the hell happened there?’ he said.

  I grabbed Placida’s muzzle and forced it closed while she grizzled her way into silence. ‘I told her her boyfriend had just died. Ex-boyfriend, rather.’

  ‘Oh, bugger.’ The guy was small, dapper and unassuming, with the nervous-eyed, hunted look that I supposed went with the job surroundings: as far as I could tell where male stallholders were concerned he was in a minority of one. ‘I’d keep well clear for a bit, then, mate.’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, right.’

  ‘Nice dog. It is a dog, isn’t it?’

  ‘That depends on the time of the month.’

  He gave a nervous giggle and backed away a bit more.

  Over by the perfume counter the scrum was already beginning to break up. From its centre came Cluvia, walking towards me. She didn’t look too hot, but at least she was mobile. Wrestles-With-Bears gave me a final glare and went back to her bangles. I took a firm grip of Placida’s collar and forced her down.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’ Cluvia said. She sounded a bit distant, like she was taking trouble over the words.

  ‘Corvinus. Marcus Corvinus. I’m...ah...a friend of Sextus’s mother.’

  ‘Really. So how did it happen? How did Sextus die? An accident?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ I swallowed. ‘He killed himself.’

  ‘Oh.’ She frowned and made a jerky movement with her hand in the direction of the exit. The bracelets - she was wearing at least three of them - jangled on her wrist. ‘Can we go outside, do you think?’

  ‘No problem.’ I was watching her carefully. It’d hit her hard, sure, but she had herself under control now. More or less. A tough lady, Cluvia. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I –’

  ‘Forget it. It doesn’t matter.’

  We left the hall in silence, the now-placid Placida walking between us, and found a bench against the wall of the Agrippan Baths. She sat down and I waited while she took a few deep breaths.

  ‘All right,’ she said finally. ‘Tell me.’

  I told her, while she looked down at her hands. The fingers were covered with rings and the nails were well-manicured. Thirty-something she might be, but the lady took good care of herself. I’d noticed that the female-solidarity pack had freshened up her hair and makeup, too.

  ‘Why did he do it?’ she said when I’d finished.

  ‘I don’t know. Not exactly.’

  ‘Could the reason have had anything to do with Mucius Soranus?’

  The question came straight out, l
ike she’d been meaning to ask it from the very first and had just been waiting her chance. I glanced at her sharply. ‘What makes you think that?’ I said.

  ‘Because he’s a bastard. And there was something between him and Sextus.’

  ‘How do you mean, “something”?’

  ‘I don’t know. But Sextus hated him for it.’ She frowned. ‘No. Hate’s the wrong word. So’s “frightened”. Something between the two, maybe.’

  ‘Why should he be frightened of Soranus?’

  ‘He wasn’t. I told you, it’s the wrong word, and Sextus wasn’t frightened of anyone. He didn’t hate anyone, either. Sextus was a lovely boy. You don’t meet –’ She stopped, pulled a handkerchief from her tunic sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘He owed Soranus money. From gambling debts.’

  ‘Yes. That’s right.’

  ‘A lot?’

  ‘I don’t know. A few thousand, maybe.’

  ‘As much as fifty?’

  She looked up, startled. ‘What? No!’

  ‘He borrowed fifty thousand silver pieces from a money-lender in Julian Square a few months ago. You didn’t know?’

  ‘That’s ridiculous! Sextus wasn’t a gambler! Not that much of one!’

  Yeah. Check. ‘Odd thing was, he paid it back just before he died. Plus ten thousand interest.’

  She was staring at me now. ‘Corvinus, what is all this?’ she said. ‘Did you come just to break the news to me that Sextus was dead - though why a friend of his mother’s would bother to do that I don’t know - or was there another reason?’

  ‘You know Minicius Natalis?’

  ‘The faction-master of the Greens? Yes, of course. Not personally, but Sextus used to talk about him. He spent a lot of his time at the Greens’ stables.’

  ‘Natalis wants to know why the boy did it. He’s asked me to find out.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ She looked down at her hands again. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey, then. I don’t know anything about his reasons. As you’ll no doubt have noticed, I didn’t even know he was dead.’

  ‘You said you weren’t seeing each other any more.’ Jupiter, I hated this tactful stuff, but it was a question that had to be asked. ‘Was that your doing or his?’

  ‘His.’

  Yeah, well, I’d sort of got that impression from the whole conversation, but it was good to have it confirmed. ‘Care to tell me why?’

  ‘You could’ve guessed that yourself.’ Her voice had toughened, but she still didn’t look up. ‘He’d found someone else. A lady’ - she stressed the word, but there were other harmonics there - ‘by the name of Albucilla. She’s a friend of Soranus’s.’ The eyes lifted. ‘That’s another reason I don’t like the man, if you’re interested.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Another name. Well, I needed all the leads I could get. ‘You know anything about her?’

  ‘No. I don’t particularly want to, either.’

  ‘Fine, fine.’ The tone would’ve had Cleopatra’s asp handing in its poison sacks. Not that it mattered: the name was enough at present. Back off, Corvinus. ‘No problem. So, uh, tell me more about Sextus.’

  ‘Like what?’

  I shrugged. ‘Lady, I’m at sea here. I’m just taking what I can get and hoping somewhere it’ll make sense.’

  ‘I said. He was a lovely boy, the kind you don’t meet very often, almost like someone from a story-book. A thinker, not just a pair of hands.’ She sniffed again. ‘Generous, and I don’t mean just with money. Good fun, when he wanted to be. He had a strong sense of justice. And he was very proud of his family.’

