Cicero cleared his throat. 'I think it may be time for Gordianus to meet young Sextus Roscius.'
'Only a few more questions,' I said. 'Sextus Roscius left the dinner party immediately?'
'Yes.'
'But not alone.'
'No, he left with the two slaves who had accompanied him. His favourites. Sextus always brought them.'
'You wouldn't happen to remember their names?'
'Of course I do, they were in and out of my house for years. Chrestus and Felix. Very loyal. Sextus trusted them completely.'
'Suitable slaves for a bodyguard?'
'I suppose they may have carried knives of some sort. But they weren't built like gladiators, if that's what you mean. No, they were there mainly to hold the lamps and to see their master to his bed. Against a gang of armed thugs I don't imagine they would have been much use.'
'And did their master need seeing to bed, or help walking through the streets?'
'You mean was he that drunk?' Caecilia smiled fondly. 'Sextus was not a man to stint himself of pleasure.'
'I suppose he was wearing a fine toga.' 'His finest.'
'And did he wear jewellery?'
'Sextus was not modest in appearance. I imagine there was gold showing on his person.'
I shook my head at the audacity of it: an old man walking virtually unguarded through the streets of Rome after dark, drunk on wine and showing off his wealth, answering a mysterious summons from a whore. His luck had finally abandoned Sextus Roscius on the Ides of September, but who had been the instrument of Fate, and for what purpose?
7
Sextus Roscius and his family had been installed in a distant wing of the great house. The eunuch Ahausarus led us there through a network of increasingly narrow and less resplendent hallways. At last we entered a region where the paintings on the walls badly needed restoration, then vanished altogether to be replaced by ordinary plaster, much of it decayed and crumbling. The tile beneath our feet became uneven and cracked, with holes the size of a man's fist We were far from the formal gardens and the intimate dining room where Caecilia had received us, far beyond the kitchens and even the servants' quarters. The odours here were less delectable than those of roast duck and boiling fish. We were somewhere near the indoor privies.
Like a true Roman patroness of the ancient mould, Caecilia seemed willing to undergo embarrassment and even scandal to protect a family client, but it was clear that she had no desire to have young Sextus Roscius anywhere near her within the house, or to spoil him with luxury. I began to wonder if Caecilia was herself convinced of the man's innocence, to have given him such begrudging shelter.
'How long has Roscius been living under Metella's roof?' I asked Cicero.
'I'm not sure. Rufus?'
'Not long. Twenty days, perhaps; he wasn't here any earlier than the Nones of April, I'm sure. I visit her often, but I didn't even know he was here until the guards were posted and Caecilia felt she had to explain. Before that she made no effort to introduce him. I don't think she cares for him very much, and of course his wife is so very common.'
'And what was he doing here in the city if he loves the countryside so much?'
Rufus shrugged. 'I'm not sure about that either, and I don't think Caecilia knows for certain. He and his family simply showed up on her doorstep one afternoon, pleading for admittance. I doubt she had ever met him before, but of course when she realized he was Sextus's son she opened her house immediately. It seems this trouble over the old man's death has been brewing for some time, beginning back in Ameria. I think they may have run him out of the village; he showed up in Rome with practically nothing, not even a household slave. Ask him who's caring for his farms back in Ameria and he'll tell you that most of them were sold, and some cousins are running the rest. Ask him to be specific and he throws one of his fits. Personally I think Hortensius dropped the case out of sheer frustration.'
Ahausarus made a show of admitting us with a flourish through a final curtain. 'Sextus Roscius, the son of Sextus Roscius’ he said, bowing his head towards the figure who sat in the centre of the room, 'a much-esteemed client of my mistress. I bring visitors,' he said, making a vaguely dismissive gesture in our direction. 'The young Messalla, and Cicero, the advocate, whom you have met before. And another, called Gordianus.' Tiro he ignored, of course, as he also ignored the woman who sat sewing cross-legged on the floor in one corner, and the two girls who knelt beneath the skylight playing some sort of game.
Ahausarus withdrew. Rufus stepped forward. 'You look better today, Sextus Roscius.'
The man gave a feint nod.
