‘Then it was here that Gaius Roscius died?’
‘Oh, no, that’s the point. That’s why I remember. Gaius and his father should have been here – oh, how that would have excited dear Sextus, to have rubbed elbows with Sulla in this very room, to have had the opportunity to introduce Gaius to him. And knowing the dictator’s tastes in that direction’ – she narrowed her eyes and looked askance at no one in particular – ‘they might have hit it off rather well.’
‘Sulla and the boy, you mean?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then Gaius was a comely youth?’
‘Oh, yes. Fair-haired and handsome, intelligent, well-mannered. Everything dear Sextus wanted in a son.’
‘How old was Gaius?’
‘Let me think, he had taken his manly toga some time before. Nineteen, I imagine, perhaps twenty.’
‘Considerably younger than his brother?’
‘Oh, yes, I imagined poor young Sextus is – what, forty at the least? He has two daughters, you know. The elder is almost sixteen.’
‘Were they close, the two brothers?’
‘Gaius and young Sextus? I don’t think so. I don’t see how they could have been – they almost never saw each other. Gaius spent all his time with his father in the city, while Sextus ran the farms in Ameria.’
‘I see. You were going to tell me how Gaius died.’
‘Really, I don’t see how any of this pertains to the case at hand.’ Cicero shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘It’s nothing more than gossip.’
I glanced at him, not without sympathy. Thus far Cicero had treated me with uncommon courtesy, partly because he was naive, partly because of his nature. But my talking so freely with a woman so far above me (a Metella!) irked even his liberal sensibility. He saw the dialogue for what it was, an interrogation, and he took offence.
‘No, no, Cicero, let him ask.’ Caecilia reproached him with her fan and indulged me with a smile. She was happy, even eager, to talk about her late friend. I had to wonder exactly what her own relationship had been once upon a time with party-going, fun-loving old Sextus Roscius.
‘No, Gaius Roscius did not die in Rome.’ Caecilia sighed. ‘They were to have come here that night, to pass the early evening at my party; then we would all walk to sands were invited. Sulla’s largesse was boundless. Sextus Roscius was quite anxious to make a good appearance; only a few days before, he had come by with young Gaius to ask my advice on his apparel. If things had gone as they should have, Gaius would never have died… .’ Her voice died away. She raised her eyes to the sunlit peacock.
‘The Fates intervened,’ I prompted.
‘As they have a nasty habit of doing. Two days before the triumph Sextus pater received a message from Sextus filius in Ameria, urging him to come home. Some emergency – a fire, a flood, I’m not sure. So urgent that Sextus rushed home to the family estate and took Gaius with him. He hoped to be back in time for the festivities. Instead he stayed in Ameria for the funeral.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘Food poisoning. A bad jar of pickled mushrooms – one of Gaius’s favourite delicacies. Sextus described the incident to me later in great detail, how his son collapsed on the floor and began vomiting clear bile. Sextus reached into his throat, thinking his son was choking. The boy’s throat was burning hot. When he pulled out his fingers they were covered with blood. Gaius coughed up more bile, this time thick and black. He was dead within minutes. Senseless, tragic. Dear Sextus was never the same afterwards.’
‘You say that Gaius was nineteen or twenty, yet I thought his father was a widower. When did the boy’s mother die?’
‘Oh – but of course, you wouldn’t know. She died giving birth to Gaius. I think that was one of the reasons Sextus loved the boy so much. He resembled his mother a great deal. Sextus thought of Gaius as her final gift to him.’
‘And the two sons – they must have been born almost twenty years apart. To the same mother?’
‘No. Didn’t I explain? Gaius and young Sextus were half brothers. The first wife died of some illness years ago.’ Caecilia shrugged. ‘Perhaps another reason the boys were never close.’
‘I see. And when Gaius died, did that bring Sextus Roscius and his elder son closer together?’
Caecilia glanced away sadly. ‘No. It was quite the opposite, I’m afraid. Sometimes tragedy has that effect on a family, to deepen old wounds. Sometimes a father loves one son more than the other – who can change such a fact? When Gaius died, Sextus blamed the boy’s brother. It was an accident, of course, but an old man in the throes of grief isn’t always strong enough to blame the gods. He came back to Rome and frittered away his time – and his fortune. He once told me, now that Gaius was dead, he had no one to whom he cared to leave a legacy, so he was determined to spend it all before he died. Cruel words, I know. While Sextus filius ran the estates, Sextus pater blindly spent everything he could. You can imagine the bitterness on both sides.’
‘Enough bitterness to lead to murder?’
Caecilia gave a weary shrug. Her vivaciousness had deserted her. The disguise of henna and makeup abruptly faded, revealing the wrinkled woman beneath. ‘I don’t know. It would be almost unbearable to think that Sextus Roscius was killed by his own son.’
‘That night last September – on the Ides, wasn’t it? – Sextus Roscius dined here … before his death?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did he leave your house?’
‘He left early, I remember. It was his habit to stay on until well into the night, but that evening he left before the final course. It was the first hour after nightfall.’
‘And do you know where he was headed?’
‘Home, I suppose …’ Her voice trailed off in an unnatural way. Caecilia Metella, having lived so many years alone, lacked at least one skill that all Roman wives possess. Caecilia Metella had no ability to lie.
I cleared my throat. ‘Perhaps Sextus Roscius wasn’t on his way home when he left you that night. Perhaps there was a reason he left early. An appointment? A message?’
‘Well, yes, actually.’ Caecilia furrowed her brow. ‘It seems to me there was a messenger who came. Yes, a very common sort of messenger, the kind that anyone might hire off the street. He came to the servants’ door. Ahausarus came looking for me, explaining there was a man outside the kitchens with a message for Sextus Roscius. I was hosting a small party that night; there were only six or eight of us in the room, not yet done with dinner. Sextus was relaxing, almost dozing. Ahausarus whispered in his ear. Sextus looked a bit startled, but he rose at once and left the room without even asking my leave.’
‘I don’t suppose, in some way or other, you happened to know what that message was?’
Cicero groaned, very faintly. Caecilia stiffened, and the natural colour rose in her cheeks. ‘Young man, Sextus Roscius and I were very old, very dear friends.’
‘I understand, Caecilia Metella.’
‘Do you? An old man needs someone to look after his interests, and to show some curiosity when strange messengers arrive to disturb him in the night. Of course, I followed. And I listened.’
‘Ah. Then could you tell me from whom this messenger came?’
‘These were his exact words: “Elena asks that you come to the House of Swans at once. It’s very important.” And then he showed Sextus a token.’
‘What sort of token?’
‘A ring.’
‘A ring?’
‘A woman’s ring – small, silver, very plain. The sort of ring a poor man might give to his lover, or the sort of petty token that a rich man might give to a …’
‘I see.’
‘Do you? After Gaius died, Sextus began spending a great deal of time and money in those sorts of places. I’m talking about brothels, of course. Do you think it pathetic, a man of his age? But don’t you see, it was because of Gaius. As if there were a sudden, overwhelming desire in him to create another son. Absurd, of course, but sometim
es a man must bow to nature. Healing takes place in mysterious ways.’
We sat in silence for a moment. ‘I think you are a wise woman, Caecilia Metella. Do you know anything else about this Elena?’
‘No.’
‘Or the House of Swans?’
‘Nothing, except that it’s somewhere in the vicinity of the Baths of Pallacina, not very far from Sextus’s house by the Circus Flaminius. Well, you don’t think he would have patronized some tawdry establishment in the Subura, do you?’
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?
VII
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 faint 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 face 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 lie 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 amou
nt 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 fingers 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.
Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) Page 8
