In at the Death (Marcus Corvinus Book 11)

by David Wishart

  ‘Yeah, well, after I explained to him that he’d run into the stone Priapus by the flower bed –’

  ‘Marcus, you didn’t!’ She was laughing.

  ‘The guy was completely out of it, lady. He’d’ve believed anything I told him. And anyway the whole thing was his fault: she’d been planning it from the start, and if he hadn’t encouraged her she’d never have been near the kitchen.’ I stripped off my tunic. ‘He was just grateful that when he hit the statue he was facing forwards.’

  She pulled back the blanket. ‘What was Lippillus talking to you about?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Marcus! You managed that very well between you, not to mention Marcina, but I’m not entirely gormless. It had to do with Papinius’s murder, didn’t it?’

  I grinned and moved across to the bed: gormless she mightn’t be, but the lady had a streak of curiosity a yard wide, and I knew she’d been itching to ask me all evening. ‘Yeah. Lucceius Caepio hanged himself yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ She frowned. Then she said, hesitantly: ‘I suppose he genuinely did hang himself? I mean –’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I thought.’ I blew out the lamp and got in beside her. ‘Jury’s still out. Not that it matters all that much in the long run. The really odd thing was that Mescinius found a key in the guy’s desk that fits the lock of the top-floor flat.’

  Perilla sat up. ‘But that’s –’

  ‘Really odd. Right. I just said so.’

  ‘Marcus, there wasn’t another key to the flat! Not one that Caepio should’ve had, anyway.’

  ‘Check. Even slow-as-paint-drying Mescinius noticed that. There was the one on the board, that Papinius took, that was found on the body and that Mescinius still has, and a second that was on Caepio’s duplicate bunch; I know that for a fact, because I used it myself when I was inspecting the flat. So where did the third come from? And why did Caepio have it?’

  Long silence. Then she said slowly: ‘Of course, if it was the one the murderers used to get in –’

  ‘Then Caepio must’ve given them it. In which case he knew who they were, and he was involved after all up to his eyeballs. Yeah, I’d got that far myself. But it doesn’t make sense. Caepio wasn’t lying; no way was he lying! So why did he have that extra key?’

  ‘Unless he didn’t. The same people who killed Papinius could’ve murdered Caepio and put it in the desk themselves.’

  ‘Why the hell would they do that?’

  ‘To implicate Caepio? I mean, if a third key were found –’

  I punched the mattress. ‘Perilla, that is crazy! It’d be a wasted effort! Caepio was no killer, not even by proxy! I’d swear to that myself!’

  ‘All right. Then where did the key come from? Look, what are the options? Either Caepio had the key originally and gave it to the murderers who gave it back when they were finished, or they had their own key and slipped it into the desk when they faked Caepio’s suicide. There isn’t any other explanation.’

  ‘Fine. So let’s take them one at a time.’ I leaned back on the pillow and closed my eyes. ‘Scenario one. It assumes premeditation on the part of Caepio and/or his boss Carsidius. Right?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Perilla, it’s a third key. Tenement flats only have two on-site, one for the tenant and one for the factor, and where the top flat’s concerned they’re accounted for. Either Caepio had to have it specially made, or he had to get the already-existing third from Carsidius’s bailiff on some pretext or other, or Carsidius had to get it from his bailiff himself. Which means that either the one or the both of them decoyed Papinius to the tenement, which means that they’re individually or jointly the murderers, or at least they instigated the killing. You follow?’

  ‘Of course I follow. I told you, I’m not gormless.’

  ‘Good. Don’t sniff. Motive’s fine, or possibly fine: Carsidius was working some scam to do with compensation for property lost or damaged in the Aventine fire, the kid found out and threatened to report it. Opportunity, too: it was Carsidius’s tenement, and getting Papinius there at a suitable time would’ve been easy-peasie. There’re only two flies in the ointment, but they’re biggies. One, both Caepio and Carsidius swore they’d nothing to do with Papinius’s death, and for different reasons I believe them. Two, why should the actual killers return the key at all? It’s served its purpose. Why not chuck it in the Tiber or something similar and get rid of the incriminating evidence?’

  ‘So you think the second theory’s the more likely? That the murderers - double murderers - planted it to implicate Caepio, and through him Carsidius?’

  ‘Gods, lady, I don’t know! If they weren’t in Carsidius’s pay then how did they get their hands on a key in the first place? Whose pay were they in, if anyone’s? And why target a respectable senator and his factor? Besides, there was no guarantee lamebrain Mescinius would even find it, quite the reverse. The second scenario’s just too fucking complicated.’