'Perhaps you'll have more to say this afternoon. Cicero needs to begin preparing his defence — your trial is only eight days away. That's why Gordianus has come with us. They call him the Finder. He is skilled at finding the truth.'
'A magician?' Two baleful eyes glared up at me.
'No,' said Rufus. 'An investigator. My brother Hortensius often makes use of his services.'
The baleful eyes turned on Rufus. 'Hortensius — the coward who turned tail and ran? What good can any friends of Hortensius do me?'
Rufus's pale, freckled race turned the colour of cherries. He opened his mouth, but I raised my hand to silence him. 'Tell me something,' I said in a loud voice. Cicero wrinkled his brow and shook his head, but I waved him back. 'Tell me now, before we go any further. Sextus Roscius of Ameria: did you murder or did you in any way cause the murder of your father?'
I stood over him, daring him by my very posture to look up at me, which he did. What I saw was a simple face, such as Roman politicians delight in extolling, a face darkened by sun, chapped by wind, weathered by time. Roscius might be a rich farmer, but he was a farmer nonetheless. No man can rule over peasants without acquiring the look of a peasant; no man can raise crops out of the earth, even if he uses slaves to do it, without acquiring a layer of dirt beneath his fingernails. There was an uncouthness about Sextus Roscius, a rough-hewn, unpolished state, a quality of inertness as blank and immovable as granite. This was the son left behind in the countryside, to whip the backs of stubborn slaves and see the oxen pulled from ditches, while pretty young Gaius grew up a pampered city boy with city ways in the house of their pleasure-loving father.
I searched his eyes for resentment, bitterness, jealousy, avarice. I saw none of these. Instead I saw the eyes of an animal with one foot caught in a trap who hears the noise of hunters approaching.
Roscius finally answered me in a low, hoarse whisper: 'No.' He looked into my eyes without blinking. Fear was all I could see, and though fear will make a man He more quickly than anything else, I believed he was telling me the truth. Cicero must have seen the same thing; it was Cicero who had told me that Roscius was innocent, and that I would only have to meet him to know it for myself
Sextus Roscius was of middle age. Given that he was a hardworking man of considerable wealth, I had to assume that his appearance on this day was not typical. The terrible burden of his uncertain future — or else the terrible guilt of his crime — lay heavy upon him. His hair and beard were longer than even country fashion might dictate, knotted and unkempt and streaked with grey. His body, slumped in the chair, looked stooped and frail, though a glance at Cicero or Rufus revealed that in comparison he was a much larger man with a fair amount of muscle. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. His skin was sallow. His lips were dry and cracked.
Caecilia Metella claimed he woke up screaming at night. No doubt she had taken one look at him and decided that his mind was unhinged. But Caecilia had never walked the endless, teeming streets of the poor in Rome or Alexandria. Desperation may verge into madness, but to the eye that has seen too much of both, there is a clear difference. Sextus Roscius was not a madman. He was desperate.
I looked around for a place to sit. Roscius snapped his fingers at the woman. She was middle-aged, stout, and plain. From the way she dared to scowl back at him, she had to be his wife. The woman stood up and snapped her finge
rs in turn at the two girls, who scurried up off the floor. Roscia Majora and Roscia Minora, I assumed, given the unimaginative way that Romans ration the father's surname to all the daughters in a family, distinguishing them only by appending their rank.
Roscia the elder was perhaps Rufus's age or a bit younger, a child on the cusp of womanhood. Like Rufus she wore a plain white gown that kept her limbs concealed. Great masses of chestnut hair were braided into a knot at the base of her neck and cascaded to her waist; in country fashion, her hair had never been cut. Her face was strikingly pretty, but about her eyes I saw the same haunted look that marked her father.
The younger girl was only a child, a replica of her sister in miniature, with the same gown and the same long, braided hair. She followed the other women across the room but was too small to help them carry the chairs. Instead she grinned and pointed at Cicero.
'Funny-face,' she shouted, then clapped her hands to her mouth, laughing. Her mother scowled and chased her from the room. I glanced at Cicero, who bore the indignity with stoic grace. Rufus, who looked as handsome as Apollo next to Cicero, blushed and looked at the ceiling.