  This was a new one. ‘His family?’

  ‘Yes. His father, especially. Sextus was very proud of his father. He wanted to be worthy of him. That’s why he took his job on the fire commission so seriously.’

  Shit. Well, score another point against the corruption angle. Still, Rupilia had told me at the start that he’d been grateful, and like I said Allenius had come through in spades where using up valuable clout was concerned. It was a pity the kid had died when he did. Me, I knew from personal experience how looking at relationships through adult eyes can change things.

  Maybe I’d have to have a talk with Sextus Papinius’s father after all.

  ‘Get back to Soranus,’ I said. ‘I thought they were friends.’

  Cluvia stood up. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve told you all I can. As far as Mucius Soranus is concerned, I’ve nothing definite to give you. Sextus was...very secretive. Even with me. I don’t like Soranus, I never have; he’s a manipulator, a parasite, and Sextus would’ve been much happier staying clear of him. But then he always did have a mind of his own, and maybe it’s just my prejudice talking. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a shop to look after.’

  She left, and I watched her go. Well, that was that; certainly food for thought. Someone from a story-book, eh? High praise, indeed.

  Okay. Last trip of the day, through the Subura to the Cipian and your all-round-popular slug Mucius Soranus.

  10

  After that chat with Cluvia, I had some ideas of my own re Soranus’s relationship with young Papinius and the reasons for it. Trouble was like most of the evidence I’d collected so far they didn’t square with the picture I’d built up of the kid, either. Bugger. Triple bugger. But then, maybe I was completely wrong about him after all - maybe everyone else was - and the squeaky-clean nice-lad image was a total con.

  The weather had changed again, and we’d got one of these beautiful, cool, autumn days when walking in Rome’s a pleasure, even through the narrow crowded streets at the centre where the sky’s just a ribbon of blue that starts six floors above your head. Yeah, well, I’m city-bred, me, and although open spaces, greenery and the scent of pines and cypress are nice in their way give me a pavement or cobbles under my sandals, the smell of cook-shops overlaid with donkey-droppings and the merry cries of street-hawkers going about their lawful business of ripping off the punters and I know where I am. These pastoral-poet guys with their bleating goats and oaten pipes can stuff their phalaecean hendecasyllabics where the sun don’t shine.

  Placida seemed more co-operative, too. Or maybe she was just storing it up and waiting her chance. I was beginning to have a healthy respect for that brute’s intelligence.

  There were a few big old properties opposite Livia Porch but I asked a kitchen-slave shelling peas outside one of them for directions. Soranus’s place was a corner building that from the looks of things had seen better days but was still hanging in. The door was open and the door-slave was sitting on the threshold, eyes closed and communing with nature...

  At least this was the case until Placida licked his face. He woke with a scream of horror and levered himself upright.

  ‘Sorry about that, pal,’ I said, pulling her back. ‘Lapse in concentration. Is the master at home?’

  ‘He’s in the garden, sir.’ He glared at Placida and mopped the drool off with his tunic-sleeve. ‘Who shall I say?’

  ‘The name’s Valerius Corvinus. He doesn’t know me, but I’m here on business.’ I wasn’t going to give Soranus any prior idea why I’d called. I wanted to do this cold.

  ‘Very well, sir. If you’d like to leave your, uh, your...’ - another glare - ‘tied to the railings and wait in the atrium I’ll see if he’s receiving.’

  Now that I didn’t like the sound of. I wasn’t risking a brush-off, especially if Soranus found out later through the grapevine what I’d wanted, in which case I was as likely to get a second chance to talk to him as Placida was to win the Year’s Sweetest Pet award. ‘Tell you what, pal,’ I said. ‘The dog’s highly-strung, she likes company and she doesn’t take to being tied up and ignored. Now I could get you to walk her round the block a few times while I’m having this long business conversation with your master. You’d be safe enough. Probably. On the other hand, I’m sure Soranus wouldn’t mind if you showed us both through straight off. I’m easy, the decision’s all yours. What do you
think?’

  Down at his groin level Placida yawned, showing a set of teeth like you’d get on a marble- saw, and the door-slave flinched. ‘Ah...it’s this way, sir,’ he said quickly. ‘If you’d care to follow me?’

  ‘Sure. No problem.’

  We went through the lobby and across the atrium to the garden-opening at the far end. Hanging in was right; like Rupilia’s place, most of the furniture and the decor had been good in its day but was looking a bit past it now. Two or three nice bronzes, either originals or good copies: Soranus couldn’t’ve been badly on his uppers, but then if I was right about the major source of his income and he made a habit of it then that was to be expected. A masculine room, too; no feminine touches. I didn’t know whether the guy was married, but I’d imagine not. A wife in the background wouldn’t fit in with the lifestyle.

  He was sitting in a folding chair under a pear-tree with a pile of wax tablets and a wine-jug and cup on a table beside him. He looked up when we came through the portico, closed the tablet he’d been studying and laid it on the pile. Late twenties, good-looking, sharp tunic and haircut. From what I could see, he’d kept himself in shape, too: well-muscled and no sign of a paunch. Grade A blade-about-town material, in other words. Yeah, right; I could see how he’d impress wannabe-sophisticated kids like Papinius and his friends. Women too; women would really go for Mucius Soranus. They might regret it later, mind.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he said to the slave. ‘And what the hell is that?’

  Not exactly full of welcoming good cheer. Well, that made things easier. ‘My name’s Marcus Corvinus,’ I said. ‘I’m here about a young friend of yours, Sextus Papinius.’