Lindsey Davis - Falco 15 - The Accusers

by The Accusers(lit)

  A mile of stately buildings lined the Forum valley. The Golden City’s marble monuments towered above me. Arms folded, I took in the spectacle. I was home. Intimidation and awe are how our rulers keep us respectful. In my case the grandiose effects failed. I grinned at the glorious vista defiantly.

  This was the business end of the historic area. I was standing on the steps of the Temple of Castor, with the Temple of the Divine Julius to the right - both places of nostalgia for me. To my far left, the hundred-foot-high Tabularium blocked off the foot of the Capitol. The Basilica Julia was next door, my current destination; opposite and across the worn stone piazza lay the Senate House - the Curia - and the Basilica built by Aemilius Paullus, with its grand two-storeyed galleries of shops and commercial premises. I could see the prison in a far corner; immediately below me, the office of weights and measures lurked under the podium of the Temple of Castor; near the Rostra was the building that housed the secretaries of the curule aediles, where the corrupt young Metellus had worked. The piazza was awash with priests; crammed with bankers and commodity brokers; flush with would-be pickpockets and the loitering sidekicks to whom they would swiftly pass whatever they stole. I looked in vain for the vigiles. (I was not intending to point out the pickpockets, only to demand loudly that the officers of the law should arrest the brokers for usury and the priests for telling lies. I felt satirical; setting the vigiles a task even they would shrink from would be an amusing way to rejoin public life.)

  The messenger had left no directions. Silius Italicus was a grand type who expected everyone to know where he lived and what his daily habits were. He was not in court. Hardly surprising. He had had one case this year. If the convicted Metellus had paid up, Silius could have avoided work for another decade. I frustrated myself for a long time at the Basilica Julia, discovering that he was also the type whose home address was closely guarded, to stop lowly bastards from bothering the great bird in his own nest. Unlike me, he did not allow clients to call around at his apartment while he was dining with his friends, screwing his wife, or sleeping off either of those activities. Eventually I was informed that in daylight hours Silius could generally be found taking refreshments in one of the porticoes of the Basilica Paulli.

  Cursing, I barged through the crowds, hopped down the steps and marched across the roasting travertine. At the twelve-sided well called the Pool of Curtius, I deliberately refrained from chucking in a copper for good luck. Amid the multicoloured marbles of the Porticus of Gaius and Lucius on the opposite basilica I expected a long search, but I soon spotted Silius, a lump who looked as if he made greedy use of the money he earned from his high-profile cases. As I approached, he was talking to another man whose identity I also knew: about the same age but neater build and more diffident in manner (I knew from recent experience how that was deceptive!) When they noticed me, the second man stood up from the wine-shop table. He may have been leaving anyway, though my arrival seemed to cause it. I felt they should have kept their distance, yet they had been chatting like any old friends who worked in the same district, meeting regularly for a mid-morning roll and spiced Campanian wine at this streetside eatery. The crony was Paccius Africanus, last seen as opposition counsel in the Metellus case.

  Curious.

  Silius Italicus made no reference to Africanus. I preferred not to show I had recognised my interrogator.

  Silius himself had ignored me on the day I attended court but I had seen him at a distance, pretending he was too lofty to take notice of mere witnesses. He had a heavy build, not grossly fat but fleshy all over as a result of rich living. It had left him dangerously red in the face too. His eyes were sunk in folds of skin as if he constantly lacked sleep, though his clean-shaven chin and neck looked youthful. I put him in his forties but he had the constitution of a man a decade older. His expression was that of someone who had just dropped a massive stone plinth on his foot. As he talked to me, he looked as if it was still there, trapping him painfully.

  ‘Didius Falco.’ I kept it formal. He did not bother to return the courtesies.

  ‘Ah yes, I sent for you.’ His voice was assertive, loud and arrogant. Taken with his morose demeanour, it seemed as if he hated life, work, flavoured wine, and me.

  `No one sends for me.’ I was not his slave, nor did I have a commission. It was my free choice whether to accept, even if he offered one. `You sent word that you would appreciate a discussion, and I have agreed to come. A home or office address would have helped, if I may say so. You’re none too easy to find.’

