Roman blood

'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.'