The Accusers mdf-15

by Lindsey Davis

  The praetor glared. He was aware that he had heard this request from our side, on behalf of Negrinus, and that he had crisply denied it. This time he was not defending the right of a senator to trial by like-minded nobility. Calpurnia was merely the daughter, wife and mother of senators.

  I could see why Paccius Africanus had taken up our ploy. The Senate had a long history of voting against women accused of murder by poison with mystical overtones; these sorceresses were packed straight off home to cut their wrists in a hot bath. While it was entirely in our interests that our accused should be put before the Senate, whose members would be outraged that one of their illustrious number had been slain at home by his wife, Paccius wanted to avoid it.

  'Oh yes. Magic belongs in the murders court,' the praetor announced.

  The chief magistrate in Rome may be a blithering incompetent, but when the magistrate makes a pronouncement, there is no appeal. We were stuck with it.

  Aelianus came back cold and angry from the Via Appia. It had taken him hours to find the Metellus mausoleum in the strung-out highway necropolis. When he did identify his goal, the door was locked. Breaking into a tomb is a serious offence. By the time Aelianus, a terrible burglar, managed to effect entry, it was dusk, he was scared he had attracted notice, and he had cut his hand. Inside, he was thwarted: no proper inscription had yet been provided.

  'Why, what did you see there?'

  'Nothing. It was bloody dark.'

  'Afraid of ghosts?'

  'No, robbers. And spells. That vicinity is famous for witches and perverts. I wouldn't hang about as prey. I had a quick look. There was nothing that named Negrinus – nor his mother, come to that. I identified the glass urn that contains the ashes of Metellus senior. Over it, there was just a marble tablet erected by the two daughters. I guess the proper plaque is still lying in some mason's yard. Either poor old hopeless Birdy has forgotten to organise it, or more likely he can't pay for it and the mason refuses to hand it over.'

  It fitted. We knew the impoverished son had had to beg for last minute inclusion on a freedman's plaque. Julius Alexander, who as a land agent would be able to afford a memorial to a patron, had allowed Negrinus to be tagged on to his own inscription. It must be hard for Birdy to see an ex-slave now prospering when he was so completely luckless.

  Was there something else dubious here? Julius Alexander, the mystery man in Lanuvium, could be yet another uppity one-time household staff member who was preying upon this family. I made sure that Justinus was primed to investigate when he rode off there next day.

  XXXV

  We made one last attempt to tackle the three Metellus siblings. Helena and I went to ask the questions. We had sent a message in advance, saying we would like both sisters to be present as well as Negrinus. The women were there when we arrived, and both had their husbands for back-up. This was the first time we had seen the whole group of five assembled together. Canidianus Rufus, who had seemed eager to stay out of things when I had interviewed his wife Juliana about her role in her father's death, now appeared more at ease. The presence of Verginius Laco may have encouraged him. Helena agreed afterwards that the party all knew each other well, and they seemed fairly affectionate.

  It was out of the question to demand that Saffia Donata join us, but I had said it would be helpful to invite Licinius Lutea. If asked, he did not show.

  'Have you and your dear friend quarrelled?' I murmured to Negrinus.

  He gave me one of his self-pitying exclamations. 'Oh no! He still speaks to me when I can be useful!'

  'Does he touch you for money?' I threw at him. Unlikely, now Negrinus was disinherited.

  Negrinus went very still. 'No. Lutea has never asked me for money.'

  I was not yet ready to retort, So he just uses his ex-wife, does he? Negrinus, with a flash of his understated intelligence, looked rueful, as if he knew exactly what I thought.

  At a glance from Helena I fell silent. She was to initiate the discussion, while I observed the parties.

  She sat on a couch, a little way from me. Tall and graceful, she had dressed in the style of a senator's daughter, adorned with favourite semiprecious jewellery over a long-sleeved white winter gown, formally wound with a voluminous dark red stole. Holding a note tablet, she looked like a high-class secretary – one keeping minutes for an empress who was plotting people's downfalls.

  'I maintain the records of our enquiries, so my husband has asked me to begin.' She rarely called me her husband, though that was the state I had reported in my Census return. We lived together. It was accurate. But Helena knew it always gave me a shock.

