The Accusers mdf-15

by Lindsey Davis

  'Where will you start, Aulus?

  I have my methods!'

  I knew he had only one method, to which he stuck with a rigidity I would need to shatter. But it served here. Any highborn ladies would know how to reach this star-gazer. Once again, Aelianus was going home for lunch. There, he would ask his mother.

  The principled Julia Justa would never have handed over any of her tight household budget to a fashionable seer, but she might possess acquaintances who did. I could imagine my dear mother-in-law reproving them for their daftness in her silky, sarcastic way. Even if she had been extremely rude in the past, that would not stop her now. I don't suppose her cronies would admit to being scared of the noble Julia, but she would get an address for her boy.

  I was glad to have back-up from Aelianus. With Justinus away and Honorius resting (or whatever he was up to), we needed to deploy our resources well. I myself had to tackle someone else: I grabbed sustenance, then headed off to stick my mark on Licinius Lutea.

  The one-time near-bankrupt lived in an apartment not far from that in which he had established Saffia. He managed to rent half a house, divided up tastefully in what had once been a rich man's mansion. Lutea had the part above the sausage shop, the least desirable to discerning tenants – though it must be handy for a divorcee who owned no slaves. I guessed he lived on hot pies from the bakery and cold pork sausage – when he was not cadging dinners from old friends who could not shake him off.

  I found him in a reading room, stretched on a couch. There was not much else in the elegant space, just a couple of lamps. I call it a reading room because there was one silver scroll box; I wondered if it had been a gift from the grateful Saffia – and instinctively, I reckoned it was empty. The whole apartment was extremely bare, its decor standardised by a landlord – though one who had used expensive designers for the black and vermilion paintwork.

  'Isn't this place a bit above your price?' I asked Lutea frankly. 'I heard you had no credit.'

  Lutea gave me a sharp look. Rallying from his listlessness, he admitted in a douche way, 'Yes, it is. I survive, though.'

  'They call you an entrepreneur. It usually means a confidence trickster, in the world I come from.'

  'Then you inhabit a tragic world, Falco.'

  'It's improving. How about yours?'

  'One lives in hope.' He pretended to be too subdued to argue, though I wasn't fooled.

  Lutea kept acting out low in spirits. Underneath, he remained the brazen, well-manicured type with a flash tunic and no conscience. I was glad I had not brought Helena. Her open disapproval would not win his confidence. I myself would feel dirty afterwards if I played the sympathetic playboy with him, but that was nothing to me. You can scrub off the taint of lousy immorality like his.

  I had noticed there was no sign nor sound of a child in the house. I asked after his son.

  'Lucius is being looked after. Poor little terror. It's very hard on him – well, it's hard on both of us. Oh we shall both miss darling Saffia!' That might be so, but they would miss her in different ways.

  'You seemed remarkably attentive to your ex-wife. Was the split from her a subject for regret?'

  'I was heartbroken. Her damned father…' Lutea tailed off sadly. 'I had hoped when she left old Birdy, I might bring Donatus round again. No chance of that now…' Every time he wafted off into misery I felt it was staged. 'Saffia and I were a wonderful team, Falco. Nobody to touch us. It can be like that, you know.'

  'I know.'

  He shook his finger at me. 'I see it! You have a wife and you love the girl.'

  'She's very sharp,' I said quietly. That was true; Lutea was a lifelong fraud, but Helena had seen through him. Clearly he had no recollection that he had met her with me last night. He had blotted out the cold assessment with which her eyes had raked him. 'She runs the home – and she runs me.'

  'Excellent!' Lutea beamed at me. 'That's how it should be. I am pleased for you.'

  I was leaning on a wall, since Lutea was still lying on his couch and there were no other seats. I enjoyed myself, smiling slightly, as I thought of how Helena viewed him. Here he was, a man in his early thirties. He lived in a luxury he did not need, on promises he would never fulfil. What had he been doing before I arrived? Dreaming up schemes. Dreaming so hard that the fragile lies from which he built his life became his reality.

  'Helena was anxious about your boy,' I said. 'Maybe I can see him, to reassure her?'