The older girl retreated after her mother, but before slipping through the curtain she turned and glanced back. Cicero and Rufus were taking their seats; they seemed not to notice her. I was struck again by her face — her wide mouth and smooth forehead, her deep brown eyes tinged with sadness. She must have seen me staring; she stared back with a frankness not often found in girls of her age and class. Her lips drew back, her eyes narrowed, and the look on her face suddenly became an invitation — sensual, calculated, provocative. She smiled. She nodded. Her lips moved, mouthing words I couldn't make out.
Cicero and Rufus were across the room, their heads together, exchanging a hurried whisper. I glanced over my shoulder and saw only Tiro nervously shifting from foot to foot. She could only have been looking at me, I thought.
When I looked back, young Roscia Majora was gone, with only the swaying curtain and a faint scent of jasmine to mark her passing. The intimacy of her parting glance left me startled and confused. It was such a look as lovers exchange, yet I had never seen her before.
I stepped to the chair that had been set out for me. Tiro followed behind and slid it beneath me. I shook my head to clear it. Another look at the girl's father sobered me instantly.
'Where are your slaves, Sextus Roscius? Surely in your own home you would never think of asking your wife and daughters to fetch chairs for company.'
The baleful eyes glittered. ‘Why not? Do you think they're too good for it? It does a woman good to be reminded every so often of her place. Especially women like mine, with a husband and father rich enough to let them sit about and do as they please all day long.'
'Pardon, Sextus Roscius. I meant no offence. You speak wisely. Perhaps next time we should ask Caecilia Metella to fetch the chairs.'
Rufus suppressed a laugh. Cicero winced at my impertinence.
'You're a real wise-mouth, aren't you?' snapped Sextus Roscius. 'A clever city man like these others. What is it you want?'
'Only the truth, Sextus Roscius. Because finding it is my job, and because the truth is the one thing that can save an innocent man — a man like you.'
Roscius sank lower in his seat. In a test of brawn he would have been a match for any two of us, even in his weakened state, but he was an easy man to beat down with words.
‘What is it you want to know?'
'Where are your slaves?'
He shrugged. 'Back in Ameria, of course. On the estates.'
'All of them? You brought no servants with you, to clean and cook, to take care of your daughters? I don't understand.'
Tiro bent close to Cicero and whispered something in his ear. Cicero nodded and waved his hand. Tiro left the room.
'What a well-mannered little slave you've got.' Roscius curled his lip. 'Asking his master's permission to take a piss. Have you seen the plumbing here? Like nowhere else I've ever seen. Running water right in the house. My rather used to talk about it — you know how an old man hates having to step outside to pass water in the night. Not here! Too good a place for slaves to take a shit if you ask me. Usually doesn't smell this bad, except it's so damned hot.'
'We were talking about your slaves, Sextus Roscius. There are two in particular to whom I wish to speak. Your father's favourites, the ones who were with him the night he died. Felix and Chrestus. Are they in Ameria, too?'
'How would I know?' he snapped. 'Probably run off by now. Or had their throats slit.'
'And who would do that?'
'Slit their throats? The same men who murdered my father, of course.' 'And why?'
'Because the slaves saw it happen, you fool.' 'And how do you know that?' 'Because they told me.'
'Was that how you first learned of your father's death — from the slaves who were with him?'
Roscius paused. 'Yes. They sent a messenger from Rome.'
'You were in Ameria the night he was killed?'
'Of course. Twenty people could tell you that.'
'And when did you learn he had been killed?'
Roscius paused again. 'The messenger arrived two mornings after.'
'And what did you do then?'
'I came into the city that day. A hard ride. You can make it in eight hours if you have a good horse. Started at dawn, arrived at sundown — days are short in the autumn. The slaves showed me his body. The wounds…' His voice became a whisper.
'And did they show you the street where he was killed?'
Sextus Roscius stared at the floor. 'Yes.'
'The very spot?' He shuddered. ‘Yes.'
'I shall need to go there and see it for myself'
He shook his head. 'I won't go there again.'