  She caught my eye and smiled slightly. I felt my lips twitch.

  'Falco and Associates will shortly defend Metellus Negrinus. They intend to pre-empt the charge that he killed his father by showing that somebody else did so: Calpurnia Cara. This is hard for you – but I imagine it will not be a surprise.'

  People began to speak, but I held up a hand and stopped them.

  'At the trial we shall need to show motive and opportunity,' Helena continued. 'Metellus provided a motive by his will: his connection with Saffia. It is very unpleasant, but the issue of adultery and incest will come out in court. So what about opportunity? We no longer believe,' Helena announced in her measured tones, 'the story we have been given about when Rubirius Metellus died. All of you concurred in the fabrication – that he retired to his bed and killed himself, on the day that his body was witnessed by the seven senators. I have to be blunt. That is nonsense.'

  For a quiet woman she could be acidic. When Helena spoke in that calm, unexcited way, it made the saliva dry under my tongue.

  'Rubirius Metellus was presented to his seven friends, dead in his bed. But we know that the body had by then been lying somewhere else for days. So was any of your fable true?' She looked around the group. 'Did Metellus really have a last lunch with some of you? Did he ever discuss suicide? Were you sent from the room, Birdy because you were upset? Were you there – or in Lanuvium? Did Calpurnia rush off in annoyance because Metellus changed his mind? And did you, Juliana, sit quietly alongside your father while he. passed away?'

  Nobody answered.

  'I think not!' Helena retorted scathingly.

  There was complete silence.

  It was my turn now.

  I addressed Negrinus. 'Our case against your mother will have two bases: your father was killed with hemlock, which was Calpurnia's idea and which was bought by an agent of her legal adviser, Paccius.' That did seem to surprise them. 'Then she concealed your father's death for days – perhaps until you came home from Lanuvium – finally revealing the corpse in a staged deathbed scene. These details should condemn her and clear you. It will still leave that huge question: why ever did the rest of you, knowing about the fake deathbed, all go along with it?'

  Birdy just looked depressed. It was Verginius Laco, the oldest man present, who said smoothly with authority, 'It is reprehensible – but everyone decided to say that Metellus committed suicide so they could save the family money.'

  'I am sure you regret that!' I commented. 'Will you testify?'

  'I have nothing to say in court, Falco.'

  I had already judged Laco to be scrupulous. So was he ducking out of perjury?

  Helena turned over a sheet in her note-tablet. 'I should mention that we believe there will be little money to save.' Attention returned to her again. 'Our prosecutor will emphasise how Saffia has taken possession of most of your fortune and that the rest passes to Saffia by the will. The court has to infer blackmail. We shall call her as a witness, though we cannot at present ask her how much she will admit.'

  None of them spoke.

  'The truth is bound to come out,' I threatened, sounding confident.

  There was high tension in the room. Perhaps we might have shocked them into a revelation. But the silence was interrupted. A troubled slave entered, to say a midwife had arrived with an urgent message for Negrinus from his ex-wife. Then two women pushed
in past the slave. One had a tiny, fair-haired girl clutching at her skirts, the other carried a wrapped bundle.

  I stood up. That was a mistake. For, in the traditional manner of seeking paternal acknowledgement, she marched forward and laid at my feet a neatly swaddled newborn baby.

  Helena Justina's fine dark eyes met mine, full of amusement at my discomfiture.

  XXXVI

  Helena was the first to react. She laid aside her note-tablet and rose swiftly with a swish of her skirts. She came to me, stopped, and picked up the tiny bundle. I heard a feeble whimper. Handing back the child to the midwife, Helena announced crisply, 'Wrong father!'

  I sat down quickly.

  Helena stood beside me, one proprietarily hand on my shoulder. 'Try again,' she encouraged the woman, this time more gently. Rufus and Laco sat tight, trying not to look as though they were avoiding anybody's eye. Carina held out her arms to the small girl, who must be about two; she toddled across and climbed on her aunt's lap, clearly used to her, but then she buried her face and began to cry. Carina bent and reassured her in a low voice, one hand spread on her little head. I noticed she moved aside the hard links of her jewellery, a practised mother, ensuring the child's face was not bruised.