  He modified his confident manner. `Still, you managed to root me out!’ he replied, full of fake friendliness. Even when he was making an effort, he remained dour.

  `Finding people is my job.’

  ‘Ah yes.’

  I sensed that internally he sneered at the type of trade I carried out. I didn’t waste a truculent reaction on him. I wanted to get this over with. `Down at the rough end of informing we have skills you never require at the Basilica. So,’ I pressed him, `which of my skills do you want to use?’

  The big man answered, still with his offhand manner and loud voice: `You heard what happened to Metellus?’

  `He died. I heard it was suicide.’

  `Did you believe it?’

  ‘No reason to doubt,’ I said - at once starting to do so. `It makes sense as an inheritance device. He freed his heirs from the burden of the compensation he owed you.’

  `Apparently! And what’s your view?’

  I formed one quickly: `You want to challenge the cause of death?’

  `Being paid would be more convenient than letting them off.’ Silius leaned back, his hands folded. I noticed a cabochon beryllium seal ring on one hand, a cameo on a thumb, a thick gold band marked like a belt buckle on the other hand. His actual belt was four inches wide, heavy leather, wrapped around a very clean fine wool tunic in plain white with the senatorial trim. The tunic had been carefully laundered; the purple dye had not yet leached into the white. `I won the case, so I don’t personally lose -‘ he began.

  `Except in time and expenses.’ At the rough end, we were rarely paid time and expenses, and never at the glorious rates this man must command.

  Silius snorted. `Oh I can wave goodbye to the time charges. It’s the million and a quarter winnings I prefer not to lose!’

  A million and a quarter? I managed to keep my expression blank. `I was unaware of the compensation limit.’ He had paid us four hundred, which included a mule allowance for the ride Justinus took; we had bumped up the travel costs in accordance with the customs of our trade, but compared with his great windfall, our return wouldn’t buy us a piss in a public lavatory.

  `Of course I share it with my junior,’ Silius grumbled.

  `Quite.’ I hid my bad feeling. His junior was a snivelling scrivener called Honorius. It was Honorius who had dealt with me. He looked about eighteen and gave the impression he had never seen a woman naked. How much of the million and a quarter sesterces would Honorius take home to his mother? Too much. The dozy incompetent had been convinced that our witness lived in Lavinium, not Lanuvium; he tried to avoid paying us; and when he did write out a docket for their banker, he misspelled my name three times.

  The banker, by contrast, had coughed up quickly, and was polite. Bankers stay alert. He could tell that by that stage anyone else who upset me would have been sodomised with a very sharp spear.

  I sensed further stress coming at me over the horizon on a fast Spanish pony.

  `So why did you want to see me, Silius?,

  ‘Obvious, surely?’ It was, but I refused to help him. `You work in this field.’ He tried to make it sound like a compliment. `You already have a connection with the case.’

  My connection was remote. I should have kept it that way. Perhaps my next question was naive. `So what do you want me for?’

  `I want you to prove that it was not suicide.’

  `What am I going for? Accident or foul play?’

  `Whatever you like,�
� said Silius. `I am not fussy, Falco. Just find me suitable evidence to take the remaining Metelli to court and wring them dry.’

  I had been slumped on a stool at his table. He had not offered me refreshments (no doubt sensing I would refuse them lest we be trapped in a guest/host relationship). But on arrival, I had assumed equal terms, and seated myself. Now I sat up. `I never manufacture proofs!’

  `I never asked you to.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘Rubirius Metellus did not take his own life, Falco,’ Silius told me impatiently. `He enjoyed being a bastard - he enjoyed it far too much to give it up. He had been riding high, at the top of his talent, dubious though it was. And he was a coward, anyway. Proof of something that will suit me is there to be had, and I shall pay you well to look for it.’

  I stood up and gave him a nod of acknowledgement. `This type of investigation has a special rate. I’ll send along my scale of charges -‘

  He shrugged. He was not at all afraid of being stung. He had the confidence that only comes with the backing of huge collateral. `We use investigators all the time. Pass your fees to Honorius.’

