The Accusers

LIII

FOUND THE two elder statesmen sharing their usual friendly cake and tisane. Honorius was with them. Maybe he too wanted to sort out something helpful for Falco and Associates. Who was I fooling? Our colleague was here to protect his own interests.

Nobody seemed surprised to see me. Silius, that manoeuvring overfed blob, used his foot to hook over a seat from another table. Although not part of our case, he stayed on, looking a misery as usual. I seated myself. Paccius, ever restrained in society, moved their plate of almond fancies slightly; I declined. All their togas were piled in a heap together on another bench. I kept mine folded on my knees. I needed the warmth. It was a cold day and I was in company that chilled me.

Here we sat, among the fine Doric columns of black and red marble in the Porticus of Gaius and Lucius, named for the grandsons of Augustus, lost golden boys whose early deaths symbolised dashed hopes. We occupied a peaceful corner outside the shops, close to one of the staircases that took people up from this gracious porch-like frontage to the richly ornate upper gallery of the Basilica Paulli. This was sophisticated living. Or it should have been. But I was doing business with men who lacked all honour, faith and decency.

I gazed at Honorius. Never had his well-shaved handsome young visage seemed so objectionable. `I take it we have lost your fine presence from our team, Honorius?'

He knew I meant he had stuffed us.

`I am sorry, Falco.' If he was abashed, his regret was cursory. `It seems best to go back to Silius.'

The idealist had turned realist and I told him not to apologise. It was Metellus Negrinus who took Honorius on. I had known what he was from the start. Privately, my concern now was what he had told his two manipulating masters. He was bound to have told them something; it would be the price of their welcome home to the wanderer.

I turned to Paccius. `You will have gathered from our approach to the judge yesterday that we have had to reconsider the evidence.'

`You accept that Calpurnia Cara is innocent?'

`No, I think she has a lot to answer for. But we shall withdraw our murder charge.'

`My client will be delighted,' Paccius said mildly. He had no need to gloat and he was too subtle to mention huge damages. His calm air of self-assurance made the prospect all the more frightening.

I pressed on with trying to negotiate. `Silius, our new evidence means your petition against Negrinus will not hold up. He did not kill his father. If you go for it, we can wipe you out. Be grateful: we are preventing you from embarking on a fruitless case.' Silius laughed. Paccius pretended to be politely absorbed in something else, while Honorius looked embarrassed. `But you still need to prove formally that Rubirius Metellus did not commit suicide, so you can claim your compensation. We know what happened. I can offer you a bargain -'

`I'm not buying,' said Silius, enjoying himself. `I know that Metellus was murdered by Saffia.'

Honorius was staring at the ground. Since I arrived, an almond cake crimped with one forlorn bite had lain untouched in front of him. I was right: Silius had bought him. Now I knew how. Paccius, in league with Silius despite their alleged feud, had promised Honorius he would waive any Calpurnia compensation which Marponius awarded against him. So Honorius had given this pair my saleable information.

I kept my thoughts to myself. Expressionless, I stood up and said I would see them in court.

Maybe Honorius had a conscience – though if so, it would not last among those liver-pecking eagles. As I went back across the Forum to the Basilica, he did rush after me. He was agitated.

`Falco! Just let me say this: my leaving is not as bad as you think.'

`Oh no?' At the base of a statue plinth I rounded on him. `You mean, you have not dumped us because we're in trouble – and you did not tell those bastards we identified Saffia as the killer?'

`I've left you,' he conceded. `And the timing stinks. But they already knew about Saffia.'

I paused. `They knew?'

`Paccius knew Bratta bought the hemlock for her. And she told Bratta she wanted it for her father-in-law.'

`Well, that was correct!' I stopped. `How did Paccius know?'

`When Saffia left Negrinus, Paccius advised on their divorce. He sent Bratta to help with her removals. She knew what kind of work Bratta did. When she asked about buying poison, Bratta reported straight back to Paccius.'

`So did Paccius encourage – or better still, order – Bratta to help acquire the hemlock…?' Honorius and I knew we would find no answer to that red hot question.

Paccius Africanus was tangled up in this business to a degree that I would call unethical – had ethics had any place in his world. If he was party to Bratta's purchase, we could charge him with incitement, or with being an accessory to murder. But I would never prove it.

I was wondering whether Paccius realised Bratta might have killed Spindex. I doubted if Honorius knew. Even Paccius might be in the dark: Bratta may have acted on his own initiative. None of them knew yet that Bratta was wanted by the vigiles. Perhaps a sordid backstreet killing which Paccius had never authorised might yet be used to topple the informers' elaborate schemes. `Bratta has disappeared, Honorius. Do they know where he is?'

