"Roman blood" - читать интересную книгу автора (Saylor Steven)

6

‘What makes you think she'll even be awake at this hour?'

The Forum was deserted. The paving stones shimmered with heat. Not a soul was afoot except for the three of us stealing like thieves across the flagstones. I quickened the pace. The heat burned through the thin soles of my shoes. Both my companions, I noticed, wore more expensive footwear than my own, with thick leather soles to protect their feet.

'Caecilia will be awake,' Cicero assured me. 'She's a hopeless insomniac — so far as I can tell, she never sleeps at all.'

We reached the foot of the Sacred Way. My heart sank as I gazed up the steep, narrow avenue that led to the imposing villas atop the Palatine. The world was all sun and stone, utterly without shade. The layers of shimmering heat made the summit of the Palatine seem hazy and indistinct, very high and far away.

We began the ascent. Tiro led the way, oblivious of the effort. There was something strange about his eagerness to come along, something beyond mere curiosity or the desire to follow his master. I was too hot to puzzle over it.

'One thing I must ask of you, Gordianus.' Cicero was beginning to show signs of exertion, but he talked through them, like a true stoic. 'I appreciated your candour when you spoke your mind in my study. No one can say you are less than an honest man. But hold your tongue in Caecilia's house. Her family has long been allied with Sulla — his late fourth wife was a Metella.'

"You mean the daughter of Delmaticus? The one he divorced while she lay dying?'

'Exactly. The Metelli were not happy about the divorce, despite Sulla's excuses.'

'The augurs looked in a bowl of sheep entrails and told him his wife's illness would pollute his household.'

'So Sulla claimed. Caecilia herself would probably take no offence at anything you might say, but you can never tell. She's an old woman, unmarried and childless. Given to strange ways — such as happens when a woman is left to her own devices too long, without a husband and family to occupy her with wholesome pursuits. Her passion these days is for whatever Oriental cult happens to be new and fashionable in Rome, the more foreign and bizarre, the better. She's not much concerned with mere earthly matters.

‘But it's likely there'll be another in the house with keener ears and sharper eyes. I'm thinking of my good young friend Marcus Messalla — we call him Rufus, on account of his red hair. He's no stranger to Caecilia Metella's house; he's known her since he was a child, and she's almost like an aunt to him. A fine young man — or not quite a man yet, only sixteen. Rufus comes to my house rather often, for gatherings and lectures and such, and he already knows his way around the law courts. He's quite eager to help in Sextus Roscius's behalf'

'But?'

'But his family connections make him dangerous. Hortensius is his half brother — when Hortensius dropped the case, it was young Rufus he sent to my door to beg me to take it on. More to the point, the boy's older sister is that same young Valeria whom Sulla recently took to be his fifth wife". Poor Rufus has little affection for his new brother-in-law, but the marriage does put him in an awkward position. I would ask that you restrain yourself from slandering our esteemed dictator in his presence.'

'Of course, Cicero.' When I left the house that morning I had never expected to be circulating with high nobles like the Metelli and Messalli. I looked down at the garments I wore, a common citizen's toga over a plain tunic. The only touch of purple was a wine stain near the hem. Bethesda claimed to have spent hours trying to remove it without success.

By the time we reached the summit, even Tiro was showing signs of fatigue. His dark curls were pasted to his forehead with sweat. His face was flushed with exertion — or perhaps with something more like excitement. I wondered again about his eagerness to reach Caecilia Metella's house.

'This is it,' Cicero huffed, pausing to catch his breath. The house before us was a sprawling mass of rose stucco, ringed about by ancient oaks. The doorway was recessed beneath a portico and flanked by two helmeted soldiers in full battle gear with swords at their belts and spears in their fists. Grizzled veterans from Sulla's army, I thought, and gave a start.

'The guards,' Cicero said, making a vague gesture with his hand as he mounted the steps. 'Ignore them. They must be sweltering beneath all that leather. Tiro?'

Tiro, who bad been staring in fascination at the soldiers' gear, sprang ahead of his master to rap at the heavy oak doors. A long moment passed in which we all caught our breaths and removed our hats beneath the shaded portico.

The door opened inward on silent hinges. Cool air and the scent of incense wafted out to greet us.

Tiro and the door slave exchanged the typical formalities — 'My master comes to see your mistress' — then we waited for another moment before the slave of the foyer came to usher us inside. He relieved us of our hats, then disappeared to fetch the announcer. I looked over my shoulder at the doorkeeper, who sat on a stool beside the portal busying himself with some sort of handicraft, his foot attached to the wall by a chain just long enough to allow him to reach the door.

