The Accusers Part 22

'Someone he knows,' I said, without judgement.

'Someone familiar,' Lutea agreed, as if this excuse had just struck him.

Different men react in different ways. If my children lost their mother, I would be inconsolable. And I would never let the children from my sight.

'This is good of you,' Lutea said, fooling himself as he tried to fool others. 'Taking the trouble to bring your condolences. I appreciate that.'

I straightened up. 'I'm afraid there is more to it.'

Lutea smiled at me, allowing himself to sink into a grief-stricken half-trance. 'Nothing too terrible, I'm sure.'

'Oh no.' I walked over to him. I slung his feet off the couch and sat down with him. I shook my head like a concerned old uncle. If he stiffened up, he hid it. 'Just this. It is being said that your sweet little Saffia blackmailed the Metelli. And I think that you were in the project with her. Any comment?'

Now sitting upright, the ex-husband let a bemused expression fill his features. Maybe he had been accused of bad practice before; the display was good. 'That is a terrible thing for anyone to say about poor Saffia! Now she is dead and cannot defend herself against such accusations. I don't believe it - and I know nothing about any of it.'

'She knew their secret. Did she tell you?'

'What secret?' Lutea gasped as if the whole idea astonished him. 'Oh come on! The secret that made you two decide to move in close to them. So close, Saffia actually left you and married herself to Birdy. Divorcing you was a sham. Poor Birdy knows it now. I wonder how long it took him to realise.'

'I have no notion what you are talking about, Falco.'

'Well that's a shame. Call yourself a friend of Birdy's? Don't you know that your very best friend is being made somebody's pat-ball? And don't you see why the evidence is pointing straight at you?'

Lutea shook his head in wonderment. A faint whiff of fine oil came my way. As with all the best confidence tricksters, his personal grooming was immaculate. If this scam failed, he would be able to build an extensive career preying on the rich widows of exotic commodity traders. He would like that. He could plunder their attics of stored commodities, not just empty their bankboxes. The widows would get plenty out of it - while his attentions lasted. I saw them playing dice with him, their be-ringed fingers flashing in the light of many lamp stands, while they congratulated themselves on their cultured catch. Better to paw a spiny sea urchin, in fact, yet there would never be unpleasantness. Lutea would leave them flat broke; even so, they would remember him with few hard feelings. He was good-looking and would play the innocent. Not wanting to believe he had deceived them, his victims would never be quite sure it really was darling Lutea who had robbed them.

I knew how it worked. I had dreamed of doing it, in the hard, lost days before I was rescued by improvements in my fate. But I recognised bad dreams for what they were. As an entrepreneur that was my tragedy. But it was my salvation as a man.

I stayed another hour. Lutea feigned shock, disgust, outrage, reproof, anger and near-hysteria. When he threatened litigation if I libelled him, I laughed at him and left.

He had confessed nothing. Still, I became certain that he and Saffia really had conspired together in a complex scheme - and one which might still be operational. Lutea denied it - but Lutea was undoubtedly lying through his teeth.

XL.

HONORIUS LOOKED more confident when he appeared in court next day. Marponius greeted him benignly. That would have scared me, but Honorius had less experience. This trusting boy would have smiled back at a Nile crocodile as it climbed out to grab him by his short legs.

He was setting out the background to Metellus' death, explaining - perhaps in too much detail - the issues behind the original corruption trial. His current argument was that Rubirius Metellus may have been a bad citizen, but he had been convicted, so the jury should dispel any feeling that in some way he deserved to die. Killing him in his home was a serious crime. Parricide - by which Honorius meant, according to Roman custom, the murder of any close relative - had been the most reviled crime since the founding of our city. It was the jury's duty to avenge the crime, lest social order disintegrate...

When I hear the words 'social order', I start looking around for somebody to pick a fight with.

The jury and I were thoroughly bored. I felt no conscience pangs when a message from Aelia.n.u.s allowed me to make a run for it. I pa.s.sed Honorius a note, did my best to make it look mysterious for the benefit of Paccius and Silius, then slid out of the Basilica like a man on the trail of hot new evidence.