  `Very well.’ There would be an on-cost for having the awful Honorius as our liaison point. `So let us start right here. What leads do you have? Why did you become suspicious?’

  `I have a suspicious nature,’ boasted Silius bluntly. He was not intending to tell me any more. `Finding the leads is your job.’

  To look professional, I asked for the Metellus address and went to get on with it.

  I knew then that I was being taken for a sucker. I decided I could outwit him. I forgot all the times that manipulating swine like Silius Italicus had outplayed me on the draughtboard of connivery.

  I wondered why, if he used his own tame investigators normally, he selected me for this. I knew it was not because he thought I had a friendly, honest face.

  IV

  RUBIRIUS METELLUS had lived in the style I expected. He owned a large home occupying its own block, on the Oppian Hill, just beyond Nero’s Golden House, half a step from the Auditorium should he want to hear recitals, and an easy walk from the Forum when he conducted business. Booths for shops occupied street frontages on his home; some rich men leave them empty but Metellus preferred rents to privacy. His impressive main entrance was flanked by small obelisks of yellow Numidian marble. They looked ancient. I guessed war loot. Some military ancestor had grabbed them from a defeated people; perhaps he was in Egypt with Mark Antony or that prig Octavian. The former, most likely. Octavianus, with the nasty blood of Caesar in his veins and his eye to the main chance, would have been busy turning himself into Augustus and his personal fortune into the largest in the world. He would have tried to prevent his subordinates carrying off loot that could grace his own coffers or enhance his own prestige.

  If a past Metellus had nonetheless snaffled some architectural salvage, maybe that was a clue to the whole family’s attitude and skills.

  I leaned on the counter of a bowl-and-beaker snackshop. I could see across the street to the Metellus spread. It had a weathered, selfconfident opulence. I had intended to ask questions of the food vendor but he looked at me as if he thought he had seen me before - and remembered we had had a row about his lentil pottage. Unlikely. I have style. I wouldn’t order lentils any day.

  `Phew! It’s taken me hours to find this street.’ It was a ten minute walk from the Sacred Way. Maybe if I looked fagged out he would pity me. Or maybe he would think I was an ignorant deadbeat, up to no good. `Is that the Metellus house?’

  The man in the apron amended his glare to suggest I was a dead bluebottle, feet-up in his precious pottage. Forced to acknowledge my question, he produced a quarter of a nod.

  `At last! I have business with the people there.’ I felt like a clowning slave in a dire farce. `But I hear they had a tragedy. I don’t want to upset them. Know anything about what happened?’

  `No idea,’ he said. Trust me to choose the outlet where Metellus deceased always bought his morning sesame cake. Loyalty makes me sick. Whatever happened to gossip?

  `Well, thanks.’ It was too early in the game to make myself unpleasant, so I refrained from accusing him of ruining my livelihood with his stingy responses. I might need him later.

  I drained my cup, wincing at the sourness; some bitter herb had been added to much-watered-down wine. It was not a success.

  The food vendor watched me all across the street. Being turned away by the door porter would be a deep humiliation, so I made sure it didn’t happen. I said I was from the lawyer. The porter thought I meant their lawyer and I failed to put him straight. He let me in.

  So far, so good. A small battered sphinx guarded the atrium pool. The wide-eyed wise one had stories to tell, but I could not dally. The decor was all polychrome floors and black frescos with gold leaf touch-ups. Perhaps an old house, revived by recent new money. Whose was that? Or was this an old grand mansion, now sinking into disarray? - I noticed an air of dusty neglect as I craned to look into the side rooms.

  I did not make contact with any of the family. A steward saw me. He was an eastern-born slave or freedman, who seemed alert. Late forties, clearly with status in the household, efficient, well-spoken, probably cost a packet to purchase though that would have been some years back. I decided not to prevaricate; incurring a false-entry charge was a bad idea. `The name’s Falco. Your porter may have misunderstood. I represent Silius Italicus. I am here to check a few details about your master’s sad demise so he can write off his fees. First, allow me to express our most sincere condolences.’