The announcer arrived, obviously disappointed to find that it was Cicero and not some grovelling client from whom he might extort a few denarii before allowing further admission to the house. From small signs — his high voice, the visible enlargement of his breasts — I realized he was a eunuch. While in the East they are an indispensable and ancient part of the social fabric, the unsexed remain a rarity in Rome and are looked on with great distaste. Cicero had said that Caecilia was a follower of Oriental cults, but to keep a eunuch in her household struck me as a truly bizarre affectation.

We followed him around the central atrium and up a flight of marble steps. The announcer pulled back a hanging curtain, and I followed Cicero into a chamber that would not have looked too out of place in a high-priced Alexandrian brothel.

We seemed to have stepped into a large and over-decorated tent, plush and pillow-strewn, with carpets and hangings everywhere. Brass lamps hung from standing braziers in the corners and exhaled trickles of smoke. It was from this room that the smell of incense permeated the house. I could hardly breathe. The various spices were being burned without the least sensitivity to their individual proportions and properties. The crude concentrations of sandalwood and myrrh were nauseating. Any Egyptian housewife would have known better..

'Mistress,' the eunuch whispered in a high voice. 'The esteemed Marcus Tullius Cicero, advocate.' He quickly withdrew.

At the far end of the room was our hostess, sprawled face down amid cushions on the floor. Two female slaves attended her, kneeling on either side. The slaves were dark-skinned and dressed in Egyptian style, wearing diaphanous gowns and heavily made-up. Above them, dominating the room, was the object before which Caecilia prostrated herself.

I had never seen anything quite like it. It was clearly an incarnation of one of the Oriental earth goddesses, Cybele or Astarte or Isis, though I had never before seen this particular permutation. The statue stood eight feet tall, so tall that the top of its head grazed the ceiling. The thing had a stern, almost manly face and wore a crown made of serpents. At first glance I assumed that the pendulous objects adorning her torso were breasts, scores and scores of them. A closer look at the curious way in which the orbs were grouped made me realize they must be testicles. In one hand the goddess held a scythe, the blade of which had been painted bright red.

'What?' A muffled voice rose from the cushions. Caecilia floundered for a moment. The slave girls each took an arm and helped her up. She spun around and looked at us in alarm.

'No, no!' she shrieked. 'That stupid eunuch! Out, out of the room, Cicero! You weren't to come inside, you were to wait outside the curtain. How could he have made such a stupid mistake? No men are allowed into the sanctum of the Goddess. Oh, dear, it's happened again. Well, by rights you should all three be sacrificed as a punishment, or at least flogged, but I suppose that's out of the question. Of course, one of you could take the place of the others — but no, I won't even ask it, I know how fond you are of young Tiro. Perhaps this other slave—' She glanced at my iron ring, the mark of a common citizen, and seeing I was no one's slave threw up her hands in disappointment. Her nails were unusually long and stained red with henna, in the Egyptian fashion.

'Oh, dear. I suppose this means I'll have to flog one of the poor slave girls in your place, just as I did when that eunuch made the same stupid mistake last week with Rufus. Oh, dear, and they're so delicate. The Goddess will be very angry….'

'I don't see how he could make the same mistake twice. Do you think he does it on purpose?' We were seated in Caecilia's reception room, a high, long hall with skylights above and open doors at either end to admit the breeze. The walls were painted in the realist fashion to reproduce a garden — green grass, trees, peacocks, and flowers on the walls, blue, sky above. The floor was green tile. The ceiling was draped with blue cloth.

'No, don't answer that. I know what you'd say, Cicero. But Ahausarus is far too valuable to be got rid of, and too delicate to punish. If only he weren't so scatterbrained.'

There were four of us seated around a small silver table set with cool water and pomegranates — Cicero, myself, Caecilia, and the young Rufus, who had arrived ahead of us but had known better than to enter Metella's sanctum, preferring to wait in the garden instead. Tiro stood a short distance behind his master's chair.

Metella was a large, florid woman. Despite her age she appeared quite robust. Whatever colour her hair might originally have been, it was now fiery red, and probably white beneath the henna. She wore it piled high on her head, wound in a tapering coil held in place by a long silver pin. The pointed tip poked through on one side; the needle's head was decorated with carnelian. She wore an expensive-looking stola and much jewellery. Her face was covered with paint and rouge. Her hair and clothing reeked of incense. In one hand she held a fan and beat the air with it, as if she were trying to disperse her scent about the table.

