Lindsey Davis - Falco 15 - The Accusers

by The Accusers(lit)

  Helena found the little boy. Alone in his neat bedroom, silent and white-faced, he lay curled up on his bed, not even clutching a toy. After three days of hearing his mother screaming in childbirth, he must be petrified. When silence fell, his world ended. We knew he had been told his mother was dead; at four, he may not have understood. Nobody had fed him, comforted him, made any plans for him. No one had even spoken to him for a long while. He had no idea that his father was here. He let Helena pick him up, but accepted her attentions almost like a child who expected blows. Concerned, I even saw her checking him for marks. But he was sound, clean, well nurtured. He owned a shelf of clay models and when I offered him a nodding mule, he took it from me obediently.

  We brought parent and child together. Lutea stopped weeping and took the boy in his arms, though Lucius went to his father with as little reaction as when Helena gathered him up. We instructed some weary slaves to look after them. It might have been the moment to catch Lutea off guard, but Helena shook her head and I bowed to her humanity.

  Helena and I walked home together quietly, with our arms around each other’s waists, feeling subdued. The fate of the small boy depressed us both. Little Lucius had lost more than his mother there. Saffia had done her best for the other two by sending them to Negrinus, but this boy was Lutea’s property. It would never turn out well; Lucius was destined to spend his life being abandoned and forgotten. The father may have loved the mother, but neither Helena nor I now had any faith in Lutea’s so-called great affection for the four-year-old. The little boy behaved as if he had very low expectations. Lutea held his supposedly adored son like a drunk with an empty amphora, staring over his head with regret in his soul, but no heart.

  `At least he is weeping for Saffia.’

  `No, he is weeping for the lost money.’

  You may assume that sympathetic comment came from Helena and the harsh judgement from me. Wrong!

  `You find me very cynical,’ Helena apologised. `I just believe that Saffia’s death has robbed this man Lutea of expectations in a lengthy scheme to prey on the Metelli - and I believe he is sobbing for himself. You, Marcus Didius Falco, the great city romantic, hate to see a man bereft. You believe that Lutea was genuinely moved today by the loss of his heart’s companion and lover.’

  `I allow him that,’ I said. `He is distraught at losing her. But I don’t disagree with you entirely, fruit. The only reason Lutea is not weeping for the money is that - in my view, and I am sure in his - he has not lost it yet.’

  XXXVII

  THE FULL title of the murders court is the Tribunal for Prisoners and Assassins. Poisoning is routinely associated with spells, potions and other foul magic. Assassins may be all kinds of murderers, including armed robbers. This court thus relates to the grimiest side of human nature. I always found sessions there quite gruelling.

  There is a panel of lay judges, drawn from both the upper and middle classes - a fact which irritates the senators and makes the equestrians smug. Their names are kept in a public register, the White List, which we were about to consult. A name from this album would be picked by Paccius Africanus, and if we approved, the chosen judge (with no right to refuse) would preside over our court case. The judge would not vote with the jury, though after hearing the evidence formally, if there was a guilty verdict he would pronounce punishment and fix the accusers’ compensation. Seventy-five reputable citizens would act as the jury, their selection subject to challenges by both prosecution and defence. They would hear the evidence in strict silence and vote secretly; equal votes would mean acquittal.

  `If there are seventy-five judges, how can there be equal votes?’ I mused.

  `Oh Falco!’ Honorius deplored my simplicity. `You can’t expect seventy-five men to turn up without anybody sending a note to say he has a bad cold or must attend his great aunt’s funeral.’

  The judge meanwhile did not have to remain silent - and was unlikely to do so. I won’t say we expected any judge to be crass, legally ignorant and biased against us - but Honorius became extremely exercised over who would be appointed.

  `Paccius and Silius know the panels, and I don’t. The trial could be effectively over for us, if we get the wrong man.’

  `Well, do your best.’ I despised them all and found it hard to care. `All we need is someone who can stay awake. That’s the purpose of choosing from the panels, I take it?’

  `No, Falco. The purpose of choice is to ensure neither side has an opening to bribe the judge.’

