“How do you know?” she asked.
“Because I was witness to his abandonment,” Barca said. “As we journeyed to Neapolis, our drover left an old man at this place.”
“That is no concern of mine,” Lucretia said, with a sigh. She began to walk back to the litter.
Barca looked back at his mistress for a moment, and then rose to his feet. He said a short Carthaginian prayer, little more than a cantrip, for the departed slave.
“I vow I will not meet similar end.”
Cicero had started softly, but his voice now thundered around the chamber. He left his chair, pacing in front of the magistrate, stopping only occasionally to fix the glowering Verres with a knowing stare.
“The property is not yours to disburse!” he said. “Pelorus died by your negligence, and now you scatter his coin in your own honor!”
“My negligence? My negligence!” Verres sputtered. “Do you accuse a Roman citizen of murder? Witnesses innumerable saw the Getae witch slay Pelorus at his banquet.”
“Removed now to their estates in Pompeii and Herculaneum, Baiae and Capriae in circumstance most convenient, and unable to discuss Pelorus’s final moments,” Cicero countered.
“Not even I was present at his moment of death.”
“Pelorus was killed with a knife. His throat slit with brutal thrust. How might he impart last words of such import when he was incapable of utterance?”
“He whispered.”
“To a man who ‘was not present’? You expect us to believe such words?”
“I can only speak truth.”
“Yet voice seems capable of lying. Perhaps we should call the pollinctores who dressed the body of Pelorus, and demand description exact of his wounds? Let us see what they tell us of the nature of his death.”
“Call them! Call them!” Verres bellowed. “Apologies, magistrate Helva. Call adjournment, pending testimony of the undertakers.”
“That will not be necessary, magistrate,” Cicero said. “Batiatus and I called upon the undertakers today. And Verres surely knows what we found at their residence.”
“I do not,” Verres said. “I have not had cause to visit undertakers, a task more fitting a slave.”
“
“And you would put blame toward me for that as well?” Verres asked.
Batiatus watched carefully, not the argument between Cicero and Verres, but the reaction on the face of Timarchides.
“See,” he whispered to Varro. “The freedman makes clear attempt to conceal his countenance. He knows something. Cicero has found them out!”
“Do you question the words of a Roman citizen?” Verres was saying.
“I do, Gaius Verres. That is my job, after all,” Cicero responded.
“If I were going to speak false of Pelorus’s wishes, why would I not make claim of his worldly goods for
“Why indeed? Your decision to award Timarchides shows virtue most praiseworthy. I understand that Timarchides has also been offered a position in your own entourage.”
“He is a good man.”
“Perhaps so. But our purpose here is not to discuss the virtues of the freedman Timarchides. We are here to discover whether you are empowered to sign over the estate of Pelorus into his hands.”
“Then hasten decision. I am due in Sicilia shortly, on the business of the Republic.”
“My question, Gaius Verres, concerns the unfortunate events that led to the death of Pelorus.”
“An answer already given. Pelorus met with unfortunate death at the hands of escaped slave, Medea of the Getae.”
“And what was the manner of her escape?”
“I do not know.”
“Let us ask someone who does. Call the witness.”
Helva smiled in surprise.
“You have a witness at the ready, quaestor? Such dedication!”
Cicero stood still, staring at his fingernails in search of imaginary dirt. He smiled calmly at Batiatus, and then turned to stare at Verres. The governor fumed in his chair, his eyes narrowed in vengeful slits.
In a distant chamber, there was the sound of footsteps and guardians’ spears clanking aside. The hurried footfalls of a household slave, mixed with the light rustle of a woman’s steps.
She entered the courtroom, her veil hiding her face. She bowed, demurely and without a word, to the magistrate, and then advanced to the podium.
“Gratitude,” Cicero said, “to this fine, upstanding lady of Neapolis, who steps forward to offer account of events of fateful night. Your name?”
“Successa,” the veiled woman said. Only her eyes, dark and flashing, could be seen over the dark silk that stretched across her face.
“Of what house?”
“Of no house, save that of the Winged Cock,” she said, naming the famed symbol that matched her Pompeiian accent.
“Lady Successa, I understand that you were present at the banquet on the night of Pelorus’s murder,” Cicero said.
“I was.”
“In what capacity?”
“So it please the court, I was hired as companion.”
“Let us not be coy. You mean in the amatory manner?”
“I do. My favors are highly regarded.
Batiatus raised his eyebrows in agreement.
“By the people of Neapolis?” Cicero asked.
“By Pelorus himself. He said that I was the best fuck in Campania, and that I was to ensure that his honored guest, Gaius Verres, was to depart Neapolis thinking the same.”
“And, if I may ask, lady Successa, how did Pelorus come to know that you were the ‘best fuck in Campania’?”
“He was a regular visitor.”
“At the, what was it now, the House of the Winged Cock?”
“Yes.”
“He was intimate with you?”
“Upon multiple occasions.”
“And with other ladies of that establishment?”
“With all of them.”
“And with the men of your house?”
“Never.”
“For what reason?”
“Pelorus had no interest in cock.”
“I must protest!” Verres exclaimed. “Cicero employs hearsay against hearsay. Taking the word of a whore against that of a Roman citizen!”
“In my defence,” Cicero suggested, “the lady Successa is present and able to testify. She is neither conveniently dead, nor miraculously able to convey her wishes with a slit throat.”
“She has already
“I cannot claim knowledge of pricing policies of Neapolitan brothels,” Cicero said dryly.