Rufus was also redheaded, with brown eyes, flushed cheeks, and a freckled nose. He was as young as Cicero had indicated. Indeed, he could have been no more than sixteen, for he still wore the gown that all minors wear, whether male or female — white wool fitted with long sleeves to deflect the eyes of the lustful. In a few months he would put on the toga of manhood, but for now he was still a boy by law. It was obvious that he idolized Cicero, and equally obvious that Cicero enjoyed being idolized.

Neither of the nobles showed any discomfort in accepting me at their table. Of course, they were seeking my help in a problem with which neither of them had any experience. They showed me the same deference a senator may show to a bricklayer, if the senator happens to have an archway about to collapse in his bedroom. Tiro they ignored.

Cicero cleared his throat. 'Caecilia, the day is very hot. If we have dwelt long enough on-our unfortunate intrusion into your sanctuary, perhaps we can move on to more earthly matters.'

'Of course, Cicero. You've come about poor young Sextus.'

'Yes. Gordianus here may be of some help to us in unravelling the circumstances as I prepare his defence.'

"The defence. Oh, yes. Oh, dear. I suppose they're still out there, aren't they, those awful guards. You must have noticed them.'

'I'm afraid so.'

'It's such an embarrassment. The day they arrived I told them flady I wouldn't stand for it. Of course it didn't do any good. Orders from the court, they said. If Sextus Roscius was to abide here, it would have to be under house arrest, with soldiers at every door, day and night. "Arrest?" I said, "As if he were in a prison, like a captured soldier or a runaway slave? I know the law very well, and there is no law that allows you to hold a Roman citizen in his own home, or the home of his patroness." It's always been that way; a citizen accused of a crime always has the option to make his escape if he doesn't want to face trial and he's willing to leave his property behind.

'So they sent for a deputy from the court who explained it all very smoothly — it couldn't have been smoother if it had come from your own lips, Cicero! "Right you are," he says, "except in certain cases. Certain capital cases." And what did he mean by that, I wanted to know. "Capital" he said, "as in decapitation — cases involving the removal of the head, or other vital organs, resulting in death." '

Caecilia Metella sat back and fanned herself. Her eyes became narrow and misted. Rufus leaned forwards and tenderly laid his hand upon her elbow.

'Only then did I realize how terrible it all was. Poor young Sextus, my dear friend's only surviving son, having lost his father, might now have to lose his head as well. But even worse than that! This underling, this person, this deputy, went on to explain exactly what the word capital meant in a conviction for parricide. Oh! I would never have believed it if you hadn't confirmed it yourself, Cicero, word for word. Too terrible, too terrible for words!'

Caecilia fanned herself furiously. Her eyelids, heavy.with Egyptian kohl, flickered like moth's wings. She seemed about to faint.

Rufus reached for a cup of water. She waved it away. 'I don't pretend to know the young man; it was his father whom I loved and cherished as a dear, dear friend. But he is the son of Sextus Roscius, and I have offered him sanctuary in my home. And surely, what that man, that deputy, that odious person described should never happen to any but the most wretched, the most foul and debased of murderers.'

She batted her eyes and reached out blindly. Rufus fumbled for a moment, then found the cup and put it in her hand. She took a sip and handed it back.

'So I asked this creature, this deputy, very reasonably, I thought, if it would be too much trouble to have these soldiers at least stand somewhere away from the house instead of hovering right by the door. It's humiliating! I have neighbours, and how they love to talk. I have dependents and clients arriving every morning looking for favours — the soldiers scare them off. I have nieces and nephews afraid to come to the house. Oh, those soldiers know how to hold their tongues, but you should see the looks they give a young girl! Can't you do something about it, Rufus?'

'Me?'

'Of course, you. You must carry some weight with.. with Sulla. It's Sulla who set up the courts. And he is married to your sister Valeria.'

'Yes, but that doesn't mean…' Rufus blushed a deep red.

'Oh, come now.' Caecilia's voice became conspiratorial. "You're a handsome enough young boy, as pretty as Valeria any day. And we all know that Sulla casts his net on both sides of the stream.'

'Caecilia!' Cicero's eyes flashed, but he kept his voice steady.