  'No, no,' Lutea murmured. 'Lucius is not here. He went to his old nurse.

  'Someone he knows,' I said, without judgement.

  'Someone familiar,' Lutea agreed, as if this excuse had just struck him.

  Different men react in different ways. If my children lost their mother, I would be inconsolable. And I would never let the children from my sight.

  'This is good of you,' Lutea said, fooling himself as he tried to fool others. 'Taking the trouble to bring your condolences. I appreciate that.'

  I straightened up. 'I'm afraid there is more to it.'

  Lutea smiled at me, allowing himself to sink into a grief-stricken half-trance. 'Nothing too terrible, I'm sure.'

  'Oh no.' I walked over to him. I slung his feet off the couch and sat down with him. I shook my head like a concerned old uncle. If he stiffened up, he hid it. 'Just this. It is being said that your sweet little Saffia blackmailed the Metelli. And I think that you were in the project with her. Any comment?'

  Now sitting upright, the ex-husband let a bemused expression fill his features. Maybe he had been accused of bad practice before; the display was good. 'That is a terrible thing for anyone to say about poor Saffia! Now she is dead and cannot defend herself against such accusations. I don't believe it – and I know nothing about any of it.'

  'She knew their secret. Did she tell you?'

  'What secret?' Lutea gasped as if the whole idea astonished him. 'Oh come on! The secret that made you two decide to move in close to them. So close, Saffia actually left you and married herself to Birdy. Divorcing you was a sham. Poor Birdy knows it now. I wonder how long it took him to realise.'

  'I have no notion what you are talking about, Falco.'

  'Well that's a shame. Call yourself a friend of Birdy's? Don't you know that your very best friend is being made somebody's pat-ball? And don't you see why the evidence is pointing straight at you?'

  Lutea shook his head in wonderment. A faint whiff of fine oil came my way. As with all the best confidence tricksters, his personal grooming was immaculate. If this scam failed, he would be able to build an extensive career preying on the rich widows of exotic commodity traders. He would like that. He could plunder their attics of stored commodities, not just empty their bankboxes. The widows would get plenty out of it – while his attentions lasted. I saw them playing dice with him, their be-ringed fingers flashing in the light of many lamp stands, while they congratulated themselves on their cultured catch. Better to paw a spiny sea urchin, in fact, yet there would never be unpleasantness. Lutea would leave them flat broke; even so, they would remember him with few hard feelings. He was good-looking and would play the innocent. Not wanting to believe he had deceived them, his victims would never be quite sure it really was darling Lutea who had robbed them.

  I knew how it worked. I had dreamed of doing it, in the hard, lost days before I was rescued by improvements in my fate. But I recognised bad dreams for what they were. As an entrepreneur that was my tragedy. But it was my salvation as a man.

  I stayed another hour. Lutea feigned shock, disgust, outrage, reproof, anger and near-hysteria. When he threatened litigation if I libelled him, I laughed at him and left.

  He had confessed nothing. Still, I became certain that he and Saffia really had conspired together in a complex scheme – and one which might still be operational. Lutea denied it – but Lutea was undoubtedly lying through his teeth.

  XL

  Honorius looked more confident when he appeared in court next day. Marponius greeted him benignly. Tha
t would have scared me, but Honorius had less experience. This trusting boy would have smiled back at a Nile crocodile as it climbed out to grab him by his short legs.

  He was setting out the background to Metellus' death, explaining – perhaps in too much detail – the issues behind the original corruption trial. His current argument was that Rubirius Metellus may have been a bad citizen, but he had been convicted, so the jury should dispel any feeling that in some way he deserved to die. Killing him in his home was a serious crime. Parricide – by which Honorius meant, according to Roman custom, the murder of any close relative – had been the most reviled crime since the founding of our city. It was the jury's duty to avenge the crime, lest social order disintegrate…

  When I hear the words 'social order', I start looking around for somebody to pick a fight with.

  The jury and I were thoroughly bored. I felt no conscience pangs when a message from Aelianus allowed me to make a run for it. I passed Honorius a note, did my best to make it look mysterious for the benefit of Paccius and Silius, then slid out of the Basilica like a man on the trail of hot new evidence.