  Metellus Negrinus had risen slowly to his feet. The woman with the baby fixed on him, hesitated, then went and placed the newborn once more on the ground between his feet. She stepped back. Negrinus did not move.

  'Don't touch it!' warned Juliana, his elder sister. 'You don't know who -' She refused to finish, though we all understood her meaning.

  'It is a boy,' pleaded the woman who brought it, as if she thought that might make a difference. If Birdy refused it, the child would be taken and exposed on a madden. Someone might snatch the helpless bundle, either to bring up as their own or to bring up in drudgery. Probably the baby would die. 'Saffia Donata begged us to bring the children to you,' quavered the midwife, looking around the room unsurely. 'She is fading rapidly…'

  It was Carina who looked up from cuddling her brother's tearful daughter and ordered, 'Acknowledge your son, Gnaeus!'

  Her brother took his decision as she willed him to act. With one fast movement, he bent down and scooped up the baby. , It might not be yours,' wailed Juliana.

  'It's mine now!' Clutching the child against his tunic, Negrinus gazed around at the rest of us, almost defiantly. 'None of my trouble is my children's fault.'

  'Well done,' murmured Carina, with a catch in her voice. Her husband, the austerely decent Laco, reached out and took her hand. Even Juliana nodded resignedly, though her husband looked furious.

  Negrinus faced the midwife. 'Is Saffia Donata dying?' His tone was harsh. 'So why have you left her?'

  'Your mother appointed me; I was supposed merely to observe – Saffia had her own women to help her. It took so long… I am afraid she has probably gone by now.' Relief brought more colour to the midwife's cheeks. 'I am sorry to break in like this. I am sorry to bring you such news.' The woman was of obvious quality, slave-born, but probably now freed and working independently. I could see why Calpurnia Cara had chosen her to supervise the family interests. 'Saffia Donata pleaded with us to bring the children to you. She was desperately anxious about them being looked after -'

  'Have no fears for them,' Negrinus broke in. He was holding the baby like a man who knew which way up they go. When it let out a complaining cry, he jogged it gently. He still looked incongruously studious, yet had the air of some historic pioneer, facing hardship stoically across the land he worked. 'So Saffia knew she was dying?' The midwife nodded. 'Did she say anything else?' This time the woman shook her head. 'A pity!' he exclaimed cryptically.

  'You will need a wet-nurse for the little one; I can recommend someone clean and reliable -'

  'Leave that to us,' Juliana replied, rather quickly.

  'Saffia always used Tubule's daughter, I was told,' the midwife continued fussing.

  'Zeuko. Oh yes, Zeuko! I don't think so.' Carina's views on Tubule's daughter Zeuko seemed uncomplimentary.

  A silence fell.

  'What has happened to Saffia's other son, little Lucius?' Helena asked quietly. 'He is not alone at the apartment, I hope?'

  The midwife looked troubled. 'His father is there. He is with his father -'She hesitated, but left it.

  A couple of household slaves peered in enquiringly and were signalled to escort the visitors away. Others came and carried off the children. We heard the baby cry as the door closed, but an elderly woman spoke to him kindly. After a moment, Carina glanced at her sister then went out herself, presumably to make arrangements.

  Helena and I offered our excuses and retreated.

  Birdy had slumped on a couch, his eyes glazed and his face set. Laco, the host, merely sat looking thoughtful. Neither Juliana nor her husband made any attempt to go home at that point. They were all waiting to hold intense discussions of some kind, after we were gone. It was polite to leave them to it. Besides, I wanted to rush over to Saffia's apartment to see what Lutea was doing.

  'You don't need to come,' I murmured to Helena as she rescued her cloak from Carina's slaves and threw it on.

  'Oh yes I do!'

  I had already grabbed her hand as we hurried along. Despite the tragedy, for us this was good. This was the kind of moment we both enjoyed together – rushing through the evening streets to an unexpected rendezvous where we might witness something material.

