Lindsey Davis - Falco 15 - The Accusers

by The Accusers(lit)

  There was no point enquiring whether a funeral satirist had enemies. Petronius pointed out wryly that at least we knew most of the people Spindex brazenly mocked had predeceased him, so they were not suspects. Their relatives would be unlikely to complain, Petro believed. Everyone always knows already that the dead man was a serial seducer who lied to political colleagues, ran up hefty debts at a brothel, deliberately farted in the Basilica and was known by an obscene name behind his back. The fun is being at last free to enjoy it - with the stiffened dead lying there, unable to retaliate.

  `Do you suppose, Falco, this clown was rubbed off the tablet because of something he knew?’

  `Who can say? It could just have been a pointless row when he was sozzled.’

  `So what do you think it was?’

  `Oh - elimination due to something he knew.’

  `Well thanks again! Do I stand any chance of learning what, or proving it?’ wondered Petro.

  `Do you ever, lad?’

  That was too metaphysical, so we went for a drink. Long practice made this an essential part of enquiries. We asked the barkeeper if he had had Spindex among his customers. He said every barman this side of the Esquiline could boast that - until about three months ago. Could it be nearer four months? I asked, and he shrugged agreement. As I had thought, that would take us back to the time of the Metellus funeral. Of course a defence lawyer would call it mere coincidence.

  Noticing the clown’s absence from lolling on his bar counter, the barman had deduced that Spindex must be dead. He said it was nice to remember the old misery for a moment, and gave us a free beaker. `I can just see him crouched here, scratching at his fleas…’

  I tried not to feel itchy.

  `Did Spindex have a regular boozing partner?’ asked Petro. We had told no one yet that Spindex had been murdered.

  `Not often. He sometimes had his head together with another fellow, plotting scandal they could use at funerals.’

  `Would they buy wine and take it back to the clown’s lodgings?’

  `Oh Spindex bought a take-out flagon every night. However late he finished here, he’d get in a spare. Sometimes he emptied it before he got home, so he’d go in another bar and buy another one.’

  `But did he ever go home with his friend, the plotter?’

  The barman gazed at Petronius for a while. `Was there a fight or something?’

  `Do you have a reason to think that’s likely?’

  `I sell liquor - so I know life. So what happened to Spindex?’

  `He had a fight or something,’ confirmed Petronius tersely. The barman pulled a face, half surprised, half not surprised. Petro voiced the usual message: `If you hear anything, contact me, will you? You know the main station house. I work in the Thirteenth -‘ The Fourth Cohort covered two regions, controlled here in the Twelfth, but Petronius based himself in the outstation. I won’t say it was to avoid the tribune - but Rubella worked from the main building and Petronius loathed him. `Any message gets passed over to me.’

  I stretched, dropping coins in the gratuities bowl. `And we would dearly like to know who his fellow-plotter was. People may gossip.:

  ‘Or they may not!’ commented the barman.

  Today had now turned unpleasant. Nothing new in that. As I walked home at dusk, I wondered if high-flyers like Silius and Paccius experienced such days. I doubted it. The reek of human putrefaction or the bleakness of a lonely man’s sour existence played out in filthy rooms under the shadow of the dripping aqueducts were far removed from the `civilised’ Basilica. Silius and Paccius were men who never really knew the grim side of life - or the sight of sordid death.

  I went to the baths, but fragrant oil and hot water failed to expel the odours. Their foulness had ingrained itself in my clothes and skin; it remained a taste on my tongue as persistent as regurgitated acid. Only nuzzling the soft sweet neck of our baby once I was back at home gradually helped to take away the horror.

  Yes, I was tough. But today I had seen too much. I spent a long time that night considering whether I wanted to be connected with this case any more. I lay awake, gripped by distaste for the whole affair. It took Helena justina, warm, calm, perfumed with cinnamon, a girl full of honour and resolute before any injustice, to convince me I must carry on to show that our client was innocent.

  I knew perfectly well that he would be sleeping well, comfortable and at ease.