  I had not bargained on expenditure. `Do we have to bribe him?’

  `Of course not. That would be corrupt. We just need to make sure the opposition doesn’t bribe him either.’

  `I am glad you explained that, Honorius!’ I was seeing the seedy side of law here - and the humourless side of our barrister. `Surely all judges are appointed to panels for their fair-mindedness and independence?’

  `Where have you spent your life, Falco?’

  I started to take a reluctant interest. Aelianus was showing off, explaining the judges’ qualifications. `Freeborn, in good health, over twenty-five and under sixty-five, has to be a decision or other local official, and has to have a modest property portfolio.’

  I was shocked. `Good gods, I could end up on a panel myself’

  `Feign sickness or madness, Falco.’

  `Think of his tombstone,’ Helena ruled. `Aulus, I want my husband to have a whole list of dead-end, pointless positions, running off his alabaster slab.’ Alabaster, eh? She seemed to have planned it already. Mention of dead-end positions reminded me to visit the Sacred Geese again. `Marcus, be a judge but make sure every time in court, you go for acquittal. Go on the panel, but build up a reputation as a soft bastard, so you don’t get picked for cases.’

  `The jury decides verdicts,’ I protested.

  `The judge directs the course of the trial,’ Honorius argued, in a hollow voice. He was definitely nervous. It might perk up his advocacy. But it made me tense.

  Honorius did not like the judge Paccius first chose. There was no reason, but on principle Honorius would not take the first offer. We objected.

  We made another suggestion. Paccius refused our name. Apparently this was normal.

  Then began several days of negotiating the published lists. The album of approved judges was laid out in three panels. First, two of these had to be eliminated. It was quick. Paccius rejected a panel, then we did. I could not see what grounds they had - guesswork, perhaps. I noticed that Paccius acted out a charade of deep thoughtfulness, chewing a stylus as he lengthily pondered; Honorius glanced down with an air of confidence before making a swift selection as if it hardly mattered.

  That thinned the lists to a third. The remaining panel was subjected to intense scrutiny, as each side removed one name at a time alternately. We were using a panel with an uneven number of names, so we had first pick; had it been an even panel, Paccius would have started. In either case, the intention was to allow the defendant ‘to make the final rejection. We all had to keep going until one name was left.

  There was no time limit, except that if we spent too long debating we would look amateur. Hasty research was conducted. Both sides were steered by their private advisers. Paccius had a whole group of spindly specialists who looked like clerks with chest diseases. Falco and Associates were just asking my friend Petronius. He had one great advantage: he had appeared in front of most judges.

  `Do you want a cretin or a meddler?’

  `Which is better for us?’

  `Whoever gets the larger backhander.’

  `We won’t pay. We are going for probity.’

  `Can’t afford true justice, eh?’

  Nobody knew the judges in this court well. At first I thought the opposition were proceeding in some clever manner; then I spotted them off guard one day when I was half concealed behind a pillar, and I could see that where we were facetious, they were frantic. As the names were whittled down, they threw up their hands. Even with Petro’s guidance, we were n
ot removing judges on the basis of what we knew against them, but leaving them in because we had never heard of them. There was one exception. One name stayed there even though Petro and I both knew the judge. Both of us were amazed that he survived the process. We both thought it was funny; as the women who loved us sometimes remarked, Petronius and I had never grown up.

  By the last three names, we had the man we knew, plus two others whom Petro said were a foul-mouthed liar and a bully (these were milder than some of his comments on others). Honorius rejected the liar. Paccius struck out the bully.

  `So! Our judge is called Marponius.’ Paccius turned to Honorius. `Do you know anything of him?’

  `Actually, no.’

  `Me neither.’

  Petronius and I hid quiet smiles.

  Though on opposite sides, Paccius and Honorius had spoken as colleagues who now faced a common enemy. Their frank exchange included a trace of contempt, for these two nobles knew from a mark against his name that the judge was an equestrian.