  Verginius Lace's house lay in what had been the old Suburb, the area north of the Forum, once seedy but now redeveloped and upgraded since the Aeonian fire. From there it took us less than half an hour to reach Saffia's apartment, across the Vicinal Hill. It was now well into the evening, but her lodgings lay in near darkness. Everyone who worked here must be tired out and terrified. Not much point owning masses of brilliant bronze lamp stands, if your slaves become too distraught to light the lamps. Not much point in anything, if you die in childbirth.

  Saffia's body was lying unattended in a dim bedroom, waiting to be laid out. I had suspected Licinius Lutea might be found counting silverware, but I maligned him. He was sitting in an anteroom, lost in grief. He was weeping uncontrollably. I watched Helena assessing him: good-looking in a slewed way, early thirties, smart clothes, professionally manicured – apart from his shattered confidence at the moment of bereavement, he was the type she loathed. All the signs were that he had been there, lost, for hours. She left him to his self absorption.

  Helena found the little boy. Alone in his neat bedroom, silent and white-faced, he lay curled up on his bed, not even clutching a toy. After three days of hearing his mother screaming in childbirth, he must be petrified. When silence fell, his world ended. We knew he had been told his mother was dead; at four, he may not have understood. Nobody had fed him, comforted him, made any plans for him. No one had even spoken to him for a long while. He had no idea that his father was here. He let Helena pick him up, but accepted her attentions almost like a child who expected blows. Concerned, I even saw her checking him for marks. But he was sound, clean, well nurtured. He owned a shelf of clay models and when I offered him a nodding mule, he took it from me obediently.

  We brought parent and child together. Lutea stopped weeping and took the boy in his arms, though Lucius went to his father with as little reaction as when Helena gathered him up. We instructed some weary slaves to look after them. It might have been the moment to catch Lutea off guard, but Helena shook her head and I bowed to her humanity.

  Helena and I walked home together quietly, with our arms around each other's waists, feeling subdued. The fate of the small boy depressed us both. Little Lucius had lost more than his mother there. Saffia had done her best for the other two by sending them to Negrinus, but this boy was Lutea's property. It would never turn out well; Lucius was destined to spend his life being abandoned and forgotten. The father may have loved the mother, but neither Helena nor I now had any faith in Lutea's so-called great affection for the four-year-old. The little boy behaved as
if he had very low expectations. Lutea held his supposedly adored son like a drunk with an empty amphora, staring over his head with regret in his soul, but no heart.

  'At least he is weeping for Saffia.'

  'No, he is weeping for the lost money.'

  You may assume that sympathetic comment came from Helena and the harsh judgement from me. Wrong!

  'You find me very cynical,' Helena apologised. 'I just believe that Saffia's death has robbed this man Lutea of expectations in a lengthy scheme to prey on the Metelli – and I believe he is sobbing for himself. You, Marcus Didius Falco, the great city romantic, hate to see a man bereft. You believe that Lutea was genuinely moved today by the loss of his heart's companion and lover.'

  'I allow him that,' I said. 'He is distraught at losing her. But I don't disagree with you entirely, fruit. The only reason Lutea is not weeping for the money is that – in my view, and I am sure in his – he has not lost it yet.'

  XXXVII

  The full title of the murders court is the Tribunal for Prisoners and Assassins. Poisoning is routinely associated with spells, potions and other foul magic. Assassins may be all kinds of murderers, including armed robbers. This court thus relates to the grimiest side of human nature. I always found sessions there quite gruelling.

  There is a panel of lay judges, drawn from both the upper and middle classes – a fact which irritates the senators and makes the equestrians smug. Their names are kept in a public register, the White List, which we were about to consult. A name from this album would be picked by Paccius Africanus, and if we approved, the chosen judge (with no right to refuse) would preside over our court case. The judge would not vote with the jury, though after hearing the evidence formally, if there was a guilty verdict he would pronounce punishment and fix the accusers' compensation. Seventy-five reputable citizens would act as the jury, their selection subject to challenges by both prosecution and defence. They would hear the evidence in strict silence and vote secretly; equal votes would mean acquittal.