The chance of that was slim. We were off to interview a fortune-teller. Presumably foresight would warn her about us before we even left the Forum.

Aelia.n.u.s led me to his father's litter. He might hit the punch bag hard at the gym, but he had the natural laziness of any young man in his twenties. We crammed in and yelled at the bearers to get going as they protested at our weight. We were jogged along the Sacred Way the full length of the Forum, then waited interminably in the traffic jams around the building site for the new amphitheatre. Eventually we settled into a more regular pace along the Via Tusculanum. Olympia lived on that highway, though outside the city boundary. Cynics might think the remoteness was deliberate. For a woman who was courted by fine women who led busy lives, it seemed an awkwardly long-distance trek, though maybe the far location gave them a sense of security. A senator's wife having her stars read would have to be very discreet. If the stars under scrutiny belonged to her husband, she was breaking the law - whilst if they belonged to the Emperor, she was committing treason. To know another person's fortune smacks of wanting to control their fate for the wrong reasons.

As we jerked along, I warned my companion not to expect dead bats being thrown on to green fires. If Aelia.n.u.s wanted to buy a love philtre made from the desiccated t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es of disgusting mammals, he. would not find the bottles on display, well, not openly. The last fortune-teller I interviewed turned out to be a cultured piece who had three accountants and a crisp way of disposing of informers. I would not have eaten an almond cake at her house, but if she ever used witchcraft she knew how to bribe the aediles first, so they kept away. Tyche had given me a creepy feeling that if she did cast spells, they would work. Tyche... dear G.o.ds, that took me back.

Aelia.n.u.s and I decided against pretending we wanted horoscopes. Olympia would know far too much about people's follies, hopes and terrors for us to fool her. Aelia.n.u.s looked interested, but I warned him off.

'No seances. I promised your mother I would look after you.'

'My mother thinks you'll let her down, Falco.'

Olympia lived in a house that was primly feminine, with a manicurist in a clean little booth on the right of the front door, and a depilatory salon on the left. Rich women came out here to be pampered, to share gossip, to denigrate their husbands and deplore their in-laws, to arrange marriages for their children, and to l.u.s.t after low-cla.s.s lovers. The house remained very much that of Olympia herself, its rooms were completely domestic in character and she kept up a respectable front. Wooing senators' wives to visit her lair could be dangerous; she would not want to be closed down. Unsavoury couplings would occur here only rarely (though some liaisons with drivers and second rate love-poets must have been arranged from these premises, if I was any judge).

Olympia kept us waiting, for form's sake. She had slim young girls to fetch and carry, and to lend an air of chaperoned propriety. They were too thin and too subdued to be attractive. Aelia.n.u.s never glanced at them. I looked. I always do. I was checking to see if Olympia mistreated them, in case one of her woeful wenches might be met later behind the garden hedge and enticed to become a songbird for a few kind words. I was more badly bruised than they were, so I ruled that out.

When she appeared, a plump dark-skinned woman of mature age, she acted very genteel; to me she had all the appeal of mildew. Olympia had intense, pouchy eyes. She acted as if full of shrewdness, though I reckoned she was less intelligent than she supposed. Her well-spoken accent had one or two jarring vowels; she had taught herself polite Latin, but her past had followed her. She had probably worked her way into this position through several careers, careers she was keeping very quiet. Everything about her suggested a rich but sour experience of life, making her a businesswoman other women could trust. Once they did, no doubt Olympia simply preyed on them.

Aelia.n.u.s smiled at the fortune-teller.

'Anything I can do for you, sweetheart?' she encouraged him, ignoring me. Suggestiveness from a woman scared him and he looked to me for help. I let him run with it.

'We have to ask about one of your clients,' he began. 'Calpurnia Cara.'

'I cannot speak about my clients.'

'There's no need to snap - she is in serious trouble -'

'Nothing will pa.s.s my lips.'

'You may be able to help her.'

'No.'

'Now less of that.' Aelia.n.u.s was a bad interviewer, getting desperate. Olympia knew he was at her mercy. 'This is a legal matter. If we have to, we can subpoena you!'