  XXXII

  RAIN HAD drizzled all night. The streets shone and would be slippery. Before I decided on my next course of action, I went up to my roof terrace. The sky was clear now. From the river came distant shouts of stevedores, with the unexplained crashes and shouts that emanate from wharves. We were out of sight of the Emporium, yet it somehow made its presence felt; I was conscious of all the commercial activity close by. Occasional mooing sounded from the other direction, the Cattle Market Forum.

  It felt mild. Not warm enough to sit on the stone benches, but pleasant enough for a quick stroll among the browned roses and near dormant shrubs. At this time of year there was little to occupy a gardening man, but I picked off a few dead twigs and left them in a small soggy pile.

  Something startled me. I thought it was a large bird, diving downwards in the wide-armed fig tree Pa had planted here and half trained. But the movement that had caught my eye was a stray leaf, desiccated and loose, suddenly falling from a cleft where it had lodged among high branches. Pallid and heavy with rain water, it had sought the ground in a sudden swoop.

  Most of those leaves had dropped much earlier. When the great things had first carpeted the terrace and made it treacherous underfoot, we were sweeping up heaps of them all the time. Now I had for some time been able to see the tree’s skeleton. I meant to prune the taller branches. They were carrying baby fruit over the winter, but some might yet be shed. They were too high up anyway. Even if the figlets stayed on to grow and ripen next year, blackbirds would devour them the very hour they turned purple. I would never manage to harvest the fruit unless I was up a ladder every day.

  The side branches needed to be cut back too. Pa had neglected it. The fig’s roots had been contained in an old round-bottomed amphora but the tree was prolific. It would need a really hard prune every spring and more tidying would be advisable each year in late summer. I made a note to acquire a billhook. Like the one in the Metellus store.

  That made up my mind. I was off to see Calpurnia Cara.

  The first disappointment somehow failed to surprise me. Yet again the door was guarded by a substitute. When I asked after Perseus, I was told he was no longer at the house.

  `What - sold? Shoved off in disgrace to the slave market?’

  `No. Sent to the farm in Lanuvium.’ The substitute porter flushed. ‘Oops - I’m not supposed to say that!’

  Why not? I knew the family had connections near the coast. Lanuvium was where Justinus went to fetch that document Silius had requested, when we were involved in the original corruption trial.

  So the door porter had been carted off at short notice. Was it convalescence or a punishment for him? Had Calpurnia finally lost patience with her slave’s bad behaviour? Or was it a move to thwart me?

  The steward was out, or he might have denied me admittance. The substitute porter innocently told me Calpurnia had gone outside to take the morning air. He escorted me as far as the first enclosed peristyle, but then passed me into the care of a gardener.

  I passed a few polite remarks about burgeoning narcissi. The gardener was slow to respond, but by the time we reached the orchard area, I was able to ask if Metellus senior had been a plantsman. No. Or handy with a pruning knife? No, again. That failed to fit a theory I was mulling, but I made one last attempt, asking who looked after the fruit trees? The gardener did. Damn.

  He spotted his mistress, so he beetled off and left me to face her wrath.

  Calpurnia scowled, annoyed that I had been let in. She had been standing much where I found her on my first visit, near the store and also near the fig tree. A
shes of a bonfire smoked alongside. The store had its door wide open; slaves with cloaks over their heads were pulling down the roof panels and tackling the wasps’ nest. Calpurnia, veiled, was supervising in an irritated voice. If insects buzzed her, she swept them aside with her bare hand.

  I walked closer to the fig. It was professionally maintained, unlike Pa’s shaggy mess; I guessed here even the new fruits had been hand thinned for over-wintering. A wall ran behind the tree. Beyond, other properties stood close. I could smell lye, the distillation used for bleaching; one of the premises must be a laundry or a dyer’s. Two unseen women were having a long, loud conversation that sounded like an argument, the kind of excited declamation over nothing that echoes around stairs, porticoes and light-wells all over Rome. We were in a small sanctum of nature up against the Embankment, but the city surrounded us.