  We knew more than that. At least we knew what we were getting; that was why we had kept quiet. Petronius Longus had had many a run-in with Marponius in the murders court. Marponius and I had clashed a few times too. The man was a duff encyclopaedia tycoon, a purveyor of cheap knowledge to the rising classes, who had made money and used it to advance himself from the stews on the lower Aventine to the temple-topped crest of the hill. Being on the panel of approved judges was the height of glamour for him. He was ambitious, nasty, narrow-minded and famous for spouting bigoted drivel. He sat in his court like a warm geyser in the Wholegrain Fields, belching foul volcanic air - a risk to all the wildlife in his neighbourhood.

  As he left us, Petronius said he was sure we would all find the arbiter in our coming trial to be full of talent and humanity.

  `I hope not!’ muttered Honorius. `We don’t want some damned interventionist.’

  I told him that Marponius was famous for his innovative directions to juries. Paccius overheard me. He and Honorius glanced at each other and winced.

  This was typical of Marponius. He had not even met them, yet he had upset the legal teams on both sides.

  XXXVIII

  MARPONIUS WAS loving it. We were informed that he was so thrilled to preside over a prestigious case (instead of bath-house stranglers and brothel batteries), he had bought himself a new toga - and forgot to request a price discount. Petronius seemed to have access to the judge’s house; he knew so much about his reactions, it sounded to me as if the vigiles must be crouching under his pillow like bedbugs as the judge put himself to sleep every night with his beaker of hot camomile tea and scroll of Cicero…

  In fact Marponius, a childless widower, lived a life of moral austerity. That was one reason Petro and his men hated him. There was nothing to work with when they wanted to influence a case in the right direction.

  So keen was Marponius to feature in the Daily Gazette’s legal reports and to have the masses in the Forum wonder who in Hades he was, he brought Calpurnia’s trial forwards and rushed through the jury selection. Marponius apparently had more influence than we supposed; he then somehow wangled himself use of the Basilica Julia. It was normally reserved for the Court of One Hundred, which dealt with inheritance. Appropriate - though Marponius probably just knew the right court official. Since the centumviral court actually had a hundred and eighty judges and occasionally sat in full session, there would be plenty of room for onlookers, though I thought Marponius was going overboard.

  It was a cool day when I strolled down the Vices Auguries, walked under the Arch of Tiberius, and entered the historic end of the Forum near the Capitol. The Basilica stretched between the Temple of Saturn and the Temple of Castor, in a dramatic and lofty group of monuments. Overlooked by the great temples on the hill above, that part of the Sacred Way was rich in ancient sites. I came out on a corner, by the Lake of Servilius - some antique hero who once gave a horse a drink here (or maybe it was the name of the thirsty horse). Ahead were the orators’ rostra adorned with prows of captured ships, the so-called Umbilicus of the City, and the mysterious Black Stone. Very historic. Somewhere for loafers to tell their friends to meet them. I found the rest of my own party gathered in the shadow of the towering statue plinths that lined the Sacred Way.

  We mounted the steps in the centre. For once I noticed the elegant symmetry of the double-height rows of arches that faced us. There must be nearly twenty - I had no concentration to count them - and they are entirely constructed of expensive marble. Inside, some cutbacks occurred; there the piers are simply made of cheaper travertine with white marble veneers. The long rectangular hall, roofed in wood over a fifty-foot span, has a double row of colonnades on each long side, paved with more glittering slabs, so a ponderous chill strikes the bones in winter and an important hush lies everywhere, except when barristers are arguing among themselves in the side aisles. The colonnades have upper galleries, where people can observe proceedings, eat nuts, then throw down pistachio shells into the toga folds of the legal teams.

  In our case there seemed little need for sightseers to hang over the balcony rails; a few friends and members of the public lounged on seats we had supplied, but standing room was hardly at a premium. The Basilica staff had allocated us a derisory area at one end of the huge hall. A single usher waved us in with obvious lack of interest. We greeted well-wishers hoarsely. It did not take long.

