The senator paused. He felt the need to ask for more wine in his goblet. We all smiled and pretended not to know he was just doing this for dramatic effect. Helena grabbed a jug, poured, added water, thrust the goblet at her father.
'It was nothing new - we all knew Metellus had taken a pill - but we were leaning forward on the edges of our benches, of course. One ancient ex-consul craned so far forward he fell off and had to be pulled to safety by his toga.' Decimus tilted the goblet to Helena in thanks, then took a sip. All senators learn basic oratory. He had mastered suspense. Mind you, this was no worse than trying to get a sensible story out of my own mischievous father, whose irritable habits were entirely self-taught. 'Everyone could tell Paccius planned some theatrical device. These five pills are the same as the one that Metellus swallowed. And you say, the gold-coated pills are harmless? Yes, said the apothecary. He was under pressure and probably puzzled where the questioning was leading, so he added he would stake his life on it.'
I saw Helena Justina draw a sharp breath.
Her father did not pause. 'If you are wrong, one of these pills would kill within the hour, but you are the expert and you maintain that they are quite harmless. Thank you! exclaimed Paccius, suddenly lowering his voice. The whole court hushed. Then take one now yourself - and show us, please!'
XIII
'JUNO! THAT'S disgraceful - it was never allowed?' cried Helena.
'Well, everyone was on their feet. There was uproar. It gave Rhoemetalces a moment to think, I dare say.'
'He had no choice!' I was shocked. 'If he refused to co-operate, his entire defence would fall -'
'Exactly! Silius jumped up and tried a few ploys - he maintained that if the accused were to die, he would lose his rights as prosecutor. He knew damn well that if the man took a pill and lived, we would all go home, case ended. His protests sounded feeble. Paccius just sat down on the bench, waiting.'
'I bet he looked smug.'
'You could choke on the condescension he exuded. But the consul stopped the racket. He said it would be inhumane to argue over technicalities for long. He gave the apothecary a straight choice: would he do it, here and now, or not? Rhoemetalces asked for the box to be brought over to him, took a pill and gulped it down straight away.
'I am ashamed!' wailed Helena.
'It was his decision, love -'
'No choice! He had no choice, you said so, Marcus.'
'Well, he did it.' I noticed her father was as brisk as me. We had both wasted too many hours while woolly arguments were waffled and decisions were avoided; this was pleasingly clear-cut. 'The consul asked for a new waterclock to be set -'
'And you all waited? You just waited in the Curia for the next hour to pass?' Helena was still outraged. I patted her arm, trying not to look as if I wished I had thought of the test.
'Rhoemetalces was allowed to sit - he had been standing as he gave evidence of course,' said her father. 'So he stayed on a bench, back very straight, with his arms folded. Nobody dared go near him. Except Paccius sometimes.'
'To reassure his client?' Helena scoffed. 'The client who might be dying in front of him? At his suggestion?' Decimus inclined his head, acknowledging the filthy ethics. 'This is not about the defendants at all, is it? This is purely a battle between Silius and Paccius,' Helena scoffed. 'They don't care a quadrans what happens to anybody else.'
The senator spoke levelly. 'They have a long-standing feud, yes. Not personal enmity, but a legal tussle for supremacy. While the man sat there, hoping, they even joked together. You could say they respect each other's professional qualities - or you could say it stinks!' He knew Helena's version. I think we all knew his. 'The rest of us milled about, people rushed to and from the Forum, the news spread, more crowds gathered outside, everyone muttered in small groups and stared over at the apothecary.'
'And what happened to him?' I was busting to know.
'Nothing happened.'
'He was right about the pills: he lived?'
'So far.'
'He may have a slow digestion,' Julia Justa commented, as if some child in her household was being watched after swallowing a denarius.
'Yes. The consul had him taken under guard to his own house, where he will stay, under surveillance, through tonight. He will be allowed neither food nor drink, lest he take an antidote. If he is alive tomorrow morning -' The senator paused. I did not begrudge him. The story was sensational.
'What do we think will happen?' I asked.
'We think - since he lasted an hour in court and still looked nervously confident - we think Rhoemetalces will survive the night.'
'That's all he needs to do.'
'It is indeed, Marcus. Then the case is over.'
That was how it turned out too. It must have been the easiest defence Paccius Africanus ever came up with. Well, easy for him. For Rhoemetalces, and even for Juliana, it would have been nerve-racking.
The defendants were freed by the consul next morning. Juliana was taken home in procession by her husband and family, amidst what many thought were unseemly signs of triumph. The apothecary, who was unmarried, returned alone to his medicine booth, where for a very short time he attracted a large queue of customers. Notoriety cast its usual sordid spells. He made a fortune that afternoon. Soon, however, people started to remember how he had owned up that he had made money from selling expensive pills which would not work.
