The Accusers

IV

RUBIRIUS METELLUS had lived in the style I expected. He owned a large home occupying its own block, on the Oppian Hill, just beyond Nero's Golden House, half a step from the Auditorium should he want to hear recitals, and an easy walk from the Forum when he conducted business. Booths for shops occupied street frontages on his home; some rich men leave them empty but Metellus preferred rents to privacy. His impressive main entrance was flanked by small obelisks of yellow Numidian marble. They looked ancient. I guessed war loot. Some military ancestor had grabbed them from a defeated people; perhaps he was in Egypt with Mark Antony or that prig Octavian. The former, most likely. Octavianus, with the nasty blood of Caesar in his veins and his eye to the main chance, would have been busy turning himself into Augustus and his personal fortune into the largest in the world. He would have tried to prevent his subordinates carrying off loot that could grace his own coffers or enhance his own prestige.

If a past Metellus had nonetheless snaffled some architectural salvage, maybe that was a clue to the whole family's attitude and skills.

I leaned on the counter of a bowl-and-beaker snackshop. I could see across the street to the Metellus spread. It had a weathered, selfconfident opulence. I had intended to ask questions of the food vendor but he looked at me as if he thought he had seen me before – and remembered we had had a row about his lentil pottage. Unlikely. I have style. I wouldn't order lentils any day.

`Phew! It's taken me hours to find this street.' It was a ten minute walk from the Sacred Way. Maybe if I looked fagged out he would pity me. Or maybe he would think I was an ignorant deadbeat, up to no good. `Is that the Metellus house?'

The man in the apron amended his glare to suggest I was a dead bluebottle, feet-up in his precious pottage. Forced to acknowledge my question, he produced a quarter of a nod.

`At last! I have business with the people there.' I felt like a clowning slave in a dire farce. `But I hear they had a tragedy. I don't want to upset them. Know anything about what happened?'

`No idea,' he said. Trust me to choose the outlet where Metellus deceased always bought his morning sesame cake. Loyalty makes me sick. Whatever happened to gossip?

`Well, thanks.' It was too early in the game to make myself unpleasant, so I refrained from accusing him of ruining my livelihood with his stingy responses. I might need him later.

I drained my cup, wincing at the sourness; some bitter herb had been added to much-watered-down wine. It was not a success.

The food vendor watched me all across the street. Being turned away by the door porter would be a deep humiliation, so I made sure it didn't happen. I said I was from the lawyer. The porter thought I meant their lawyer and I failed to put him straight. He let me in.

So far, so good. A small battered sphinx guarded the atrium pool. The wide-eyed wise one had stories to tell, but I could not dally. The decor was all polychrome floors and black frescos with gold leaf touch-ups. Perhaps an old house, revived by recent new money. Whose was that? Or was this an old grand mansion, now sinking into disarray? – I noticed an air of dusty neglect as I craned to look into the side rooms.

I did not make contact with any of the family. A steward saw me. He was an eastern-born slave or freedman, who seemed alert. Late forties, clearly with status in the household, efficient, well-spoken, probably cost a packet to purchase though that would have been some years back. I decided not to prevaricate; incurring a false-entry charge was a bad idea. `The name's Falco. Your porter may have misunderstood. I represent Silius Italicus. I am here to check a few details about your master's sad demise so he can write off his fees. First, allow me to express our most sincere condolences.'

`Everything is in order,' said the steward, almost as if they had expected this. It was not quite the correct response to my condolences and at once I mistrusted him. I wondered if Paccius Africanus had warned them here that we would try to investigate. 'Calpurnia Cara -'

I took out a note tablet and stylus. I kept my manner quiet. `Calpurnia Cara is?'

`My late master's wife.' He waited while I made notes. `My mistress arranged for seven senators to view the corpse and certify the suicide.'

I held my stylus still and gazed at him over the edge of my notebook. `That was very cool-headed.'

`She is a careful lady.'

Protecting a lot of money, I thought. Of course if it really was a suicide, the husband and wife may well have discussed what Metellus intended. Metellus may have instructed his wife to bring in the witnesses. Paccius Africanus would certainly have advised it, if he were involved. It was a chilling thought that counselling his client to die might be good legal advice.

`Do you know whether Calpurnia Cara tried to dissuade her husband from his planned course?'

`I imagine they talked about it,' the steward replied. `I don't know what was said.'

`Was the suicide announced to the household staff beforehand?'

He looked surprised. `No.'

`Any chance I might talk with your mistress?'

`That would not be appropriate.'

`She lives here?' He nodded. I made a small symbol on my tablet, without looking up. `And the son?' Another nod. I ticked that off too. `Is he married?'

A minute pause. 'Metellus Negrinus is divorced.' I made a longer entry.

`So.' Now I raised my eyes to the steward again. `Calpurnia Cara ensured that her husband's death was formally witnessed by noble friends. I assume you can provide me with the seven names, incidentally.' He was already producing a tablet from a pouch. These people were expertly organised. Grief had not confused them at all. `Was the viewing conducted before or after your master actually -?’