  `Everything is in order,’ said the steward, almost as if they had expected this. It was not quite the correct response to my condolences and at once I mistrusted him. I wondered if Paccius Africanus had warned them here that we would try to investigate. ‘Calpurnia Cara -‘

  I took out a note tablet and stylus. I kept my manner quiet. `Calpurnia Cara is?’

  `My late master’s wife.’ He waited while I made notes. `My mistress arranged for seven senators to view the corpse and certify the suicide.’

  I held my stylus still and gazed at him over the edge of my notebook. `That was very cool-headed.’

  `She is a careful lady.’

  Protecting a lot of money, I thought. Of course if it really was a suicide, the husband and wife may well have discussed what Metellus intended. Metellus may have instructed his wife to bring in the witnesses. Paccius Africanus would certainly have advised it, if he were involved. It was a chilling thought that counselling his client to die might be good legal advice.

  `Do you know whether Calpurnia Cara tried to dissuade her husband from his planned course?’

  `I imagine they talked about it,’ the steward replied. `I don’t know what was said.’

  `Was the suicide announced to the household staff beforehand?’

  He looked surprised. `No.’

  `Any chance I might talk with your mistress?’

  `That would not be appropriate.’

  `She lives here?’ He nodded. I made a small symbol on my tablet, without looking up. `And the son?’ Another nod. I ticked that off too. `Is he married?’

  A minute pause. ‘Metellus Negrinus is divorced.’ I made a longer entry.

  `So.’ Now I raised my eyes to the steward again. `Calpurnia Cara ensured that her husband’s death was formally witnessed by noble friends. I assume you can provide me with the seven names, incidentally.’ He was already producing a tablet from a pouch. These people were expertly organised. Grief had not confused them at all. `Was the viewing conducted before or after your master actually - ?’

  ‘Afterwards. Straight afterwards.’

  `Were the witnesses in the house while he -‘

  `No, they were sent for.’

  `And do you mind - I am sorry if this is very painful - but how did he… ?’

  I was expecting the classic scenario: on the battlefield a defeated general falls on his sword, usually needing help from a weeping subordinate be
cause finding the space between two ribs and then summoning the strength to pull in a weapon upwards is damned difficult to fix for yourself. Nero cut his throat with a razor, but he was supposedly hiding in a garden trench at the time, where there may have been no elegant options; to be skewered on a dibber would have lacked the artistry he coveted. The traditional method in private life is to enter a warm bath and open your veins. This death is contained, relaxing, and reckoned to be more or less painless. (Mind you, it presupposes you live in a grand home with a bath.) For a senator, such an exit from disaster is the only civilised way out.

  But it had not happened here.

  `My master took poison,’ said the steward.

  V

  TO INTERVIEW seven senators, I needed help. I returned home and summoned the Camilli. They had to be found first. I sent out my nephew Gaius, a lad about town recently returned from having his habits reformed in the country. It had not worked. He was still a layabout, but agreed to be my runner for his usual exorbitant sweetener. Trotting off to the senator’s house to ask where the lads were supposed to be, he soon rousted out Aelianus from a bath house then rounded up Justinus, who was out shopping with his wife.

  While I was waiting I did some budgeting, wrote an ode in my head, and replanted some flower tubs little Julia had `weeded’. Helena pounced. `I’m glad you’re here. A woman called for you.’

  `Oh good!’ I leered.

  `One of your widows.’

  `Sweetheart, I promise you: I gave up widows.’

  `You may do this one,’ Helena assured me cruelly. `Her name is Ursulina Prisca and she is about sixty-five.’

  I knew Ursulina. She had been badgering me for a long time to take on an extremely complex wrangle involving her estranged brother’s will. She was half crazy. I could have coped with that; most of my clients were. But she talked a torrent, she smelt of cats, and she drank. A friend of hers had recommended me. I had never worked out who the friend was, though I would like to have strong words with them.

  `She’s a menace.’