  On the wall was fastened a new-looking, inscribed limestone plaque. I did not remember seeing it before, though it may have been there yesterday when I was preoccupied with Birdy and Perseus. I walked closer. It was a memorial to Rubirius Metellus - in some ways quite standard. Ostensibly in the name of a loyal freedman, praising his master in conventional terms, it ran:

  To the shades of the departed,

  Gnaeus Rubirius Metellus,

  son of Tiberius, quaestor, legate, holder of three priesthoods, member of the centumviral court, aged fifty-seven:

  Julius Alexander, freedman, land agent, set this up to the kindest of patrons

  And Gnaeus Metellus Negrinus, to one who was well-beloved of him.

  That last line was a mystery, squeezed in using much smaller letters, where the stone-carver ran out of space. Being tagged on as an afterthought on a freedman’s plaque was an odd position for the son - whose relationship and role was not even defined.

  If Calpurnia Cara saw me looking, she made no mention. Nor did I. I wanted to consider this.

  `I’m sorry to have missed you yesterday,’ I teased.

  `Oh you are full of schemes!’ Calpurnia snorted. `First you sneak in your wife, then you devise some luncheon invitation with my daughter to lure me from my house so you can creep in with Negrinus -‘

  `I know nothing of any lunch date; I happened to call when your son was already here -‘

  `Oh he’s to blame!’

  `This is his home still, surely?’ I regretted that at once. The house would be assigned to Paccius Africanus as soon as the will was executed; he could throw out Calpurnia today, if he wanted to. `Why do you hate your son, Calpurnia?’

  `That is stupid.’

  `You have denounced him as his father’s killer.’

  Perhaps she looked abashed. `Negrinus has caused too much trouble.’

  `He strikes me as inoffensive - even though he apparently upset his father. Why did your husband hate you?’

  `Who told you that?’

  `His will says so. Why did you hate him?’

  `I only hated his cowardice.’

  `He was brave enough to omit you from his bequests - in a will he wrote a full two years before his so-called suicide.’ She did not react. `I gather your husband had a passion for your daughter-in-law Saffia?’

  Calpurnia scoffed. `I told you. Saffia is a troublemaker. My husband knew that better than anyone.’

  `You mean he screwed her physically, then she screwed him financially?’

  This time Calpurnia only stared at me. Did she simply blank it out?

  `So is Paccius Africanus being generous in letting you remain here, or are you sticking tight until he evicts you?’

  `He won’t institute the will until the court case is over.’

  That suited us; his reluctance to evict Calpurnia was one more instance we could cite to imply Paccius and she were co-conspirators.

  She was growing restless. `I do not have to talk to you, Falco.’

  `But you may find it advisable. Tell me, why was Saffia’s bedspread in your garden store?’

  `It was too badly soiled to save. It has been burned now.’

  `Disposal of evidence? How and when did it get soiled?’

  `Since you ask - when my husband was dying.’ That made out I was uncouth to ask such questions.

  I carried on regardless. I was used to annoying the bereaved - especially when I thought they were to blame. `Dying in his bed, according to you - so why use Saffia’s quilt?’

  `Because there was a filthy mess, and anything Saffia had owned was surplus to requirements.’

  `Metellus had some violent gastric upset. Without insulting your cook, what was his last meal?’

  `A mixed cold luncheon,’ Calpurnia replied haughtily. `And we both ate it!’ That had to be a lie.

  `I asked your gardener if Metellus spent much time out here. Was he given to inspecting his market garden?’

  Calpurnia glanced around the patchy vegetables, before finally losing patience with me. She started walking back indoors. `Metellus and I used to come out here,’ she told me coldly, `to be out of hearing of our household, when we were arguing.’

  `And you argued a lot,’ I said quietly, `in the days before your husband died.’

  `We argued a lot,’ confirmed Calpurnia, as though she meant it had always happened.

  `Were you arguing out in the garden when the hemlock struck your husband down?’

  She stopped. She turned and stared at me. `You have been told how my husband went to his death.’