'Afterwards. Straight afterwards.'

`Were the witnesses in the house while he -'

`No, they were sent for.'

`And do you mind – I am sorry if this is very painful – but how did he…?'

I was expecting the classic scenario: on the battlefield a defeated general falls on his sword, usually needing help from a weeping subordinate because finding the space between two ribs and then summoning the strength to pull in a weapon upwards is damned difficult to fix for yourself. Nero cut his throat with a razor, but he was supposedly hiding in a garden trench at the time, where there may have been no elegant options; to be skewered on a dibber would have lacked the artistry he coveted. The traditional method in private life is to enter a warm bath and open your veins. This death is contained, relaxing, and reckoned to be more or less painless. (Mind you, it presupposes you live in a grand home with a bath.) For a senator, such an exit from disaster is the only civilised way out.

But it had not happened here.

`My master took poison,' said the steward.

V

TO INTERVIEW seven senators, I needed help. I returned home and summoned the Camilli. They had to be found first. I sent out my nephew Gaius, a lad about town recently returned from having his habits reformed in the country. It had not worked. He was still a layabout, but agreed to be my runner for his usual exorbitant sweetener. Trotting off to the senator's house to ask where the lads were supposed to be, he soon rousted out Aelianus from a bath house then rounded up Justinus, who was out shopping with his wife.

While I was waiting I did some budgeting, wrote an ode in my head, and replanted some flower tubs little Julia had `weeded'. Helena pounced. `I'm glad you're here. A woman called for you.'

`Oh good!' I leered.

`One of your widows.'

`Sweetheart, I promise you: I gave up widows.'

`You may do this one,' Helena assured me cruelly. `Her name is Ursulina Prisca and she is about sixty-five.'

I knew Ursulina. She had been badgering me for a long time to take on an extremely complex wrangle involving her estranged brother's will. She was half crazy. I could have coped with that; most of my clients were. But she talked a torrent, she smelt of cats, and she drank. A friend of hers had recommended me. I had never worked out who the friend was, though I would like to have strong words with them.

`She's a menace.'

Helena grinned. `I said you would be delighted to take on her work.'

`I am not available to the widow Ursulina! She tried to grab me by the balls once.'

`Don't make excuses.'

Luckily the lads turned up and I forgot the harassing widow.

I divided up the suicide witnesses, two to each of the lads while I took three.

`What was the point of having all these witnesses, Falco?' Aelianus asked fretfully.

`It's like getting your will ratified, if you are an important bean. Looks good. Deters questions. In theory it stops Forum gossip. In this case it also raises expectations of a good scandal.'

`Nobody will query certification by seven senators,' mocked Helena. `As if senators would ever conspire to lie!'

We would be lucky if any of the seven agreed to see us. Having signed the certificate, they would hope to be left alone. Senators try to be unobtainable to the public. To be asked about their noble signatures by a pack of harrying informers would seem outrageous.

Sure enough, Aelianus failed to interview either of the men allocated to him. Justinus saw one of his.

`A strike! How come?,

'I pretended I had a good tip on a horse race.'

`Smart!' I must try that.

`I wish I hadn't bothered. He was rude, Falco.'

`You expected that, you're grown up. Tell.'

`He grudgingly said they were all called to the house by Calpurnia Cara. She announced calmly that since losing the court case, her husband had decided to seek an honourable exit from public life. She told them he had taken poison that afternoon; he wished them – as his circle of friends – to observe the scene and formally certify suicide. This, she said, would simplify matters for his family. They knew what she meant. They did not see Metellus die, but inspected the corpse. He was lying on his bed, dead. He wore a grimace, had a nasty pallor, and smelt of diarrhoea. A small sardonyx pillbox lay open on a side table. The seven men all signed the declaration, which the widow has.'

`Flaw,' I chipped in. 'Metellus did not himself tell them his intentions. Then they did not see him actually swallow any pills.'

`Quite. How can they say he did it willingly?' Justinus agreed.

`Still, well done; at least we know what song these warblers want us to listen to.'

`How did you get on, Falco?' Aelianus then asked, hoping my record with the witnesses was as bad as his. I had spoken to all three of my targets. Experience tells. Aelianus replied that it also causes pomposity.

`All my subjects told the same story,' I reported. `One did concede it was bad form that they had not been addressed by Metellus beforehand. That's the ideal procedure in a council of friends. But they trust his wife, apparently – or they are scared of her – and I was assured that availing himself of the suicide ploy was entirely in character. Metellus hated to lose. He would enjoy thwarting his accusers.

`He won't enjoy much from the Underworld,' Aelianus muttered.

`Right, I think we'll end up telling Silius it stinks. Before we do, we'll go one stage further.'

`You'll try to see the strangely calm widow!' Justinus thought he was ahead of me.

I grinned. `Helena hates me seeing widows.'