  We watched Marponius strut into the Basilica Julia, followed by an official slave who carried his folding ivory stool, and a slave of his own who had brought him an unofficial red cushion to slip on to it. Marponius had a very well padded backside, which gave him a strange walk and an uneven toga hem. He had a bald crown with curly side panels, all covering what Petronius and I denounced as only half a brain. The wrong half.

  He gave a cool nod to Petronius, who was backing me up on the first day in court. I received a blank stare, though that may have been because I was sporting a large assisted bruise that gave me the appearance of a mad-eyed painted statue where the artist had wanted to use up all the pigment on his palette to save cleaning it. Honorius sat between me and Aelianus; Justinus had so far failed to return from Lanuvium. Despite his previous court experience, Honorius was extremely quiet. I found it more and more worrying.

  The accused entered stiffly, as if to emphasise her years. Not quite limping, but walking with some awkwardness, Calpurnia took her place between the gloomy-looking, overweight Silius and the saver, slimmer Paccius. She had disdained to dishevel her clothing to win sympathy, though she did wear her long grey hair loose; it was caught under the matron’s stole she wore tightly wrapped around her body. She had no visible jewellery, perhaps because she had sold it all. Her expression was thunderous. Her son was in court, but she never looked at him. Negrinus never looked at anyone.

  Marponius took it upon himself to address the jury on their duties and the legal teams on how he wished to run his court (he phrased it another way but he meant, with both legal teams subservient to him as he rode roughshod over them). Then we began. First came the prosecution’s opening speech, in which the charges would be set out. Honorius was to deliver this. As he rose, Paccius and his old senior Silius smiled tolerantly to disconcert our young man. He took it well. Adjusting his toga briefly for the best effect, and revealing little of the nerves I suspected he felt, Honorius began:

  The Accusation against Calpurnia Cara: Speech for the Prosecution by Honorius

  Gentlemen of the jury, this is a case in which a noble family come to ruin tragically. Founded in Lanuvium, the Metellus family has old roots and old money. They have been senators for five generations, serving Rome with honour and distinction. The present generation appeared to flourish and live happily for thirty years. The daughters married well and left home. The son married and stayed with his parents. All had children. The son was progressing through the senatorial ranks, and if not a star, he was securely fulfilling his ambitions. About two years ago, something happened.

/>   I admit to you freely, it is not yet clear what the disaster was. Perhaps Calpurnia Cara will shed light on it. One thing is certain: this event was catastrophic. Lack of money became a problem. The father and son desperately sought to increase their funds through corruption. The father wrote a savagely unjust will. His family were then beset from all sides.

  Let me list their enemies: An informer called Silius Italicus, whom you see in court today, laid formal corruption charges, in a case which he won. The son’s wife, Saffia Donata, turned against her husband and, he says, stripped him of everything. Another informer who sits among us here, Paccius Africanus - with or without connivance from Silius-moved in on the family with motives that may have seemed helpful at the time but which now look only sinister. At least one of their slaves, a door porter, Perseus, seems to have discovered secrets they wanted to hide, and ran rings around them. And harboured in their midst was Calpurnia Cara, apparently a devoted wife and mother, but as we shall show you, a woman of strong passions and determined hatreds, who would not flinch from the worst possible action.

  Following his condemnation in the court case, Rubirius Metellus was advised to commit suicide. This did not suit the informer who had accused him of corruption, for if the condemned man took his own life, Silius would lose his compensation. To the dismay of Silius, Metellus died. From motives we can only despise, the informer rallied; next he accused the elder daughter of poisoning her father, after Metellus had allegedly declined to take his own life. Rubiria Juliana was tried in the Senate, but was acquitted and lives blameless. Thwarted, Silius Italicus has now allied with his colleague, Paccius Africanus, to accuse the son instead, in a case which has yet to be heard. Truly, the children of the late Rubirius Metellus carry a heavy burden. It weighs worst on the son. Disinherited by his father, for reasons of which he is totally ignorant, he now learns he has a brazen and callous mother. The unnatural woman whom we have brought before you intends to give evidence that will condemn Metellus Negrinus, her only son, for his father’s murder.