Only…
Only there was the niggle that just wouldn’t go away. I kept sticking on two things. One was Atratinus’s insistence — backed up by my own gut feeling — that Papinius was as straight as they come; the second was how the kid had died. Razor, knife, sword, poison even at a pinch, fair enough; but no aristocratic Roman, if he’s got a choice in how he’s going to kill himself, chooses to jump from a tenement window. That’s just not the way we do things. It’s just too bloody infra dig.
Besides, from what Atratinus had told me Papinius hadn’t signalled it. And although I hadn’t asked Caepio direct, he hadn’t implied that the kid was unduly upset or preoccupied immediately beforehand, either. That wasn’t natural. Plus there was the absence of a suicide note…
That Papinius had committed suicide out of guilt and the fear of exposure made sense, complete sense, sure, no argument. But it just didn’t…fucking…fit!
I took a long swallow of wine. I hadn’t been in this place before, and I doubted that I’d bother to repeat the experience because the wine was over-priced and second-rate. No wonder the guy behind the bar hadn’t objected to a flatulent Gallic boarhound on his premises. Lucky for me, really, but then I was getting used to breathing through my mouth.
Right. So let’s assume that the perfect, logical solution was a load of balls. Start with the assumption that Papinius wasn’t crooked, he wasn’t taking bribes, and — most important of all — he didn’t kill himself. Also, shelve the problem of the sixty thousand sesterces for the moment, plus the whole question of what did happen in that Aventine tenement.
Where did that leave us?
Either with Balbus lying through his teeth for reasons of his own, or with the whole business being a setup. That was where.
The first scenario was about as likely as a flying pig. I didn’t know Balbus personally, but I knew him by reputation and the guy was lily white: good at his job, honest, trustworthy — as far as any career politician can be honest and trustworthy — and with no dirty laundry in the basket, at least any that gossip could pull out. And Roman gossip is pretty thorough. Besides, what would he gain by fingering young Papinius? He couldn’t be on the fiddle himself and trying, somehow, to cover his tracks through a subordinate; the commission had been set up by the Wart in person, Tiberius was no fool where sniffing out peculation was concerned, and he got very serious about crooked government officials. The game just wasn’t worth the candle, and if Balbus was bucking for consul in a few years — which he would be, as aedile — then he’d be a fool to put his reputation on the line for a few thousand silver pieces, even if we did have a change of emperor by that time.
So scratch that. Balbus wasn’t lying, at least not intentionally; he’d told me the truth as he saw it. Which meant we were left with the setup theory…
Only that was flying-pigs country as well. If Papinius had been set up then why and for what? Who the hell would bother fitting a no-account, nineteen-year-old kid into a frame and then — presumably — faking his suicide?
Shit; the whole boiling was one endless frustration: look at it one way and it made sense, only it didn’t; turn it round and the same thing happened. The hell with it. I took a deep breath, then another slug of wine, and tried to calm down…
Okay. So forget logical theorising. We play it both ends against the middle, dig into the laundry basket at random and see what crawls out.
I’d still got two names to talk to, Mucius Soranus and Papinius’s girlfriend Cluvia. It was still early, the Saepta wasn’t too far off and the Cipian Mount was on the way home. Sod the wine; if I hurried, and Placida co-operated, I could manage both and still be back in time for Meton’s fish.
I reanimated the petomaniac dog and left.
I hadn’t gone two hundred yards before I knew — for definite this time — that I was being followed. Oh, sure, Perilla would’ve pooh-poohed the feeling, because it wasn’t logical, but even with all the little practical distractions like discouraging Placida from mugging passing bag-ladies for their shopping, cleaning up after donkeys and shoving her nose against slow-moving strangers’ bottoms the back of my neck was prickling all the way, and that’s something I’ve learned not to ignore. Who was tailing me exactly I didn’t know; the area round the Square and the Sacred Way is one of the busiest in Rome, the narrow streets don’t help matters, and taking your eyes off an overenthusiastic boarhound even long enough to glance over your shoulder is not a good idea. Still, I’d’ve bet every coin I’d got left in my belt-pouch that someone was there. Which was strange. Who the hell would bother, and why?
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.’