The narrow hallway was dimly lit by small windows at either end. The ceiling was so low that our guide had to stoop to avoid the lower beams. We followed him to a door midway down the hall, and waited while he quietly knocked. With each tap of his knuckles against the wood, he glanced nervously back at the sleeping watchman at the landing, and once when Tiro made the floorboards creak he pleaded for silence with both hands. I could only assume that the little drunkard had powers of retribution invisible to a stranger.
After a moment the thin, narrow door opened a finger's width. 'Oh, you,' said a woman's voice. 'I've told you a thousand times already, no. Why won't you just leave me alone? There must be fifty other women in this building.'
The giant glanced at me and actually blushed. 'I'm not alone. You have visitors,' he hissed.
'Visitors? Not — my mother?'
'No. A man. And his slave.'
She sucked in her breath. 'Not the ones who came before.'
'Of course not. They're standing here beside me.'
The door opened farther, just enough to reveal the widow's face from cheek to cheek. There was not much to see in the dimness except two frightened eyes. 'Who are you?'
At the end of the hall the drunken watchman turned uneasily, upsetting the bottle between his legs. It spun about and rolled towards the steps.
'By Hercules!' The giant gasped and leaped on tiptoes towards the landing. Just as he arrived the bottle rolled over the edge and began descending the stairway, striking each step with a loud bang.
The little watchman was instantly awake. 'What's that? You!' He rolled forwards and staggered to his feet. The giant was already descending the stairs, hands over his head, but the little man was too quick for him. In an instant he had taken up a long wooden slat and was batting it about the giant's head and shoulders, screeching at him in a loud voice. 'Bringing strangers onto my floor again!
Stealing my tips! Didn't think I'd catch you! Worthless pile of dung! Go on, go on, or do I beat you like a dog?'
The sight was absurd, pathetic, embarrassing. Tiro and I simultaneously laughed, and simultaneously ceased as we turned back to look at the young widow's ashen face.
'Who are you? What did you come here for?'
'Gordianus is my name. Employed by the most esteemed advocate, Marcus Tullius Cicero. This is his secretary, Tiro. I only want to ask a few questions, about certain events of last September.'
Her face grew even paler. 'I knew it. Don't ask me how, but I knew. I dreamed about it again last night… But you'll have to go away. I can't talk to anyone right now.'
Her face withdrew. She pushed at the door. I blocked it with my foot. The wooden panel was so thin and shoddy that it cracked from the pressure.
'Come now, won't you let me in? That's quite a watchdog you have at the head of the stairs, I hear him coming back now. I'm sure you'll be quite safe — you need only cry out if I should do something improper.'
The door abruptly swung open, but it was not the widow who stood before us. It was her son, and though he must have been no more than eight years old, he did not look particularly small, especially clutching an upright dagger in his right fist.
'No, Eco, no!' The woman grabbed the boy's arm and pulled him back. His eyes stayed fixed on mine, unblinking. Up and down the hall, doors rattled open. The little watchman, returning up the stairs, called out in a drunken voice, 'What's going on there?'
'Oh, for Cybele's sake, come in.' The woman succeeded in pulling the knife from her son's grasp and quickly latched the door behind us.
The boy kept his eyes on me, staring sullenly. 'Carve these instead,' I said, pulling out the figs and tossing them. He caught the lot with one hand.
The room was small and cramped, like most such apartments in most such buildings, but it had a window with shutters and space for two to sleep on the floor without even touching.
'You live here alone?' I asked. 'Just the two of you?' I glanced about at the few personal items that Uttered the room: a change of clothing, a small basket of cosmetics, a few wooden toys. Her things, his things.
'What business is that of yours?' She stood in the comer of the room near the window, with the boy in front of her. She kept one arm around him, hugging and restraining him at the same time.
'None at all,' I said. 'Do you mind if I take a look from your window? You don't know how lucky you are, or I suppose you do, having a view onto the street.' The boy flinched as I stepped closer, but the woman held him right. 'Of course it's not much of a view,' I said, 'but I imagine this street is quiet at night, and fresh air is a blessing.'
The sill came up to my thighs. The window was recessed a foot or more into the wall, forming a sort of seat; the woman had thrown a thin pillow over it I had to lean far over to see out. Because we overhung the ground-floor apartments, I could see nothing of the outer wall below, but across the way and a bit to the right I could look down onto the entrance of the little food shop; the old woman was busy sweeping the street in front, attacking the job with the same aggressiveness she had shown on the chopping block. Directly below, standing out vividly at this distance against the surrounding paving stones, was the large stain left by the blood of Sextus Roscius.
I patted the cushion. 'It makes a nice seat, especially on a hot day like this, I imagine. It must be pleasant in the autumn as well, to sit here if the evening is warm enough. To watch the passersby. If you look up, you must be able to see the stars on a cloudless night.'
'I keep the shutters closed after dark,' she said, 'no matter what the weather's like. And I don't pay attention to people in the street. I mind my own business.'
'Your name is Polia, isn't it?'
She shrank against the wall, tightening her grip on the boy and clumsily fondling his hair. He made a face and reached up, pushing at her arms in agitation. 'I don't know you. How do you know my name?'
'Tell me, Polia, this wise policy of minding your own business — how far back does it go? Have you always followed it, or is it a recent resolution? Perhaps something you took up since, say, last September?'
'I don't have any idea what you're talking about.'
'When the watchman brought us up, you thought we might be someone else.'
'I only asked if it was my mother. She keeps coming to me for money, and I don't have any more to give her.'
'No, I heard the exchange quite distinctly. He told you it was a citizen and a slave, and you said, "Not the ones who came before." You sounded quite upset at the prospect of seeing them again.'
The boy's fidgeting escalated into an outright struggle. She clutched him hard and slapped the top of his head. ‘Why don't you just go away? Why don't you leave us alone?'
'Because a man has been murdered, and another man stands to die for it.'
'What do I care?' she snapped. Bitterness spoiled what was left of her beauty. 'What crime had my husband committed when he died of the fever? What had he done to deserve death? Even the gods can't answer that. The gods don't care. Men die every day.'
'This dead man was stabbed directly below your window last September. I think you saw it happen.'
'No. How would I remember such a thing, anyway?' The woman and her child seemed to be performing a strange, wriggling dance, struggling together in the corner. Polia was beginning to breathe harder. The boy never took his eyes off me.
'It's not something I'd think you would forget. Here, you can see the bloodstain if you glance out of the window. But I don't need to tell you that, do I?'
Suddenly the boy broke free. I jerked back. Tiro moved to shield, me, but there was no need. The boy burst into tears and ran headlong from the room.
'There, you see what you've done? You made me mention his father. Just because Eco can't speak, people forget he can hear as well as anyone. There was a time when he could speak, as well. But not since his father died. Not a word since then. The fever struck them both…. Now get out. I don't have anything to say to you. Get out!'