  ‘Marcus –’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I know. But I just feel where this case is concerned that I’m bashing my head against a brick wall.’ I put an arm round her. ‘Whichever way you turn it, it doesn’t make any sense. One thing, though. Caepio had beans to spill, and so does his boss. Carsidius may be no killer, or not of Papinius anyway, but he’s in something, somewhere, up to his neck, and he’s covering like crazy.’

  She snuggled against me. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll work out eventually.’

  Yeah. Right. When pigs sprouted wings and looped the loop above Capitol Hill.

  20

  I woke up the next morning no further forward. Okay; so what now?

  I’d tried things head-on and got nowhere; it’d been like looking at one of these Parthian rugs proper-side-up, at the pattern the weaver wants you to see. Fine. So let’s do it another way: turn the rug over on its front and look at the underside. Lucius Carsidius might be squeaky-clean and one of the doyens of the senate, but like I’d said to Perilla the guy was covering something; that I’d bet my back teeth on. I hadn’t forgotten Mucius Soranus and his good friend - however much she denied it - Lucia Albucilla, either. Plus various odds and sundries that I’d think up as matters progressed.

  All of which meant I needed to talk to one guy: Caelius Crispus.

  We went back a long way, Crispus and me; certainly further than he’d like to recall sober. Not that it made for a good relationship, because the bugger would cheerfully have eaten my liver raw. So. Not exactly a friend. Nonetheless, if the three-faced, immoral, slimy, blackmailing bastard did happen to be run down by a cart as he was crossing the road or - more likely - was pulled out of the Tiber wearing concrete boots something precious would go out of the world. The air would smell cleaner, mind, but in his own sweet way Crispus was unique, a professional dirt-digger to his carefully-manicured fingernails who took an honest pride in his work and a craftsman’s delight in thoroughness and attention to detail. As a result, what he didn’t know about the top five hundred’s dirty linen just wasn’t worth the effort.

  Well, the good thing about last night was that Placida was firmly grounded. After Lippillus and Marcina had gone, I’d sent in the heavy squad, they’d dragged her out from the bush she was lying under in a sturgeon-induced stupor, and we’d shackled her in ignominy to one of the peristyle pillars. Not even Perilla objected. And if Sestia Calvina had turned up unexpectedly the lady would probably have punched her lights out.Perilla can get very serious about some things, like sturgeon cooked in saffron wine must, for example. And she has a vicious left hook.

  So no walkies today. I ate a quick breakfast and set out for Market Square. If he hadn’t been poisoned, knifed, strangled or more legitimately disposed of by one of his erstwhile victims, Crispus would be over at the praetors’ offices on the Capitol where he was one of the foreign judges’ reps. With any luck I could catch him and make his day while the bastard was still fresh enough to enjoy it.

  Market Square, as it usually is that tim
e of the morning, was already heaving. There must’ve been another senate session pending, because the area between the senate-house and the Julian Hall was packed with broad-stripers in groups of two or three, engaged in the quaint time-honoured Roman custom of pre-session wheeling and dealing, backbiting and general character assassination. I noticed, over by the senate-house door, Lucius Carsidius in deep conversation with a couple of other senior broad-stripers, one of whom was my old pal Lucius Arruntius. Carsidius glanced up as I passed, then turned his back when I gave him a cheery wave. Arruntius ignored me, too. Yeah, well; it’s nice to be popular.

  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 w
as, 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.’

  Bells were going off all over my brain. Shit! Perilla had told me who Albucilla was, but at the time it hadn’t registered: the widow of one of Aelius Sejanus’s closest supporters who’d turned informer to save his skin when the bastard fell but had died himself the following year. Now Crispus was telling me that she’d been a lot more at the time than just the surviving relict; and that, given certain much more recent events, was interesting. Oh, sure, we were talking old history - Sejanus had been dead for five years - and it could be pure coincidence. Nonetheless, it gave us a link. ‘You’re telling me that Albucilla was Sejanus’s mistress?’ I said.

  ‘A mistress. A mistress, Corvinus. One of several. That bastard got around, and being the charismatic guy he was he had more than one outwardly-respectable matron willing to drop her pants for him. If you ask me, Lucia Albucilla was the real Sejanan of the partnership. Certainly she’d more guts than Secundus had.’

  ‘You said she and Soranus were an item, a long-standing item.’ Hell. So much for the lady’s calling him an acquaintance; but then my guess was that at the time she’d been running scared and just wanted rid of me. ‘Any idea why they broke up?’

  ‘Uh-uh. She didn’t say, he didn’t say. Not to anyone. But whatever it was, it was sudden.’

  ‘She do much in the way of cradle-snatching?’