`I know -' Helena herself had it right: `He is sending me. And if I am successful in gaining entry, Falco will arrive halfway through, as if innocently collecting me to walk me home.' I had not thought of that. `Don't do it,' she said immediately. `Keep out of my way, Falco. Calpurnia and I may become great friends.'

`Of course. You'll go back there to swap bangles and gossip every afternoon.'

`No, darling. I just want to ask her advice on procedure, in case I ever decide things are so bad, you should poison yourself.'

`I'll take that as a threat! – Well if I do it, I don't want seven sleazebags invited to sit on the bed and watch.'

I waited around a corner, perching on a bollard. I might be banned from joining Helena in her visit to Calpurnia Cara, but I had brought her to the Metellus spread and I would walk her safely home. Rome is a city of dangers.

When she reappeared, looking thoughtful, I decided not to press her but to make the long hike home first. We had to traverse most of the length of the Forum, pass around the base of the Capitol and Palatine Hills, then skirt the end of the Circus Maximus. At least since moving to Pa's house, we no longer had the steep haul up the Aventine, but Helena looked tired when we finally staggered home. It was dinnertime, we had our children to attend to, and before we found a chance to talk the rest of the household was in bed. We went up to the roof terrace to watch the bright stars overhead and the dim lights down along the riverbank. A single oil lamp glimmered on a table among the trained rose trees. Insects plunged at it madly, so we sat a little apart in shadow.

`So,' I prompted. `You were welcomed in?'

`Well, I was allowed in,' Helena corrected me. `I pretended that my mother had sent commiserations. Calpurnia Cara knew she had never met me, but she may have been unsure who Mama was. In case they were old acquaintances who had talked for four hours at the last secret gathering for the Good Goddess, she felt obliged to be polite.'

I shuddered. Traditional religion has that effect. I was relieved that Helena had never expressed any interest in the notorious female goings-on in honour of the so-called Good Goddess. My own religious observance stopped short at the guano-spattered environs of the Temple of Juno, where I had duties as the Procurator of Juno's Sacred Geese – a merry jest of the Emperor's. `So what is Calpurnia like?'

`Between fifty and sixty, as you would expect from her husband's and son's positions in the Senate. I wouldn't call her handsome, but -' Helena paused. `She had bearing and presence.'

That sounded as if Calpurnia was a vicious old bat. Since my own life's companion certainly had presence, I was careful of my phrasing: `She would have been no cipher in the marriage?'

`Oh no. She's a little defensive -'

`Bad tempered?'

`Let's say, very confident. Well groomed, but not wearing much jewellery. She seems cultured; there were reading-scrolls in the room. Mind you, there was a wool basket too, yet I reckon that was just for show! I can't see the lady actually spinning like a traditional good wife.'

`You suspect a slave had been sent out in a hurry to buy some wool so they could stage-manage appearances?'

`Could be. She had a mousy maid in attendance, to look modest.'

`How formal? Was she veiled?'

`Don't be silly, Marcus; she was at home. Her manner was reserved, but it should be, with nosy strangers coming to her house for days, trying to catch her out.'

`She was receiving well-wishers, though?'

`A queue of callers; I gathered I was lucky to find her alone. I felt that accepting condolences – from both genuine friends and even the wickedly curious – was an ordeal which Calpurnia Cara quite enjoys.'

`A duty?'

`A challenge.'

`She wants to test her own endurance?' I wondered.

`Oh I think she knows how capable she is,' Helena replied warmly.

The air temperature was dropping. Helena reached for her stole, which I helped to tuck around her. As usual it was a good excuse to explore her body affectionately.

`Do you want to hear this, Marcus?'

`Of course.' I was perfectly capable of groping a woman while extracting her evidence. My profession calls for a man to be physically adroit and mentally versatile, often at the same time. I could take notes while scratching my bum too.

`She told me what you already knew. Nothing added and nothing different. It seems very well rehearsed.' Despite the dusk, I knew that Helena had read my thoughts and smiled. `That does not necessarily make it untrue.'

`Perhaps,' I agreed.

`One other thing -' There was a new note of mischief in Helena's tone. `I didn't see the son, of course. I couldn't tell if he was in the house. They call him Birdy, by the way; I don't know why. I took the opportunity to ask one of the staff for an address for junior's divorced wife – ostensibly so I could pay condolences there too.' I said nothing. `Unless you want to take over that visit?' she enquired, in apparent innocence.

`You know me so well.'

`I expect you will claim,' Helena scoffed, `the divorcee may give us another side of the story. This may be a crucial breakthrough and you need to expose her directly to your experienced interrogatory skills?'

`My love, how comfortable it is to have a wife who understands my business.'

`Her name is Saffia Donata – and you need to know in advance that she is causing trouble!'

I said that sounded like exactly the kind of sweet little breakthrough I was looking for.

`She has three children and some money.' An excellent briefing. Helena Justina made a wonderful work partner – thorough, discreet, witty, and even fair to me. `I did not ask if she is pretty.'

I said I could discover that for myself