compensated for her husband's appalling behaviour with Saffia.'
`No.'
`Look, I know it's unpleasant to think about your mother fooling around with other men -' I wondered if it might be relevant that Birdy, with his thin-faced look, and Carina with her wider-cheeked features were so unlike each other.
`Our mother was always chaste, and faithful to Father,' Carina corrected me coldly.
Changing the subject, I told them about the informer Bratta buying the hemlock. `I think he acquired it, on instructions from Paccius, for your mother to use.'
`No,' Birdy said again.
`Come on, Negrinus. You do not want to believe that your mother is a murderess, but it's her or you. See how a case can be built here. The family graft had been exposed; the family fortune was threatened. Paccius counselled your father to kill himself, your mother strongly supported it. She came up with a plan; Paccius used his man to acquire the drug. So your father took one lot of pills under pressure, changed his mind, thought he was safe – then was put down with another deadly potion like some old horse.'
`No,' said Negrinus, almost through gritted teeth. He was a man defending his mother – albeit a mother whose testimony would condemn him for parricide. `I wish I'd never mentioned the hemlock plan, Falco. It was just a wild idea we once discussed, speculating on crazy ways to escape our financial losses. It was never serious. And never put into action.'
`Why Perseus?'
`What?'
I spelt it out patiently: `You told me your mother wanted to kill a slave as a decoy, using his corpse so your father could go into hiding. The door porter was to be sacrificed. That's very specific: Perseus was the doomed slave. What had he done?'
`Again, that was just a suggestion…' Negrinus was shifty, though it could be awkwardness because he genuinely did not know.
Frustrated, I was now ready to pull out of the case. I had had plenty of clients I could not trust, but this beat all. I had never felt so much excluded, when excluding me worked utterly against the man's own interests.
`If you won't tell me the truth -'
`Everything I have told you is the truth.'
I laughed, brutally. `But what have you not told me?'
I left, furious. I had not severed links. I should discuss that with my partners first. Besides, if I dropped the case, I would never learn what was going on. I had my curiosity. I wanted to know what these people were hiding.
It was mid-morning, so I paused and bought a snack at a bar just opposite. This can be a good idea, after a het-up meeting. Many a time staying on the scene had produced something helpful, once people thought I had left.
Eventually, Negrinus emerged and hopped agitatedly on the doorstep until transport was brought for him. I tailed him and was not surprised by where the smart litter headed. He went straight to his mother, like a devoted boy.
Wrong. He went to her house. But her outcast son did not want to see his cruel mama.
In the street outside the Metellus mansion with its yellow Numidian obelisks, he shed the litter and secured an observation post. He got the bar counter – which left me, when I arrived, hiding behind a stinking row of fish-pickle amphorae. He bought a beaker of hot, spiced wine; I had left my drink behind at the previous place. Typical. He was the suspicious character; I was the upright informer. The Fates would adorn him with comforts; I was stuck with a rumbling stomach and a cold arse.
What was he doing? When I realised, a sneaky fellow-feeling arose. The noble Metellus Negrinus was waiting for his mother to go out.
Calpurnia left home in her litter, which was a beaten-up chaise carried by two elderly bearers, one who seemed to have gout, neither. in uniform. I could see she was the passenger, because the curtains were missing. A miserable female slave, shivering in a thin gown, wandered behind on foot.
She still had possession of the family home, but it looked as if Calpurnia Cara was already down on her luck. Had Paccius Africanus stepped in already and laid claim to domestic goods and slaves?
Was Paccius then absolutely sure the three children would not, or could not, contest their father's odd will?
Negrinus must have known his mama had an appointment. Once her straggling party turned the far corner of the street, he quickly paid for his wine (was the supportive Carina giving him dole money?) then he marched straight across the street. He was using his latch-lifter when the door opened anyway. After a brief conversation, someone let him in. I allowed time for him to start whatever he was planning, then approached the fine front door myself.
I knocked nonchalantly. A slave I failed to recognise appeared after a long pause. `About time.' I glared with my good eye. `Wow! What happened to you?'
`I looked up and a passing eagle shat very hard in my peeper… So where's Perseus?'
`Having his lunch.'
`He has a nice life.'
`You bet!' It was said with feeling.
`I suppose he'll enjoy several courses and a snug flirtation with the kitchen maid, then stretch out for a relaxed siesta?'
`Don't ask me!' This lad buttoned up. He knew better than to gossip any further, but he had let me see he was unhappy. So, in Perseus we had that stock character: the uppity slave who abuses his position – and who somehow gets away with it.
I tipped the substitute. He let me in. `He's a character!' I chortled. `Somebody's favourite is he, your Perseus?' Not from the way I had heard Calpurnia address the lackadaisical beggar before. His neglect of his duties had made her rightly furious. But if something had gone on between Metellus senior and Saffia, and if Perseus knew about it, his arrogance would make sense.
We had a recognisable situation – though rare in a porter. More often, the uppity slave has intimate contact with the master or mistress of the house. In a boudoir maid or a correspondence clerk, abuse of status arises much more easily.
'Perseus has influence,' was all I could extract. Maybe my tip was not large enough. Or maybe the staff had learned that it was best to keep quiet.
My next contact was with the superior steward whom I had met on my first visit here. Instinct warned him of trouble and he arrived in the atrium, napkin under his chin. He glanced at my bandage but was too well trained to comment. Losing the bib suavely, plus the smear of oil on his chin from his abandoned lunch, he accompanied me on the track of Birdy. We found him in what must have been his bedroom once. He said he had come to collect clothing – fair enough, and a few desultory choices of tunics were made as he rummaged. He was looking for something else, though.
`My wife is in labour. I had a message that the baby is taking a long time. She is restless, and her women think she might be more comfortable with her own bedding…'
`I was told Saffia's stuff was 'stolen' when she left here,' I said.
`If chattels went astray,' the steward put in indignantly, `I knew nothing of it.'
`You should,' snapped Birdy. `Saffia has been erupting.'
The steward believed the missing items could be found. He went off to investigate. Negrinus continued throwing his own possessions together for removal to his sister's house. Goading him, I commented, `I was told that your communication with Saffia had broken down.'
'Ah, but now Saffia wants something!' Negrinus spoke with a new bitterness. He stood in the centre of his old bedroom. It was a finely decorated room in bluey-green, with curliculed pictures of sea monsters. His feet were planted on a well modulated geometric mosaic. All this decor went back several decades and was starting to look tired. So was Birdy. He ran his hands through his hair. He had looked neat when I first met him, but he now needed a haircut. `Anything Saffia wants, Saffia will get!' He seemed furious, but reined it in.
`This stinks,' I said quietly. More and more I saw him as the wronged son, whose father had had an
