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 Aelianus allowed me to make a run for it. I passed 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.
Aelianus 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 Aelianus wanted to buy a love philtre made from the desiccated testicles 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 gods, that took me back.
Aelianus 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. Aelianus 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 lust after low-class 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. Aelianus 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.
Aelianus 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 pass my lips.’
'You may be able to help her.'
`No.'
`Now less of that.' Aelianus 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, Aelianus redeemed himself: `Oh but Falco, the customers would all run away.'
`Well, you're the bastard.' Olympia smirked at me. `Thanks for coming clean.'
`Yes I'm the bastard,' I agreed. `This sensitive young lad is ten years younger and he still expects good from people.'
`He'll soon turn into a bastard if he works for you.'
Aelianus 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 massage 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.