I leaned forwards. Time for the man of experience to intervene. 'Aulus, don't even try that one. Olympia has to think about her other clients - am I right?'

She raised an eyebrow. I did not like the way she sneered.

'The ladies who patronise Olympia's establishment,' I explained to my brash colleague, 'must never suspect she would reveal a confidence.' I pretended to offer the fortune-teller a courteous get out: 'Maybe we can arrange this so the ladies need never find out you helped us.'

'Yes - I won't tell you anything!' she retorted nastily.

'Alternatively,' I then said, 'all your senatorial ladies could be made to think that you had talked to us...' Sometimes subtlety is worth a try - and sometimes you should go straight to threats.

Round-eyed with mock horror, Aelia.n.u.s redeemed himself: 'Oh but Falco, the customers would all run away.'

'Well, you're the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.' Olympia smirked at me. 'Thanks for coming clean.'

'Yes I'm the b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' I agreed. 'This sensitive young lad is ten years younger and he still expects good from people.'

'He'll soon turn into a b.a.s.t.a.r.d if he works for you.'

Aelia.n.u.s had no sense of humour sometimes. He bit his lip, scowling.

We then had a more businesslike discussion - one in which I feared we were being misled.

According to this soothing soothsayer, Calpurnia Cara came to her for 'friendship'. Horoscopes were prepared from time to time, always for Calpurnia herself The other services rendered were flattery, wise counsel, and foot ma.s.sage with aromatic oils to relax the soul. (Apparently your soul is seated in your arches, so take care when buying cheap sandals.) Calpurnia, like many clients, was afflicted with bad bunions and few female friends. Well, I knew she had a limp, and was overbearing.

I told Olympia she could have made a wonderful source for informers like us. I suggested that if she helped us, we could return the favour with information on her clients. She would not co-operate. I asked if she already had a partnership with some other informer, but she denied it. I asked if she worked for the vigiles. She scoffed. I gave up on it.

'Straight questions then: Did Calpurnia ever ask you about poisonous drugs?'

'Don't expect me to comment.'

'No, of course not. I'm talking about hemlock. That was used to kill her husband, did you know?'

'I had no idea.' Olympia pursed her mouth. 'Calpurnia Cara was weighed down by troubles. She never told me what they were. My ladies have needs - illness, unhappiness, husbands, children... I often read Calpurnia's future, and rea.s.sured her that everything would be resolved.'

'By her poisoning her husband?' Aelia.n.u.s snorted.

'By time and the Fates!' whipped back the seer. He had stung her into reacting, however. 'Hemlock, you say? Well once when she was very low a few years ago, she did ask me what produces a kindly death, and I told her what I had heard. As far as I knew, Calpurnia was asking for herself'

'Herself." Now I was scathing. 'That sounds like some well thoughtout excuse in the poison trade. A lawyer probably devised it. A litigation-proof contract term for the death suppliers' guild - if the woman was consulting you for solace, why should she need to do herself in?'

'Some unhappy moments cannot be smoothed away even with essential ointments,' mused Olympia.

'How did Calpurnia plan to ingest her hemlock?'

'I told her she could feed the leaves to quails, then cook the quails. That way she didn't have to think about what she was taking.'

'Or if she gave the quails to someone else, they didn't have to know anything!'

'You're a shocker, Falco.'

'I'm a realist.'

I then enquired whether Calpurnia sold her jewels just before her husband died, or was it about two years back? Surprised by both timescales, Olympia admitted Calpurnia had come for weekly consultations over several decades. Calpurnia had sold off her necklaces and rings many years ago - one of the 'troubles' which had required consolation. The sale was not to pay the fortune-teller's modest fees. Olympia did not know who received the money.

'Maybe she gambled,' Olympia suggested. 'Many of my ladies do. It's a bit of excitement for a lady, isn't it?' As I said to Aelia.n.u.s afterwards, it would provide a lady's bit of excitement if sleeping with a boxer or with their husband's best friend in the Senate ever paled.

