Roman blood

'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 only 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?'