This was no more cynical than most lying lozenge-pushers, but when he thought it mattered, Rhoemetalces had been honest. We cannot have that. Rome is a complex, sophisticated society. Truth is distrusted as much as Greek philosophy. So the customers began to stay away.
His trade diminished until Rhoemetalces could no longer earn a living. The Senate had awarded him the most meagre compensation for the court case, because of his low rank. The struggle became too hard. Eventually he took opium poppy sap and killed himself. Few people heard about it. Why should they? He was just the little man who was dragged into the troubles of the great. I seemed to be the only person who commented on the irony of his suicide.
The Metellus troubles, which were deemed so much more exciting, still continued to bubble like an unwatched pot that will thicken and splutter and slowly increase in volume until it boils over. There was bound to be more yet. The praetor had ruled that on the evidence, he could not say the death of Metellus was murder - nor could he decide that it had been an accident. Silius Italicus, an unforgiving informer, still wanted to be paid for the corruption case he won. Now he had been punched in the purse again - having to pay compensation at a senatorial level to Rubiria Juliana for the failed prosecution. Paccius Africanus would benefit from this, but even he wanted to screw yet more fame and money out of the events.
Occasionally someone would remember that if the corn cockle pills had not killed Metellus senior, then something else must have done.
XIV
I NEVER CARED for January and February. You might as well be in northern Europe. At least there people have fires in their huts to keep them warm and they don't even try to go out on the streets, pretending to enjoy life.
In Rome it is a period of dark festivals. Their origins are lost in history, their purpose is deeply agricultural or to do with death. I tend to dodge rituals involving seeds and I damn well hate being smeared with blood from sacrificial animals. This unhappy stuff continues until the Caristia - also hideously named the Festival of the Dear Relative. People are supposed to renew family ties and resolve quarrels. Whatever deity thought that up should be locked in a cell with a ghastly brother he hates, while close kin who have offended his most cherished beliefs and stolen his chickens gather round to smile at him lovingly until he runs screaming mad.
Fortunately my family never knows what festival is what, so we don't patch up our tiffs. Much healthier. Our grudges have the historical grandeur most families so sadly lack. Rome is a traditional city; what better way to pursue our national character than by maintaining age-old bitterness and storming out lik
e royalty whenever too many have collected in the same room?
Amongst the offspring of the late Rubirius Metellus, there cannot have been much time for observing festivals. They were always too busy wondering who was being charged with a capital offence that week. If they visited temples, their prayers may well have been fervent, but I bet they went there heavily veiled. Even the ones who were not personally making a sacrifice that day would want to cover their faces to avoid being recognised. In particular, they needed to avoid Silius and Paccius, who must both now be owed money on a flamboyant scale.
Paccius Africanus, it was now rumoured in the Forum, had made a killing with side bets on whether Rhoemetalces would die in the Curia. Yes, gambling is illegal in Rome. There must be a special dispensation for dispensers of the law. (Think of all those gaming boards scratched openly on the steps of the Basilica Julia.) No, I don't know how Paccius got away with it. Shocking. I blame the authorities for turning a blind eye. (In fact, I blame the authorities for receiving hot tips from him.)
Cheered by his winnings, Paccius Africanus took up where Silius Italicus had left off. He charged Metellus Negrinus with bringing about his father's death.
It was not yet public knowledge. I knew. I had been favoured with an urgent request to visit Paccius to talk about the charge.
Unlike Silius, Paccius saw me at his own house. They were opposites in several ways. Silius had ordered me to see him, then did his arrogant best to be invisible. In contrast, Paccius treated me with every courtesy. He even sent a chair with livened bearers. I was bringing the Camilli, but we decided against trying to squeeze in all three of us; they trudged behind. When we arrived, Paccius rushed out at once to greet us in the atrium. The atrium was grand. Black marble and a superb bronze nymph in the pool. He owned a smart home. Well, of course he would.
'Thank you so much for coming.' He was tidy, fastidious, looked older than his forty-odd years. His voice had a scratch in it, as if it had been overused. Close to, he had one of those lop-sided faces that look as if two heads have been glued together down the middle by an inept sculptor; even his ears were different in size. 'Ah, you have brought your assistants - I am so sorry; I failed to anticipate that. You must have walked - I would have sent directions - did you find us fairly easily? Can I offer refreshments? Do come in and make yourselves comfortable -'
This was the mean-eyed grouch who had implied I came from the gutter when he wanted to make an effect in court. I let his empty etiquette wash over me. But I noted the implication that in today's enterprise, whatever that was, we were on the same side.
