‘Then Cicero and his allies are still immune from the Roscii’s revenge—’
‘Of course.’
‘– and the family of Sextus Roscius, despite his death, will still receive recompense from Chrysogonus?’
Sulla paused. I kept my eyes averted. ‘Of course,’ he finally said. ‘His wife and daughters shall be provided for, despite his suicide.’
‘You are merciful and just, Lucius Sulla,’ I said, stepping out of his way. He left without looking back, not even bothering to wait for a slave to show him out. A moment later we heard the sound of the door opening and slamming shut, and then the street was abruptly filled with the noise of his departing entourage. Then all was quiet again.
In the silence that followed, the slave girl returned to clean up Sulla’s debris. While she stacked the pieces of pottery, Cicero stared abstractedly at the mess of porridge Sulla had thrown against the wall. ‘Leave the scrolls where they are, Athalena. They’ll be all out of order. Tiro will pick them up later.’ She nodded obediently and Cicero began to pace.
‘What irony,’ he said at last. ‘So much effort on all sides, and in the end even Sulla is disappointed. who profits, indeed?’
‘You, for one, Cicero.’
He looked at me archly, but could not conceal the smile that trembled on his lips. Across the room, Tiro looked more confused and crestfallen than ever.
Rufus shook his head. ‘Sextus Roscius, a suicide. What did Sulla mean, saying justice had been done, that Roscius had executed himself?’
‘I’ll explain everything to you on the way back to Caecilia’s house,’ I said. ‘Unless Cicero would rather explain it to you himself.’ I stared straight at Cicero, who clearly did not relish the prospect. ‘He can also explain to me exactly how much of the truth he knew when he hired me. But in the meantime I see no reason to accept that Roscius’s fall was a suicide, not until I see the evidence with my own eyes.’
Rufus shrugged. ‘But how else to explain it? Unless it was simply an accident – the balcony is treacherous, and he’d been drinking all night; I suppose he could have tripped. Besides, who in the household would have wanted him dead?’
‘Perhaps no one.’ I exchanged a furtive glance with Tiro. How could either of us forget the bitterness and desperation of Roscia Majora? Her father’s acquittal had dashed all her hopes for revenge, and for the protection of her beloved sister. I cleared my throat and rubbed my weary eyes. ‘Rufus, if you will, come back with me now to Caecilia’s house. Show me how and where Roscius died.’
‘Tonight?’ He was tired and confused, and had the look of a young man who had drunk too much wine too early in the evening.
‘Tomorrow may be too late. Caecilia’s slaves may disturb the evidence.’
Rufus acquiesced with a weary nod.
‘And Tiro,’ I said, answering the plea in his eyes. ‘May he come as well, Cicero?’
‘In the middle of the night?’ Cicero pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘Oh, I suppose he may.’
‘And you, too, of course.’
Cicero shook his head. The look he gave me was part pity, part disdain. ‘This game is ended, Gordianus. The time has come for all men with a clear conscience to take their well-earned rest. Sextus Roscius is dead, and what of it? He died by his own choice; Sulla-from-whom-there-are-no-secrets himself says so. Give it up, Gordianus. Follow my example and go to bed. The trial is done with, the case is over. It’s finished, my friend.’
‘Perhaps it is, Cicero,’ I said, walking towards the vestibule and gesturing for Rufus and Tiro to follow. ‘And perhaps it is not.’
‘It must have been here, from this very spot,’ Rufus whispered.
The full moon shone down brightly on the flagstones of the balcony and the knee-high stone railing that bordered it. Peering over the edge, I saw the stairway Rufus had mentioned, thirty or more feet directly below; the smooth, well-worn edges of the steps gleamed dully in the moonlight. The stairway twisted down into darkness, surrounded by tall weeds and overgrown shrubbery, and obscured here and there by overhanging branches of oaks and willows. From deep within the house the sound of wailing carried across the warm night air; the body of Sextus Roscius had been placed in the sanctum of Caecilia’s goddess, and her slave girls were mourning with ceremonial wails and screams.
‘This railing seems woefully short,’ said Tiro, kicking at one of the squat pillars from a safe distance. ‘Hardly high enough to keep a child safe on the balcony.’ He backed away with a shiver.