'I'm not suggesting anything improper. Charm, Cicero. A gesture, a look. Rufus needn't actually do anything, of course. "Why, Sulla's old enough to be his grandfather. All the more reason he could condescend to do a small favour for a such a charming boy.'

'Sulla doesn't find me charming’ said Rufus.

'And why not? He married Valeria for her looks, didn't he? And you look enough like her to be her brother.'

There was an odd sputtering noise. It was Tiro, standing behind his master's chair, pressing his lips together to keep from laughing. Cicero covered the noise by loudly clearing his throat.

'If we could go back to something that was mentioned a moment ago,' I said. Three pairs of eyes converged on me. Cicero looked relieved, Tiro attentive, Caecilia confused. Rufus stared at the floor, still blushing.

'You mentioned the penalty for the crime of parricide. I'm not familiar with it. Perhaps you could explain it for my benefit, Cicero.'

The mood was suddenly sombre, as if a cloud had passed over the sun. Caecilia turned aside and hid behind her fan. Rufus exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Tiro.

Cicero filled his cup and took a long draught of water. 'It's not surprising that you shouldn't be familiar with the subject, Gordianus. Parricide is such a rare crime among the Romans. The last conviction, as well as I could ascertain, took place when my grandfather was a young man.

'Traditionally, of course, the penalty of death is carried out by decapitation, or for a slave, crucifixion. In the case of parricide the penalty is very ancient and very severe, laid down long ago by priests, not lawmakers, to express the wrath of father Jupiter against any son who would dare to strike down the carrier of the seed that made him.'

'Please, Cicero.' Caecilia looked over her fan and batted her makeup-laden eyelashes. 'To have heard it once is enough. It gives me nightmares.'

'But Gordianus should know. To know that a man's life is at stake is one thing; to know the way in which he might die is something more. This is what the law decrees: that the condemned parricide, immediately following his conviction, shall be taken outside the city walls to the Field of Mars, close by the Tiber. Horns shall be blown and cymbals sounded, calling the populace to witness.

'When the people are assembled, the parricide shall be stripped naked, as on the day of his birth. Two pedestals, knee-high, shall be placed several feet apart. The parricide shall mount them, one foot on each pedestal, squatting down with his hands chained behind his back. In this fashion, every part of his naked body is made accessible to his tormentors, who are charged by the law to lash him with knotted whips until the blood pours like water from his flesh. If he falls from his perch, he is made to mount it again. The whips are to fall on every part of him, even to the bottoms of his feet and the nether regions between his legs. The blood that drips from his body is the same as the blood that ran through his father's veins and gave him life. Watching it spill from his wounds, he may contemplate the waste.'

Cicero stared vaguely into the distance as he spoke. Caecilia stared at him, her eyes narrow and intense above her fan.

'A sack shall be prepared, large enough to hold a man, made of hides so tightly sewn as to be sealed against water and air. When the whipmasters have completed their work — that is, when every part of the parricide is so covered with blood that one can no longer tell where the blood ends and raw flesh begins — the condemned man shall be made to crawl into the sack. The sack shall be placed some distance from the pedestals, so that the assembled people may watch his progress and be given the opportunity to pelt him with dung and offal and to publicly curse him.

'When he reaches the sack, he shall be induced to crawl inside. If he resists, he shall be dragged back to the pedestals and the punishment begun again.

'Within the sack, the parricide is returned to the womb, unborn, unbirthed. To be born, the philosophers tell us, is an agony. To be unborn is greater agony. Into the sack, crammed against the parricide's torn, bleeding flesh, the tormentors shall push four living animals. First, a dog, the most slavish and contemptuous of beasts, and a rooster, with its beak and claws especially sharpened. These symbols are very ancient: the dog and the cock, the watcher and the waker, guardians of the hearth; having failed to protect father from son, they take their place with the murderer. Along with them goes a snake, the male principle which may kill even as it gives life; and a monkey, the gods' cruellest parody of mankind.'

'Imagine it!' Caecilia gasped behind her fan. 'Imagine the noise!'

'All five shall be sewn up together in the sack and carried to the river's edge. The sack must not be rolled or beaten with sticks — the animals must stay alive within the sack so that they may torment the parricide for as long as possible. While priests pronounce the final curses, the sack shall be thrown into the Tiber. Watchers shall be posted all the way to Ostia; if the sack runs aground it must be pushed back into the stream at once, until it reaches the sea and disappears from sight.