I shot the lads a warning glance. Justinus assessed a tapestry as if he had seen better. Aelianus sneered directly at Paccius; truly patrician, he loved an excuse to be boorish. Both had unsmiling faces. None of us wore togas, so Paccius, who had arrived formally dressed for some reason, felt obliged swiftly to shed his. We refused food and drink, so he had to wave away a clutch of slaves with silver trays who gathered in the room he took us to.
I was still wondering about the toga. He was at home. Nobody wears a toga at home. He must have come back from some formal event. What, and who with?
'I need your help, Falco.'
I let one corner of my mouth twitch into a surly smile. 'An appeal for my skills always has charm, Paccius.'
'Shall I recite our fee scale?' Justinus pretended to joke.
'He wants us - so double the on-costs!' Aelianus croaked. We all laughed. What a merry business informing can be.
A man entered, not what I expected as a house guest. He was a stranger, but I recognised my type of operator. He wore a brown tunic, tight on the chest, no braid. A wide belt, fit for various purposes. His boots were solid, also functional. Over his arm he carried a thick dark cloak, its hood hanging down. It looked as if the fabric had been oiled, which you would do if you were constantly out in bad weather. He was ten years older than me, shorter than average, wide, muscular, huge calves. His hair was trimmed so short its colour was indeterminate. His eyes moved restlessly around the room, taking us all in.
'This is Bratta,' introduced Paccius. 'He works for me, as a runner.' Bratta was an informer, then. My type of informer. Silius used one too, he had told me. I never saw his. 'We have a problem, Falco.'
I listened. Bratta watched me listening. His expression was faintly derisive. That could just be his normal face. Mine was no better. I must be looking suspicious of Paccius. The Camilli were quiet. I could trust them nowadays. Bratta stared at them suspiciously; I hid a smile.
'Let's hear it, Paccius: what is your scenario?' If he was using Bratta, I could not see why he needed us.
'I am accusing Metellus Negrinus of killing his father. The motive is vengeance for his omission from his father's will. The method still has to be dragged out of him.' Paccius leaned back. 'You do not appear surprised?'
'Well, I thought you would have gone for the sister next - the one who keeps aloof. An easier target.' He did not respond to the snipe. 'Do you know why the will cuts Negrinus out?'
Paccius paused only slightly. 'No.' He was lying. I wondered why. 'My problem is this: to begin proceedings we must produce Birdy before the praetor. It is vital that he attend, to agree the facts.'
'Why is that a problem?'
'We can't find him.'
'What happens if he fails to appear?' asked Aelianus.
Paccius surveyed him indulgently. He could see I knew the reason, but he explained it patiently to my younger colleague: 'The praetor then declares him to have gone into hiding.' With these legal vultures pursuing him, hiding up seemed a reasonable course for poor Birdy. 'His estates could be sold to meet the claim, if that were appropriate. With a capital charge it does not apply.'
'A capital charge can lead to the lions. You want Birdy in the arena?' I asked.
'Don't feel sorry for him, Falco.'
'Why not? His father shamelessly used him as a medium for fixing contracts. His wife has left him when nine months pregnant. His sister was accused of killing their father - and he was cut out of the will.'
I was going to add something disparaging about his mother Calpurnia, but for all I knew, Paccius was her lover.
'So you want me to trace the man?'
Paccius nodded. 'You will be working with Bratta.' Neither Bratta nor I bothered to show how much we hated that. 'It's a real bummer, Falco. Simply getting an appointment with a praetor is a hard enough task. Negrinus has to co-operate.'
In getting himself charged? Why should he? His family had been targeted. It was a sordid game Paccius and Silius were playing; Negrinus had not agreed to join in. These vultures just marked him as their next victim.
'Tell me: why you, Paccius?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Why you as the accuser?' I repeated patiently. 'I thought the setup had Silius attacking the so-called killers. You were the faithful family adviser. You did it for the father, then you defended Juliana.'
'Obviously I am horrified that Rubiria Juliana was placed in difficulties due to the malfeasance of her brother!'
'Malfeasance, eh? I see.' I turned to Bratta. He was sitting quietly. Wondering what he thought of the case, I told him my opinion. 'My first moves would be: check with the mother, the sister he was close to, the other sister, the ex-wife, and the supposedly close best friend - Licinius Lutea.'
Bratta showed his teeth. They were a sorry set. Too much bad food munched at cheap food stalls while he was watching people and places. The usual. He was one of us all right. For the first time he spoke, in a voice less rough than his appearance had promised: 'Done it. None of them have seen him.'
The Accusers Page 9