‘Yes.’ Rufus nodded. ‘I made the same remark to Caecilia. It seems there used to be a second railing atop it, a wooden one. You can see the metal brackets for it here and there. The wood got all rotten and dangerous, and someone had it torn away. Caecilia says she meant to replace it but never got around to it; the back wing of the house hadn’t been used for a long time until Sextus and his family arrived.’ He stepped beside me and peered cautiously over the edge. ‘That stairway down there is steeper than it looks from here. Very steep and worn, slippery and hard. Dangerous enough to walk down; for a man who’d fallen or tripped …’ He shuddered. ‘He tumbled halfway down the hill before his body came to rest. There, you can see the place, through that opening in the oak tree, where the stairway takes a sharp bend. You can see the very spot – where the blood catches the moonlight, like a pool of black oil.’
‘Who found him?’ I said.
‘I did. That is, I was the first actually to go down and turn his body over.’
‘And how did that come about?’
‘Because I heard the scream.’
‘Whose scream? Roscius, as he fell?’
‘Why, no. Roscia, his daughter. Her bedchamber, the one she shares with her little sister – it’s just within the house, the first doorway down the corridor.’
‘Explain, please.’
Rufus took a deep breath. It was clearly a struggle to keep his muddled thoughts straight. ‘I had already gone to my own bedchamber – the one I always sleep in when I stay over. It’s near the centre of the house, about midway between Caecilia’s chambers and these. I heard a scream, a girl’s scream, followed by loud weeping. I ran from my room and followed it. I found her here on the balcony, shaking and weeping in the moonlight – Roscia Majora. Of course she’d been crying all night, but that hardly explained the scream. When I asked her what was wrong, she shuddered so violently she couldn’t speak. Instead she pointed there, to the spot where Roscius’s body had come to rest.’ He frowned. ‘So I suppose it was actually Roscia who first discovered the body, but I was the one who ran down to have a look.’
I glanced over my shoulder at Tiro, who shook his head sadly. His worst suspicions seemed confirmed. ‘And just how did Roscia happen to be standing here on the very balcony from which her father had fallen?’ I said.
‘I asked her that myself,’ Rufus said, ‘once she was finally able to stop trembling. It seems that she’d just awakened from a bad dream, and she decided to step out onto the balcony for some fresh air. She stood here for a short while, just looking at the full moon, she said, and then she chanced to look down—’
‘And just happened to see her father’s body, fifty feet or more away, amid all the jumble of leaves and grass and stonework?’
‘It wasn’t so unlikely,’ said Rufus defensively. ‘The moon was shining right on the spot, I saw it myself right away when she pointed. And the sight wasn’t pretty, the way his limbs and neck were twisted so unnaturally… .’ He stopped and sucked in a breath, suddenly understanding. ‘Oh, Gordianus, you don’t think the girl …’
‘Of course she did,’ said Tiro dully from the shadows behind us. ‘The only question is how she managed to lure Sextus out here onto the balcony, though I’m sure that was no challenge to her.’
‘That is not the only question,’ I objected, though it seemed merely pedantic to consider all the possibilities. ‘For example, why did she scream after she pushed him, if indeed she did push him, and especially if it was a pr
emeditated murder? Why did she stay on the balcony until someone could find her?’
Tiro gave a disinterested shrug; his mind was already made up. ‘Because she was shocked at the reality of what she’d done. She’s only a girl, after all, Gordianus, not a hardened assassin. That’s why she was weeping, too, when Rufus came to her; the horror of having actually done it, the relief, the sight of his broken body… . Oh, these Roscii! Cousins and brothers and sons and even daughters all desperate to exterminate their own line. I’m sick of them all! Is it a poison in their blood? Some foul imbalance in their humours?’ Tiro shook his head in despair, but when he looked up and I saw his face, half in moonlight, half in shadow, what I read were not thoughts of foulness or horror, but the memory of something irretrievably lost and too painfully sweet to bear.
I turned back to face the abyss, the deep pit of moonlight and shadow into which Sextus Roscius had finally fallen, whether by his own will or by someone else’s. I knelt on one knee before the rail and placed my hands on it. I ran my palms aimlessly over the bevelled surface, almost perfectly smooth except for a few tiny grains of stone that stuck to my hands. A thought struck me.