`Bratta? Paccius has the rogue as a house guest at his own mansion.' Hmm. I wondered if we could lift Bratta. Not that Petronius Longus, whose remit was the Aventine, would agree to go north of the Forum. He wouldn't want to raid an ex-consul's grand abode either. I would have to extract Bratta myself.

`One last thing – Did they both know about Saffia? Paccius and Silius?' Ashamed of his new compatriots, Honorius nodded. `And did they know from the start?'

`I suppose they may have done.'

At long last I saw it all. If the two informers knew all along who killed Metellus, everything since had been a set-up. They had deliberately failed to prosecute Saffia herself They had toyed with Rubiria Juliana, then worked around to Metellus Negrinus. They manipulated me, hoping I would make a counter-charge – one they always knew could not hold up. They could have stopped the Calpurnia prosecution at any time. They had Bratta as a star witness. With his tale of buying the poison for Saffia, they were all set to run up their compensation claim against Falco and Associates.

As it turned out, being ethical idiots, Falco and Associates had saved them the bother.

I wondered if Paccius and Silius had deliberately planted Honorius amongst us as a spy. For a moment I even wondered if they had primed the steward to spout his story about Saffia's quails now, at a time that suited them. However, I guessed their information all came from Bratta.

Something else struck me. Maybe the two informers' crafty tricks went back much further than I had realised. If they knew about Saffia and the quails, maybe they knew whatever secret Saffia had used to blackmail the Metelli.

Finally, I began to grasp the scale – and the long timescale – of their devious plans. They had lined up the Metelli as victims years ago.

I, too, could take advantage of my opponents' weaknesses. When pushed, I abandoned all scruples. At the Basilica Julia, I left a message for Petronius. I dared not say much; any court official might be in Paccius' pay. But I asked Petro to wait for me outside. That sounded innocuous. Then I set off alone.

At the elegant home of Paccius Africanus, I gave a false name. The suave slaves were not competent enough to remember me. They accepted my fake byline, though they then denied that Bratta was indoors. I sent in word for him anyway. I said Paccius had run into setbacks and wanted Bratta urgently at the court.

Bratta came out eventually. Emerging from a doorway, I followed him. He walked with an informer's gait, confident but unobtrusive. He was checking for observers, but he never spotted me. I grew so jumpy I found myself glancing behind me in case Bratta had brought a shadow, who might now be tailing me… Apparently not. He just walked on, sometimes swapping the side of the street, but not bothering to use double-backs. He was methodical, but must have felt secure.

When he reached the Forum, he seemed to grow more wary. He crossed the historic piazza by way of the narrow, little-used path between the Regia and the back end of the Temple of Divine Julius. From the shadow of the Arch of Augustus, he checked for trouble, hoping he would see it first. He failed to spot a tall, quiet man in brown standing immediately above him on the steps of the Temple of Castor: Petronius Longus. Petro had seen Bratta lurking by the Arch, and he had seen me.

Bratta stepped out on to the Sacred Way. Lifting him would be easy. What would be hard was lifting him without the public noticing.

I moved closer. Petronius remained still. All around us were people at their normal tasks, weaving to and fro across the Forum in intricate patterns. Bratta was too hesitant; a garland-seller bumped into him. He had lost his rhythm; he was knocking against people. He had sensed his mistake. He was nervous. This was too public, and he was starting to doubt that my message had been genuine. But he still had not seen us. I signalled to Petro and we both moved in.

We reached him together. We had surprised him, but he was extremely strong. We took him, after a struggle. He was almost at the Basilica steps by then. He had kicked me in the guts, and he had bitten Petro. There was blood streaming down his tunic, where he had ignored my threatening knife. Petronius had finally subdued him, using vigiles aggression.

Bratta had never called for help. A loner by trade, he may not even have thought of it. As we hustled him away down a sidestreet, nobody saw us go.

`Thanks, Petro. This is Bratta – to be dumped in a very secure cell. Don't bother to tell anyone you have him. Don't tell them, even if they come asking.'

Some of Petro's men appeared. They surrounded our prisoner. Out of sight of passers-by, he must have received some nasty punishment. I heard him grunt. Petronius winced. Then he slapped my shoulder. `I knew it must be something good, if you were not bothering to go to court. Best trot in there now, though.'

`I'll just instruct you first -'

`Don't bother: I'll persuade the brute to admit he strangled Spindex.'

`Easy on the persuasion.'

`Unlike the Second, we keep them breathing; Sergius is a cat with a mouse. He enjoys watching little creatures trying to survive – he can stay playful for a very long time.'

Petro had aimed his remarks at Bratta, but I lowered my voice. `Well, don't just get him on the killing – make him confess who ordered it. If it was Paccius or Silius, tell me before you tell the Urban Praetor.'