  The chance of that was slim. We were off to interview a fortune-teller. Presumably foresight would warn her about us before we even left the Forum.

  Aelianus led me to his father's litter. He might hit the punch bag hard at the gym, but he had the natural laziness of any young man in his twenties. We crammed in and yelled at the bearers to get going as they protested at our weight. We were jogged along the Sacred Way the full length of the Forum, then waited interminably in the traffic jams around the building site for the new amphitheatre. Eventually we settled into a more regular pace along the Via Tusculanum. Olympia lived on that highway, though outside the city boundary. Cynics might think the remoteness was deliberate. For a woman who was courted by fine women who led busy lives, it seemed an awkwardly long-distance trek, though maybe the far location gave them a sense of security. A senator's wife having her stars read would have to be very discreet. If the stars under scrutiny belonged to her husband, she was breaking the law – whilst if they belonged to the Emperor, she was committing treason. To know another person's fortune smacks of wanting to control their fate for the wrong reasons.

  As we jerked along, I warned my companion not to expect dead bats being thrown on to green fires. If Aelianus wanted to buy a love philtre made from the desiccated testicles of disgusting mammals, he. would not find the bottles on display, well, not openly. The last fortune-teller I interviewed turned out to be a cultured piece who had three accountants and a crisp way of disposing of informers. I would not have eaten an almond cake at her house, but if she ever used witchcraft she knew how to bribe the aediles first, so they kept away. Tyche had given me a creepy feeling that if she did cast spells, they would work. Tyche… dear gods, that took me back.

  Aelianus and I decided against pretending we wanted horoscopes. Olympia would know far too much about people's follies, hopes and terrors for us to fool her. Aelianus looked interested, but I warned him off.

  'No seances. I promised your mother I would look after you.'

  'My mother thinks you'll let her down, Falco.'

  Olympia lived in a house that was primly feminine, with a manicurist in a clean little booth on the right of the front door, and a depilatory salon on the left. Rich women came out here to be pampered, to share gossip, to denigrate their husbands and deplore their in-laws, to arrange marriages for their children, and to lust after low-class lovers. The house remained very much that of Olympia herself, its rooms were completely domestic in character and she kept up a respectable front. Wooing senators' wives to visit her lair could be dangerous; she would not want to be closed down. Unsavoury couplings would occur here only rarely (though some liaisons with drivers and second rate love-poets must have been arranged from these premises, if I was any judge).

  Olympia kept us waiting, for form's sake. She had slim young girls to fetch and carry, and to lend an air of chaperoned propriety. They were too thin and too subdued to be attractive. Aelianus never glanced at them. I looked. I always do. I was checking to see if Olympia mistreated them, in case one of her woeful wenches might be met later behind the garden hedge and enticed to become a songbird for a few kind words. I was more badly bruised than they were, so I ruled that out.

  When she appeared, a plump dark-skinned woman of mature age, she acted very genteel; to me she had all the appeal of mildew. Olympia had intense, pouchy eyes. She acted as if full of shrewdness, though I reckoned she was less intelligent than she supposed. Her well-spoken accent had one or two jarring vowels; she had taught herself polite Latin, but her past had followed her. She had probably worked her way into this position through several careers, careers she was keeping very quiet. Everything about her suggested a rich but sour experience of life, making her a businesswoman other women could trust. Once they did, no doubt Olympia simply preyed on them.

  Aelianus smiled at the fortune-teller.

  'Anything I can do for you, sweetheart?' she encouraged him, ignoring me. Suggestiveness from a woman scared him and he looked to me for help. I let him run with it.

  'We have to ask about one of your clients,' he began. 'Calpurnia Cara.'

  'I cannot speak about my clients.'

  'There's no need to snap – she is in serious trouble -'

  'Nothing will pass my lips.'

  'You may be able to help her.'

  'No.'

  'Now less of that.' Aelianus was a bad interviewer, getting desperate. Olympia knew he was at her mercy. 'This is a legal matter. If we have to, we can subpoena you!'

