The Accusers

by Lindsey Davis

  That was a waste of time. Zeuko was still in custody, but if she was as hard-bitten as her mother, I would have obtained little from her.

  Once I made my inspection of their house, I agreed with Helena that the children seemed well cared for and treated with kindness; there was no apparent reason why Ursulina Prisca had heaped disparagement on the two women. The house itself was well furnished and warm. A couple of young slave girls were playing with the children, who had a large toy collection. Walls and floors were covered in a collection of Eastern carpets, a highly unexpected luxury. Helena and I had no walls tapestried with Eastern carpets, even though they were attractive, useful as an investment, and difficult for casual thieves to whip away. My father had a few. But carpets were for auctioneers and kings; they were well out of our reach.

  Euboule was a boot-faced, belligerent old bag of bones in layers of green and blue, with a heavy antique necklace that looked like real gold. I wondered how she had acquired it. The granulated links lay on a skinny chest. There was so little meat on her it seemed unlikely she had ever been full of milk for other women's babies, but no doubt her daughter was fully endowed now.

  She stood up to my questioning like a hardened criminal. If I had not known she was a nurse and foster-mother, I would have thought she kept a chop-house with an upstairs brothel, or one of those back alley bath houses that are famous for perverted masseurs. She seemed ready for me; expecting to be tackled; determined not to give.

  Taken with the expensive carpets, I knew what it meant: Euboule and Zeuko were being paid for their silence. Whether the income was current or only in the past, I could not tell. But at some point in their history this pair had been paid a great deal.

  My sense of foreboding deepened. I went to my banker for a rundown of my own assets; I was unimpressed. At least when I warned him I was done for, Nothokleptes scarcely blinked; he had heard this so often in my bachelor days. He would learn how serious it was now. A new villa at Neapolis was out, that was for sure.

  It was another dreadful day, with thunder in the storms. Lightning flashed around the Forum as I made my way to the Basilica. Honorius must have persuaded Marponius to hold up the trial. Nothing was going on. Tomorrow we would have to come clean, though. I nearly decided to ask for a meeting with Paccius, but held off and went home to find out what the lads had turned up for us.

  The Camillus brothers joined us that evening. Honorius was supposed to come too, though he never appeared.

  Justinus had done a thorough job with the steward. He had learned that his name was Celadus. Now we had a written transcript of the story about Saffia's quails, plus further details about how Rubirius Metellus had begun feeling ill shortly after he ate them. Celadus had seen Metellus go out into the garden, gasping that he needed air. The steward then confirmed the sequence I had previously worked out: Calpurnia found her husband helpless and dying; she herself fetched a quilt for him; then when he passed away she hid the body. Negrinus was away in Lanuvium. Celadus thought he had gone to explain to Julius Alexander that Metellus had decided not to kill himself. When Negrinus returned to Rome, Calpurnia brought the body into the house and faked the scene of suicide.

  'After Calpurnia was accused of the crime - come to that, when her daughter was accused first - why didn't the steward declare what he knew about the quails?'

  Justinus pulled a face. 'Greed, Marcus.'

  'Greed?'

  'He was planning to blackmail Saffia.'

  'Dear gods, everyone was at it! That explains why the family never produced this as a rebuttal. They guessed hemlock was to blame - but they had no idea where it came from.'

  'If Celadus hadn't started drinking yesterday, he might never have coughed.' Justinus sympathised with the man in some ways. 'He's a freedman, from a family who have lost all their money. He has no expectations, unless he creates them for himself. But Saffia's dead. And then he heard that you had done a stonking job in court, Marcus.'

  I laughed bitterly. 'So Celadus thinks his mistress is for the lions - and since silence no longer holds a profit for him, he finds he's loyal enough to save her!'

  Still, it was only one man's word. We could behave like true informers: since it spoiled our case, we could hide this. The silver dish on which the quails arrived would have been long ago washed up. Nobody else knew it ever arrived from Saffia. If we chose to press on with the Calpurnia case then discrediting a freedman who had kept quiet for so long would be easy; we could discount Celadus and his evidence. But in this miserable week, I guessed that now we were looking for it, corroboration would be found. The steward's evidence would stand. Anyway, we all had consciences.

  Aelianus, meanwhile, had contacted some other funeral comedians who were subcontracted to Tiasus. They could not say what the secretive Spindex had discovered about the Metelli, but they did know the name of the informer - and drinking partner - with whom Spindex had often worked. His source when he needed dirt on senators was called Bratta.

  Well, that fitted. That was neat as a nut. At once I sent word to Petronius that Bratta was implicated in the Spindex killing; Petro issued my description and an arrest warrant. Not that I expected a result. The vigiles are ex-slaves, most of whom cannot read. The description would be recited to them, if we were lucky. They would nod wisely. Perhaps some would remember. Generally they have too much to do bashing in the heads of villains they met last night to worry about somebody who might have killed somebody else on a different night six months ago.

  To gear them up, we had to prove a link. But Bratta was a professional. He had left no clues. Mind you, even if he had left evidence all over the clown's apartment, and if a witness on the spot had seen him strangling Spindex, Paccius Africanus would get him off.

  'Anything else?' I asked Helena. She was our duty officer. I was too depressed to think.

  'Only that my father wants to help with your impiety charge. After I talked to him, he went to see someone.'

  'He's a gem - but I can't deal with that at present.'

  'You can't dodge out of it, Marcus. Just as well Papa is trying to look after you!'

  We were due in court on the Calpurnia case next morning. It was unavoidable. I had wanted to debate tactics with Honorius, but he had never showed up. I was about to find out why. Before the morning session started, I made an attempt to nudge things our way. It was doomed, but I had nothing to lose. I took myself for an early stroll at the Basilica Paulli, looking for Paccius and Silius. Ever optimistic, I was hoping to fix up some plea bargaining.

  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.'