'The parricide destroys the very source of his own life. He ends that life deprived of contact with the very elements which give life to the world — earth, air, water, even sunlight are denied him in the last hours or days of his agony, until at last the sack should rupture at the seams and be devoured by the sea, its spoils passed from Jupiter to Neptune, and thence to Pluto, beyond the caring or the memory or even the disgust of mankind.'

The room was silent. Cicero at last took a long, deep breath. There was a thin smile on his lips, and I thought he looked rather proud of himself, as actors and orators tend to look after a successful recitation.

Caecilia lowered her fan. She was absolutely white beneath her makeup. 'You'll understand now, Gordianus, when you meet him. Poor young Sextus, you'll understand now why he's’ so distraught. Like a rabbit, petrified with terror. Poor boy. They'll do it to him, unless they're stopped. You must help him, young man. You must help Rufus and Cicero stop them.'

'Of course. I'll do whatever I can. If the truth can save Sextus Roscius — I suppose he's here, somewhere in the house?'

'Oh, yes, he isn't allowed to leave; you saw the guards. He would be here with us now, except…'

‘Yes?'

Rufus cleared his throat. 'When you meet him, you'll see.' 'See what?'

'The man is a wreck,' said Cicero. 'Panic-stricken, incoherent, completely distraught. Almost mad with terror.'

'Is he so fearful of being convicted? The case against him must be very strong.'

'Of course he's frightened.' Caecilia batted her fan at a fly perched on her sleeve. 'Who wouldn't be, with such a terror over his head? And just because he's innocent, that hardly means… well, I mean to say, we all know of cases, especially since. .that is, in the last year or so..: to be innocent is hardly to be safe these days.' She darted a quick glance at Rufus, who studiously ignored her.

'The man is afraid of his shadow,' Cicero said. 'Afraid before he came here, but even more afraid now. Afraid of being convicted; afraid of acquittal. He says that whoever killed his father is determined to kill him as well; the trial itself is a plot to dispose of him. If the law fails them, they'll murder him in the streets.'

'He wakes me up in the middle of the night, screaming.' Caecilia swatted at the fly. 'I can hear him all the way from the western wing. Nightmares. I think the monkey is the worst part. Except for the snake…'

Rufus gave a shudder. 'Caecilia says he was actually relieved when they posted the guard outside — as if they were here to protect him, rather than to keep him from escaping. Escape! He won't even leave his rooms.'

'True,' Cicero said. 'Otherwise you would have met him in my study, Gordianus, with no need to come here disturbing our hostess.'

'That would have been a great loss and entirely to my detriment,' I said, 'never to have been welcomed into the home of Caecilia Metella.'

Caecilia smiled demurely to acknowledge the compliment. In the next instant her eyes darted to the table and her fan descended with a slap. That fly would never bother her again.

'But at any rate, I should have had to meet with her sooner or later in the course of my investigation.'

'But why?' Cicero objected. 'Caecilia knows nothing of the murder. She's only a friend of the family, not a witness.'

'Nevertheless, Caecilia Metella was one of the last to see the elder Roscius alive.'

'Yes, that's true.' She nodded. 'He ate his last meal here in this very room. Oh, how he loved this room. He once told me he had no use for the outdoors at all. Fields and meadows and country life in Ameria bored him without end. "This is all the garden I need," he once told me.' She gestured to the painted walls. 'You see that peacock over there, on the southern wall, with its wings in full array? There, it's lit up at this very moment by the skylight. How he loved that image, all the colours — I remember, he used to call it his Gaius, and wanted me to do the same. Gaius loved this room, too, you know.'

‘Gaius?'

'Yes. His son.'

'I thought the dead man had only one son.' 'Oh, no. Well, yes, only one remaining son, after Gaius died.'

'And when was that?'

'Let me think. Three years ago? Yes, I remember, because it was the very night of Sulla's triumph. There were parties all over the Palatine. People made the rounds from one gathering to another. Everyone feasted — the civil wars were over at last. I hosted a party myself in this room, with the doors to the garden thrown open. Such a warm night — weather exactly like what we're having now. Sulla himself was here for a while. I remember, he made a joke. "Tonight," he said, "everyone who's anyone in Rome is either partying — or packing." Of course, there were some who partied who should have packed. Who could have imagined things would go so far?' She raised her eyebrows and sighed.

'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 rather 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 spend 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 hernia 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 me 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 eariy. 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 faindy. 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 sometimes 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?