I could not imagine Calpurnia Cara doing any of those things. Nor could I see her ever being so depressed that she would end her own life.

'Calpurnia may have mistakes in her past,' Olympia insisted. 'It does not mean she is a murderer. Put me in court and I shall say so for her.'

I did not remind her it is a tenet of Roman law that consulting a fortune-teller d.a.m.ns a woman automatically. Calling Olympia as a witness would guarantee jury votes for us. But as a matter of pride, I wanted to convict the accused with proper evidence.

'You're too idealistic,' Aelia.n.u.s said. This was a rare, new insult for me. 'You'll never make a lawyer, Falco.'

No; but I thought he would.

XLI.

THE CAMILLUS litter had to be returned to the Capena Gate, but we had time to walk back to the Forum for the end of the afternoon court session.

As we came out into the major piazza in front of the Basilica, we were hailed from the corner of the Temple of Castor by Helena Justina. She had a lunch basket; I guessed it would be empty by now. Well, in our absence it made sense for her to eat everything, to save carrying the food home. What a scandal: a senator's daughter sitting on the Temple steps, with a large napkin spread on her lap, munching.

'You're becoming famous,' she said, after I kissed her. As I greeted her affectionately, by some sleight of hand she pa.s.sed me her lunch basket. 'Even Anacrites has come to see how the case is going. We had a long chat before he went inside.'

'You hate Anacrites.'

'I won't let him see that. He would think I was afraid.'

'You should be,' Aelia.n.u.s warned her.

He and I paused to sling on our togas, for once making an effort to arrange woollen pleats and to create traditional sinuses (for provincial barbarians, those are the deep folds below the left arm, where you can hide your notes or, if desperate, a dagger to stab your enemy). Helena followed us towards the Basilica.

'Dear heart,' I remonstrated fondly, 'you have already outraged ancient patricians by picnicking in the Forum Romanorum. Do not follow up your notoriety by invading the courts. Some of those traditionalists would rather see a slave rebellion than allow women in the Basilica.'

'I am a good wife to you, Marcus darling. A good wife is allowed to hear her husband make his speeches from a curtained niche.'

'You are a bad wife if you give me heart failure. Who says I am speaking?'

'Honorius,' smiled Helena, as she skipped away to the rear of the Basilica, where steps led to the upper galleries. 'He wants you to do the tricky part - laying the blame on Paccius.'

I was stunned. Too late, I realised that Helena had left me to enter court carrying a large wicker hamper. This would not be viewed as a proper accessory for an orator.

I solved that. I pa.s.sed it swiftly to Aelia.n.u.s.

There were more spectators than previously. Too many for me.

The scene throbbed more with tedium than tension. The first person I saw was Helena's father, Camillus Verus, sharing a bench with Petronius. Petro noticed me and glared across the hall. My bugbear Anacrites was lounging on a seat, unpleasantly close to the defence party. Trust him.

Anacrites gave me what pa.s.sed for a friendly wave. Most people would not have noticed his presence, but to me the Chief Spy was always a magnet; I wanted to know where he was and what he was planning in that dark mind. Habitually discreet in dress, when decked out in a formal toga he blended in even more, though his slickedback, oiled black hair gave him away. I joined the prosecution group and pretended to give all my concentration to Honorius.

I had come at the right moment. As Aelia.n.u.s and I sat down behind him, Honorius moved from his oratorical introduction into the next phase of his speech. He a.s.sumed an expression of distaste for his subject matter. Here, he would set out the events in the Metellus death, making the facts look as bad as possible for Calpurnia Cara.

Beside me, I noticed Aelia.n.u.s produce a note-tablet on which he scratched regular stylus notes. A clerk was taking shorthand, but our boy wanted his own record. His system was in contrast to Honorius who, I realised, had never paid much visible attention when our investigations were discussed in his presence, yet he was now able to remember and quote many small details from interviews. Colourful facts that I had long forgotten were reappearing just when required.

Honorius knew his stuff. Once he stopped looking like a schoolboy, juries would take him very seriously. If he stood on a plinth so he looked taller, it would be even better.