Petronius nodded understandingly. Linking the two elite informers to a sleazy murder seemed my only hope of escaping from the mess I was in. `Falco, get into court. You want to be present when the bastards shaft you.'

He was right. I retrieved my toga, which I had earlier left with an usher, and slid into the Basilica just as Paccius was having fun tearing my reputation to pieces. Luckily I never had much.

Apart from Petronius, everyone I knew seemed to be there listening. Well, they would be. People love to see their friends brought down, don't they?

The Accusation against Calpurnia Cara: C. Paccius Africanus on M. Didius Falco

… Consider what type of man he is. What is known of his history? He was in the army. As a young recruit he was sent to the province of Britain. It was the time of the Boudican Rebellion, that savage event in which so many Roman lives were lost. Of the four legions then in Britain, some were subsequently honoured for their bravery and the glory of their victory over the rebels. Was Falco among their number? No. The men in his legion disgraced themselves by not responding to the call from their colleagues for help. They stayed in camp. They did not fight. Others were left to achieve honour, while the Second Augusta, including Didius Falco, abandoned them, earning only disgrace. It is true that Falco was obeying orders; others were culpable – but remember, as a servant of the Senate and People that was his heritage.

He claims he was then a scout. I can find no record of this. He left the army. Had he served his time? Was he wounded out? Was he sent home with an honourable diploma? No. He wheedled himself an exit, under terms that are shrouded in secrecy.

We next hear of this man, operating as the lowest type of informer from a dingy base on the Aventine. He spied on bridegrooms, destroying their hopes of marriage with slanders -

`Objection!'

`Overruled, Falco. I've seen you do it.'

`Only to naughty fortune-hunters, Marponius -'

`And what does that make you?'

`Objection sustained, your honour.'

He preyed on widows in their time of bereavement -

'Oh objection, please!'

`Sustained. Strike out the widows. Even Falco has a conscience.'

Let's not quibble, gentlemen: Didius Falco did seedy work, often for unpleasant people. Some time around then, he had a stroke of enormous luck for a man of his class. The daughter of a senator fell in love with him. It was a tragedy for her family, but for Falco it proved a passport to respectability. Ignoring the pleas of her parents, the headstrong young woman ran off with her hero. Her noble father's fortunes declined sharply from that moment. Her brothers were soon to be inveigled into Falco's web – you have seen the young men in this court, subject to his incorrigible influence. Now, instead of the promising careers that once lay ahead, they are facing ruin with him.

And what is his occupation now? Accusing a respectable matron of murder. The most hateful crime – in which even Falco now admits he 'was mistaken'. There was 'other evidence', which proves that 'somebody else did it'.

I shall pass over the slurs and scandalous barbs he has aimed at me personally. I can withstand his attacks. Those who know me will not be influenced by them. Any hurt I have felt personally as I listened to his insulting tirade will pass.

Your honour, it is for you that I feel most angry. He has used your court as a platform for an ill-considered charge, backed by no evidence and fronted only by his bravado. As you can see, my client, Calpurnia Cara, is simply too distressed to attend the court today. Battered and assaulted from all sides, she is reduced to a wraith. I know she sends her apologies and pleads to be excused. This noble woman has withstood enough. I ask you, I beg you, to acknowledge her wounded feelings with exemplary damages. May I suggest that what Calpurnia Cara has suffered requires nothing short of a million sesterces to remove the harm done?

Dear gods. I must have an ear affliction. He cannot have said that. A million?

Well, he made a mistake, then. The great Paccius had overplayed it. Marponius was an equestrian. When the financial entry for the judge's own social rank is only four hundred thousand, to ask the price of qualification to the Senate, on behalf of a woman, was crazy. Marponius blinked. Then he belched nervously and when he gave the award he reduced the figure asked to half.

Half a million sesterces. It was a hard struggle to stay calm.

The Camilli might bring in something, but I expected little from them. In our partnership, insofar as we had ever discussed money, I was using the brothers as unpaid apprentices. This was down to me. I was stuck with a personal debt I could in no way afford. My banker had told me bluntly: I could not raise half a million even if I sold everything I owned.

I closed my eyes and somehow managed not to scream or weep.

That was just as well. Looking fraught would have been bad at my next appointment. While the court was still closing, I received a message that the praetor wanted to see me right now about my impiety case. There was no escape. He had sent one of his official bodyguards to enforce my attendance. So, escorted by a lictor complete with his bundle of rods (and feeling as if I was about to receive a public beating), I was marched off At least it got me out of the Basilica, before anyone could voice their insincere regrets over my downfall. I was now poorer than the average slave. At least a slave is allowed to salt away some pocket money. I would need every copper to pay Paccius and Calpurnia.

The lictor was a brute but he refrained from using the rods on me. He could see I was a broken man. There would have been no fun in

it.