Gods! Yeah; that was the bottom line, it was expected. I wasn’t surprised, not really; I’d been there myself at that age and lost more shirts than you’d see in a Suburan laundry. But there again, with what my grandfather had left me as personal income I was lucky, I could afford it. Sextus Papinius couldn’t, and it wasn’t his fault: reluctant gambler or not, the lad wouldn’t’ve been human if he’d broken ranks to that degree, and at his age it’s easy to get out of your depth before your brain kicks in and stops you. The real responsibility lay with adult bastards like Mucius Soranus who knew full well what was happening and encouraged it. Lived off it.
‘Was that why Papinius killed himself?’ I said gently. ‘Because of a gambling debt to Soranus that he couldn’t pay?’
Atratinus glared at me for a long time. Then he shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Yes, it’s possible. But I don’t…fucking…know! All right?’
Uh-oh; sensitive ground. Back off, Corvinus. ‘Okay. Okay, pal,’ I said. ‘No hassle. We’ll leave it at that.’ In any case, I’d be raising the question with Soranus himself before either of us were much older, and the gods help the bastard if he didn’t give me a straight answer first shot. ‘Let’s change the subject. Tell me about the job aspect of things.’ I was making conversation now, going through the motions. As far as the main reason for Sextus Papinius killing himself was concerned, I reckoned I’d cracked it. Not that the answer didn’t leave me feeling sick to my stomach.
Atratinus was looking pale, but at least the anger had gone out of his eyes. ‘There’s not much to tell,’ he said. ‘We started together, when the commission was first set up three months ago. Sextus was on top of the work, he enjoyed it, he got on well with everyone. No problems there, that I can swear to.’
‘He was appointed on his father’s recommendation? Papinius Allenius, the ex-consul?’
‘That’s right. Allenius bypassed the senatorial staffing board and put the request direct to Ahenobarbus himself. Sextus was pretty proud, because he and his father hadn’t seen much of each other. You know about that side of things?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I do.’ Odd; but then like Rupilia had said her ex was the old-fashioned type who took his responsibilities seriously. Certainly he couldn’t’ve made more effective — or expensive — use of his consular clout, because Domitius Ahenobarbus was one of the commission’s four top men, the husband of old Augustus’s granddaughter Agrippina and so Prince Gaius’s brother-in-law. A five-star imperial, in other words, or four-star anyway. And in the political game you didn’t use up an imperial’s favours lightly. No wonder Rupilia had said she and Sextus were grateful. ‘So what did the work actually entail?’
‘We’re the commissioners’ legs and eyes.’ Atratinus had started back in on his meatballs, and he was a lot calmer now. ‘There’re six of us altogether. It’s our job to check out the compensation claims that’ve been made inside our particular section of the total area. Check them out physically, I mean, as well as on paper. If a property owner claims his property was completely burned down, or damaged beyond repair, we visit the site itself to make sure he’s telling the truth. Same with the lesser damage claims. You’d be surprised what some chancers’ll try to get away with when there’s an imperial-backed compensation scheme up and running, but no cash changes hands until we’ve authenticated the claim six ways from nothing. You understand?’
‘Yeah.’ Typical Wart: the old bugger might be ready to peg out at long last — I’d give him six months, max — but he hadn’t lost any of his marbles. Tiberius had always been careful with money, the state’s especially, and where spending it was concerned — even when his public street-cred demanded that he be generous — he was cannier than a Paduan sheep-farmer. ‘So it’s a responsible job?’
‘Damn right it’s responsible.’ Atratinus took a swig of his wine. ‘You can’t take anything for granted. Like I said, some of the property owners are bent as hell, and not all of them are tunics or plain-mantles, either. We don’t have the final say, of course — that’s up to the aediles, or the commissioners themselves in the last analysis — but there’s so much property involved that we’re given a pretty free hand.’
‘And Sextus’s patch was where?’
‘The south-west corner of the Aventine. Where he — ’ Atratinus stopped abruptly.
‘Where he died,’ I said quietly. ‘Right.’
‘The tenement where it happened wasn’t one of the damaged ones, but the manager had a flat there. He was responsible for two or three burned-out properties further up the hill.’
‘What was his name again? Caepio, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right. Lucceius Caepio.’
‘You happen to know the actual owner?’
Atratinus frowned. ‘No. There I can’t help you, not off-hand, anyway. I could check up, if you like. It’ll be on record.’
‘No, that’s okay. I’ll be talking to Caepio shortly myself.’ Going through the motions. I took another gulp of Massic, but it didn’t help. ‘Uh…one last thing, pal. Did Papinius tell anyone he was visiting that particular tenement at that particular time?’
I don’t know why I asked the question; maybe it was my suspicious nature, maybe it was because throwing yourself out of a tenement window wasn’t exactly the preferred method of suicide for someone with Papinius’s background. In any case, although I’d kept my voice neutral the kid was no fool. He glanced up quickly from his meatballs.
‘No one at the office, anyway,’ he said. ‘Or not unless he volunteered the information himself. That’s not how we work it.’
‘So how do you work it?’
‘We’ve each got our own list, and we take it how we want, when we want. Oh, sure, if Sextus was interviewing Caepio then he’d’ve arranged the meeting with him in advance. Naturally he would. But only he and Caepio would know.’
‘Unless Caepio himself told the owner.’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s true. But no one else would be involved.’
I topped up both our cups. ‘What about the actual, uh, death. You know anything about that?’
He swallowed: a sensitive soul, Marcus Atratinus, despite the haircut and the beard. ‘No. Nothing at all. Barring the broad details of where, when and how.’
‘Were you expecting it at all?’
‘No!’ That came out so short and sharp that I jumped. I noticed a few heads turn, and Placida shifted against my foot and growled. Atratinus smiled; or almost did. ‘I’m sorry, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘But no, I wasn’t expecting it. Why should I? I saw Sextus the morning of the day it happened. We talked about the party that evening, at Vettia Gemella’s — she’s my fiancee, it was her birthday. He was looking forward to it.’
‘Was he bringing Cluvia?’
‘No, actually, he wasn’t.’
‘Any reason?’
‘She wasn’t well. Or so he said.’
Uh-huh. ‘So when did you find out? That he’d killed himself, I mean?’
‘The next day. It was all over the office.’ He looked at his hands. ‘I still can’t believe it.’
‘That he’s dead? Or that he killed himself?’
He looked me straight in the eyes. ‘Both,’ he said.
Yeah, well, I’d got a lot here to think about, but the kid had done okay and I couldn’t complain…
Down at my feet there was a hssss, and a faint malodorous tendril of something that definitely wasn’t scent drifted up from floor-level. Oh, bugger. Speaking of complaints, I reckoned we were about due a whole roomful any second now. Time to be going; past time.
I stood up. ‘Head for the door, pal. Quick as you can.’
‘What?’ Atratinus was staring. Placida’s contribution to the proceedings obviously hadn’t reached him yet, but heads at the table behind me had begun to turn. It was all a question, as it were, of the prevailing wind…
‘Trust me,’ I said, lugging Placida to her feet.
A stool at my back shifted. Someone muttered: ‘Jupiter bloody hell!’