‘Tiro, bring one of the lamps. Here, hold it just above the railing, where I can have a closer look.’ The light quavered and I looked up to see Tiro blenching at standing so near the edge. ‘If you can’t hold it steady, then hand it to Rufus.’ Tiro surrendered the lamp without hesitation. ‘Here, Rufus,’ I said, ‘follow me and keep the light directly over the railing.’
‘Don’t scrape your nose,’ Rufus said, feeling my excitement and reacting with a joke. ‘What are you looking for, anyway?’
We traversed the full length of the rail twice, without success. I stood up and shrugged. ‘It was only an idea. If Sextus Roscius actually did jump by his own choice, it only makes sense that he might first have stepped onto the railing and jumped from there. I thought perhaps there might be some ghost of a footprint in the fine dust. But no.’
I turned my hands over in the lamplight and looked at the powdery dust on the heels of my palms, flecked here and there with a few grains of gravel that adhered to the flesh. I was about to clap my hands clean when I noticed that one speck of debris was quite different from any of the others. It was larger and glossier, with smooth, sharp edges; instead of a bleached grey, it shone dull red in the lamplight. I turned it over with one finger and saw that it was not a piece of stone at all.
‘What is it?’ whispered Rufus, squinting beside me. ‘Is there blood on it?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘but something the colour of dried blood.’
‘But this is blood!’ said Tiro. While Rufus and I examined the railing, he had taken his own lamp and surveyed the flagstones of the balcony at a safer distance from the edge. At his feet, so insignificant that we had not noticed them before, were a few scattered drops of dark liquid. I knelt and touched them. The beaded drops of blood were dry at the edges but still moist at the centre.
I stepped back and indicated a straight line with my hand.
‘There, on the floor of the balcony, are the drops of blood. There, just before them, is the place on the railing where I found this object.’ I held the red fragment carefully between my finger and thumb. ‘And directly before that, down below, is the spot where Sextus Roscius struck the stairway.’
‘What does it mean?’ asked Rufus.
‘First tell me this: who else has been on this balcony tonight?’
‘Only Roscia and myself, so far as I know. And of course Sextus Roscius.’
‘None of the slaves? Or Roscius’s wife?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Not even Caecilia?’
Rufus shook his head. ‘That I’m sure of. When I brought her the news, she said she wouldn’t even come near this wing of the house. She ordered the slaves to bring Sextus’s body to her sanctum for purification.’
‘I see. Take me to see his body now.’
‘But, Gordianus,’ Tiro pleaded, ‘what have you learned?’
‘That Roscia did not murder her father.’
His brow smoothed with relief, then clouded with sudden doubt. ‘But if he jumped, how can you explain the blood?’
I placed my finger to my lips. Tiro obediently fell silent, but I wasn’t gesturing for him to hush; I was superstitiously kissing the tiny shred of evidence I held between my finger and thumb, and praying that I was not mistaken.
The doors to the sanctum of Caecilia’s goddess were tightly shut, but the odour of incense and the wailing of her slave girls penetrated to the corridor without. Ahausarus the eunuch stood guard and sombrely shook his head when we tried to enter. Rufus gripped my arm and pulled me back.
‘Stop, Gordianus. You know the rules of Caecilia’s household. No men are admitted to the goddess’s sanctum.’
‘Unless they’re dead?’ I snapped.
‘Sextus Roscius the son of Sextus Roscius has been claimed by the Goddess,’ crooned Caecilia, who suddenly stood behind us. ‘She has summoned him to her bosom.’
I turned to see a woman transformed. Caecilia stood very straight, with her head thrown proudly back. In place of a stola she wore a loose, flowing gown dyed deepest black. Her hair had been undone for the night and hung over her shoulders in long, crinkled tresses. The various layers of makeup had been washed from her face. Wrinkled and dishevelled, she nevertheless displayed a vigour and a determination that I had not seen in her before. She looked neither angry nor pleased to see us, as if our presence were of no significance.
‘The goddess may have summoned Sextus Roscius,’ I said, ‘but if I may, Caecilia Metella, I should appreciate the opportunity to examine his remains.’