  `Lies! Metellus died out in the open.’ I gestured back the way we had come. `Wasn’t he taken ill there by the fig tree? Someone ran into the house and brought Saffia’s bedding to wrap him in. Then total paralysis would have taken hours.’ I went up close to Calpurnia. `I want to know what you did with him, once he was taken ill. I want to know who else knew what was happening. Did he die alone, or was he comforted - and had you locked him in that garden store? You can answer me now - or I’ll see you in court.’ She stared at me. `Yes,’ I said. `I think you killed Metellus - and I intend to denounce you for it.

  `You cannot prove anything,’ Calpurnia sneered.

  As she stalked off, I called after her loudly: `So what happened two years ago?’

  She turned back, aglow with fury. She gave me one filthy glance without speaking, then she disappeared from view.

  XXXIII

  THE STEWARD had returned and was hovering in the atrium. As he showed me out, I took a chance: `So Perseus is parcelled off to Lanuvium?’ He looked shifty, but I sensed I might squeeze him. `Things must be getting sticky. I assume the money has run out?’

  `Nothing new in this house, Falco - unfortunately!’

  `I thought the Metelli had funds? Still, I assume you haven’t reached the low point - when the mistress sells her jewels and seeks consolation from an astrologer?’

  His voice dropped. `Oh she did that some time ago!’ It seemed unlikely - in fact, I had been joking - yet he spoke with feeling. And I had never seen Calpurnia wearing even a necklace.

  I whistled gently. `Who’s her confidante?’

  `Olympia.’ I noted the name mentally.

  `A fortune teller?’

  Nodding, he glanced over his shoulder. `Everyone’s jittery. We are all waiting to hear we’ll be transferred to Paccius.’

  `Calpurnia says he will wait until the court case ends.’

  `That doesn’t help,’ replied the steward.

  None of the slaves had been manumitted by the Metellus will. That was mean. A quarter of the labour force, up to a hundred in number, of those over thirty years of age, could have been freed when their master died. All the Metellus slaves would have a good idea how Saffia Donata might treat them if she ever possessed them. She might take out her spiteful feelings against her husband’s family on the slaves. Paccius, more likely, would be indifferent - but he would sell them.

  We were on the threshold now. The slave who was acting as doorkeeper stayed back, though not far enough for me. I offered the steward, `Look, do you get time to yourself? Can I buy you a drink?’

  He k
new what this was for. He smiled. `No thanks. I’m not naive, Falco!’

  I shrugged. `Will you clear up a domestic issue then? What was the menu for the last meal that your master had?’ I thought the steward blenched. He was unhappy, that was sure. `The lunch,’ I prompted. `The last lunch with his family.’

  The steward claimed he could not remember. Interesting. He was the type who would regard it as his personal daily duty to plan menus and organise the shopping; maybe he even shopped himself The last meal eaten by a master who was subsequently poisoned should be etched into the elegant factotum’s memory.

  While I was in the Fifth Region I made another call, to Claudius Tiasus the funeral director. I implied I had lost a relative. Through a series of lesser players, I acted nervous; when it looked as if the sale might be lost, the great impresario came himself to clinch the deal..

  He was a fat bundle with a greasy pigtail, at once subservient and sly. He had a disreputable air. His tunic was clean, and his hands were heavily beringed. It seemed unlikely he still carried out embalming, though when he patted my shoulder, thinking he was consoling the bereaved, I wondered where those podgy hands had been half an hour ago.

  He realised I was a fraud.

  `Sorry - though there is a corpse to bury, truly. Consider my visit official. The name is Falco. I am working with the vigiles on a suspicious death. It’s somebody known to you.’

  Tiasus had signalled to his staff to leave. We two sat in a small corridor partly in the open air, with a view over a fountain with a soppy nymph, and soft cushions on the bench. It would be suitable for discussing which scented oil had been a deceased’s favourite, though it was inappropriate for being grilled by me. For one thing, I kept staring at the nymph. She appeared to have no nipples and two doves were sitting on her head, doing what doves do.

  `Who is dead?’ enquired Tiasus calmly. He had a light, rather high voice.

  `Your clown, Spindex.’

  `No!’ He calmed down fast, no stranger to tragedy. `Spindex is a freelance. I haven’t seen him since, oh -‘