  I leaned forwards. Time for the man of experience to intervene. 'Aulus, don't even try that one. Olympia has to think about her other clients – am I right?'

  She raised an eyebrow. I did not like the way she sneered.

  'The ladies who patronise Olympia's establishment,' I explained to my brash colleague, 'must never suspect she would reveal a confidence.' I pretended to offer the fortune-teller a courteous get out: 'Maybe we can arrange this so the ladies need never find out you helped us.'

  'Yes – I won't tell you anything!' she retorted nastily.

  'Alternatively,' I then said, 'all your senatorial ladies could be made to think that you had talked to us…' Sometimes subtlety is worth a try – and sometimes you should go straight to threats.

  Round-eyed with mock horror, Aelianus redeemed himself: 'Oh but Falco, the customers would all run away.'

  'Well, you're the bastard.' Olympia smirked at me. 'Thanks for coming clean.'

  'Yes I'm the bastard,' I agreed. 'This sensitive young lad is ten years younger and he still expects good from people.'

  'He'll soon turn into a bastard if he works for you.'

  Aelianus had no sense of humour sometimes. He bit his lip, scowling.

  We then had a more businesslike discussion – one in which I feared we were being misled.

  According to this soothing soothsayer, Calpurnia Cara came to her for 'friendship'. Horoscopes were prepared from time to time, always for Calpurnia herself The other services rendered were flattery, wise counsel, and foot massage with aromatic oils to relax the soul. (Apparently your soul is seated in your arches, so take care when buying cheap sandals.) Calpurnia, like many clients, was afflicted with bad bunions and few female friends. Well, I knew she had a limp, and was overbearing.

  I told Olympia she could have made a wonderful source for informers like us. I suggested that if she helped us, we could return the favour with information on her clients. She would not co-operate. I asked if she already had a partnership with some other informer, but she denied it. I asked if she worked for the vigiles. She scoffed. I gave up on it.

  'Straight questions then: Did Calpurnia ever ask you about poisonous drugs?'

  'Don't expect me to comment.'

  'No, of course not. I'm talking about hemlock. That was used to kill her husband, did you know?'

  'I had no idea.' Olympia pursed her mouth. 'Calpurnia Ca
ra was weighed down by troubles. She never told me what they were. My ladies have needs – illness, unhappiness, husbands, children… I often read Calpurnia's future, and reassured her that everything would be resolved.'

  'By her poisoning her husband?' Aelianus snorted.

  'By time and the Fates!' whipped back the seer. He had stung her into reacting, however. 'Hemlock, you say? Well once when she was very low a few years ago, she did ask me what produces a kindly death, and I told her what I had heard. As far as I knew, Calpurnia was asking for herself'

  'Herself." Now I was scathing. 'That sounds like some well thoughtout excuse in the poison trade. A lawyer probably devised it. A litigation-proof contract term for the death suppliers' guild – if the woman was consulting you for solace, why should she need to do herself in?'

  'Some unhappy moments cannot be smoothed away even with essential ointments,' mused Olympia.

  'How did Calpurnia plan to ingest her hemlock?'

  'I told her she could feed the leaves to quails, then cook the quails. That way she didn't have to think about what she was taking.'

  'Or if she gave the quails to someone else, they didn't have to know anything!'

  'You're a shocker, Falco.'

  'I'm a realist.'

  I then enquired whether Calpurnia sold her jewels just before her husband died, or was it about two years back? Surprised by both timescales, Olympia admitted Calpurnia had come for weekly consultations over several decades. Calpurnia had sold off her necklaces and rings many years ago – one of the 'troubles' which had required consolation. The sale was not to pay the fortune-teller's modest fees. Olympia did not know who received the money.

  'Maybe she gambled,' Olympia suggested. 'Many of my ladies do. It's a bit of excitement for a lady, isn't it?' As I said to Aelianus afterwards, it would provide a lady's bit of excitement if sleeping with a boxer or with their husband's best friend in the Senate ever paled.

  I could not imagine Calpurnia Cara doing any of those things. Nor could I see her ever being so depressed that she would end her own life.