‘Of what possible interest could his body be to you?’
‘There is a mark I wish to search for. For all I know, it’s the mark of the goddess, calling him home.’
‘His body is twisted and broken inside and out,’ Caecilia said, ‘too mangled for the eye to discern any single wound.’
‘But my eye is very keen,’ I said, fixing it on her and refusing to look away.
Caecilia drew herself up, looked at me sidelong, and at last gave her assent with a nod. ‘Ahausarus! Tell the girls to bring Sextus Roscius’s body here into the corridor.’ The eunuch opened the doors and slipped within.
‘Are they strong enough?’ I asked.
‘They were strong enough to bear him up the stairway and through the corridors to this room. The moon is full, Gordianus. The power of the goddess invests them with a strength greater than any man’s.’
A moment later the doors to the sanctum swung open. Six slave girls bore a litter into the corridor and lowered it to the floor.
Tiro hissed and drew back. Even Rufus, who had seen it already, drew in a sharp breath at the sight of what remained of Sextus Roscius. His clothing had been cut away, leaving him naked. The sheet beneath him was soaked with blood. He was covered all over with bruises and gashes. Numerous bones had been broken; in some places they speared through the torn flesh. Some attempt had been made to straighten his limbs, but nothing could be done to disguise the ruin of his skull. He had apparently landed headfirst. His face was a wreckage, and the top of his head was a confusion of blood and phlegm held together by shards of bones. Unable to look at him, Tiro turned his back and Rufus lowered his eyes. Caecilia gazed down steadily at the body with no expression at all.
I knelt and pushed the broken chin aside; cartilage and bone grated beneath my touch. I ran my fingers down the throat, past mottled bruises and clumps of blood, and found what I sought by touch. ‘Rufus, look here, and you too, Tiro. See, where my finger is pointing, the hole in the soft flesh just below the larynx?’
‘It looks like a puncture wound,’ ventured Rufus.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘such as might be made by a very sharp, slender object. And if we turn him on his side – here, Rufus, push with me – I believe we’ll find the exact twin of this wound in the back of Roscius’s neck. Yes, there, see
it – just to one side of the spine.’
I stood and wiped my bloodied hands on a cloth offered by one of the slave girls. I choked back an abrupt surge of nausea and caught my breath. ‘A strange wound, wouldn’t you agree, Caecilia Metella? Not at all consistent with a plummeting headfirst collision and a tumble down stone stairs. Nor is it the type of wound that might be made by a knife. It seems to have gone straight through his neck – in the front and out the back, or the other way around, I wonder? Such a sharp, slender object, made of such strong metal that it plunged all the way through and then was pulled free. Such a clean wound that only a few drops of blood fell from the instrument onto the floor of the balcony. Tell me, Caecilia, was your hair already down when you encountered Sextus Roscius on the balcony? Or was it still up in a coil, held in place by one of those long silver pins you wear?’
Rufus gripped my arm. ‘Hush, Gordianus! I told you already, Caecilia was never on the balcony tonight.’
‘Caecilia was never on the balcony after Sextus Roscius fell. But before that – while you made ready to go to bed, Rufus, and Roscia Majora slept? Did he confess his guilt to you freely there on the balcony, Caecilia, or did you happen to overhear him babbling in his drunken stupor?’
Rufus tightened his grip until it began to hurt me. ‘Shut up, Gordianus! Caecilia was never on that balcony tonight!’
I pulled my arm free and stepped towards Caecilia, whose basilisk composure never wavered. ‘But if she was never on that balcony, how is it that I came to find this curious object there, lying on the railing?’ I held up the tiny thing I clutched between my thumb and forefinger. ‘Caecilia, may I see your hand?’
She raised one eyebrow, curious but not much concerned, and extended her right hand to me, palm down. I took it in mine and gently spread her fingers apart. Rufus and Tiro moved in beside me, keeping a respectful distance and peering over my shoulders.
What I sought was not there.
If I was wrong, I had gone too far to cover myself with excuses. An outrageous affront to a Metella was a spectacular way, at least, to destroy one’s reputation and livelihood. I swallowed nervously and looked up into Caecilia’s eyes.
Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) Page 49