'I understand. The two slaves can take me there, Felix and Chrestus.' I watched his face. A light glimmered in his eyes, and I was suddenly suspicious, though of what I couldn't say. 'Ah,' I said, 'but the slaves are in Ameria, aren't they?'
'I already told you that.' Roscius seemed to shiver, despite the heat.
'But I need to visit the scene of the crime as soon as possible. I can't wait for these slaves to be brought to Rome. I understand your father was on his way to an establishment called the House of Swans. Perhaps the crime occurred nearby.'
'Never heard of the place.' Was he lying or not? I studied his face, but my instincts failed me.
'Even so, perhaps you could tell me how to find the spot?'
He could, and did. I was a bit surprised at this, given his ignorance of the city. There are a thousand streets in Rome; only a handful have names. But between Cicero and myself, and the landmarks Roscius could remember, I was able to piece together the route. It was complicated enough to need writing down. Cicero looked over his shoulder, muttering about Tiro's absence; fortunately Tiro had left his wax tablet and stylus on the floor behind Cicero's chair. Rufus volunteered to write out the notations.
'Now tell me, Sextus Roscius: do you know who murdered your father?'
He lowered his eyes and paused a very long time. Perhaps it was only the heat, making him groggy. 'No.'
‘Yet you told Cicero that you fear the same fate — that the same men are determined to kill you as well. That this prosecution is itself an attempt on your life.'
Roscius shook his head and drew his arms around himself. The baleful light was extinguished. His eyes grew dark. 'No, no,' he muttered. 'I never said such a thing.' Cicero shot me a puzzled glance. Roscius's mutterings grew louder. 'Give it up, all of you! Give it up! I'm a doomed man. They'll throw me in the Tiber, sewn up in a sack, and for what? For nothing! What's to become of my little daughters, my pretty little daughters, my beautiful girls?' He began to weep.
Rufus stepped to his side and placed a hand on the man's shoulder. Roscius violendy shook it off.
I rose and made a formal bow. 'Come, gentlemen, I believe we are finished here for the day.'
Cicero reluctantly stood. 'But surely you've on
ly begun. Ask him—'
I placed a finger to my lips. I turned towards the doorway, calling after Rufus, for I saw that he was still trying to comfort Sextus Roscius. I held back the curtain and allowed Cicero and Rufus to pass through. I looked back at Roscius, who was biting his knuckles and shivering.
'There is some terrible shadow on you, Sextus Roscius of Amelia. "Whether it's guilt or shame or dread, I can't make out. You obviously have no intention of explaining. But let this comfort you, or torment you, as the case may be: I promise you this, that I shall do everything I can to uncover your father's murderer, whoever he may be; and I shall succeed.'
Roscius slammed his fists against the arms of his chair. His eyes glistened, but he no longer wept. The fire returned. 'Do what you want!' he snapped. 'Another city-born fool. I never asked for your help. As if the truth by itself mattered, or meant anything at all. Go on, go gawk at his bloodstains in the street! Go see where the old man died on his way to visit his whore! What difference will it make? What difference? Even here I'm not safe!'
There was more. I did not hear it. I dropped my arm and let the heavy curtains absorb his abuse.
'It seems to me he must know much more than he's telling,' Rufus said as we walked through the corridors towards Caecilia's wing.
'Of course he does. But what?' Cicero made a face. 'I begin to see why Hortensius dropped the case.'
'Do you?' I asked.
"The man is impossible. How am I to defend him? You see why Caecilia has him stuck away in this smelly corner. I'm embarrassed to have wasted your time. I've half a mind to drop the case myself'
'I would advise against that.'
'Why?'
'Because my investigation has only started, and we've already made a promising beginning.'
'But how can you say that? We've learned nothing, either from Caecilia or from Roscius himself: Caecilia knows nothing, and she's only involved because of her sentimental attachment to the dead man. Roscius knows something, but he won't tell. What could frighten him so badly that he won't help his own defenders? We don't even know enough to know what he's lying about.' Cicero grimaced. 'Even so, by Hercules, I still believe he's innocent. Don't you feel it?'
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