To the shades of the departed,
Gnaeus Rubirius Metellus,
son of Tiberius, quaestor, legate, holder of three priesthoods, member of the centumviral court, aged fifty- seven:
Julius Alexander, freedman, land agent, set this up to the kindest of patrons
And Gnaeus Metellus Negrinus, to one who was well-beloved of him.
That last line was a mystery, squeezed in using much smaller letters, where the stone-carver ran out of space. Being tagged on as an afterthought on a freedman's plaque was an odd position for the son – whose relationship and role was not even defined.
If Calpurnia Cara saw me looking, she made no mention. Nor did I. I wanted to consider this.
`I'm sorry to have missed you yesterday,' I teased.
`Oh you are full of schemes!' Calpurnia snorted. `First you sneak in your wife, then you devise some luncheon invitation with my daughter to lure me from my house so you can creep in with Negrinus -'
`I know nothing of any lunch date; I happened to call when your son was already here -'
`Oh he's to blame!'
`This is his home still, surely?' I regretted that at once. The house would be assigned to Paccius Africanus as soon as the will was executed; he could throw out Calpurnia today, if he wanted to. `Why do you hate your son, Calpurnia?'
`That is stupid.'
`You have denounced him as his father's killer.'
Perhaps she looked abashed. `Negrinus has caused too much trouble.'
`He strikes me as inoffensive – even though he apparently upset his father. Why did your husband hate you?'
`Who told you that?'
`His will says so. Why did you hate him?'
`I only hated his cowardice.'
`He was brave enough to omit you from his bequests – in a will he wrote a full two years before his so-called suicide.' She did not react. `I gather your husband had a passion for your daughter-in-law Saffia?'
Calpurnia scoffed. `I told you. Saffia is a troublemaker. My husband knew that better than anyone.'
`You mean he screwed her physically, then she screwed him financially?'
This time Calpurnia only stared at me. Did she simply blank it out?
`So is Paccius Africanus being generous in letting you remain here, or are you sticking tight until he evicts you?'
`He won't institute the will until the court case is over.'
That suited us; his reluctance to evict Calpurnia was one more instance we could cite to imply Paccius and she were co-conspirators.
She was growing restless. `I do not have to talk to you, Falco.'
`But you may find it advisable. Tell me, why was Saffia's bedspread in your garden store?'
`It was too badly soiled to save. It has been burned now.'
`Disposal of evidence? How and when did it get soiled?'
`Since you ask – when my husband was dying.' That made out I was uncouth to ask such questions.
I carried on regardless. I was used to annoying the bereaved – especially when I thought they were to blame. `Dying in his bed, according to you – so why use Saffia's quilt?'
`Because there was a filthy mess, and anything Saffia had owned was surplus to requirements.'
`Metellus had some violent gastric upset. Without insulting your cook, what was his last meal?'
`A mixed cold luncheon,' Calpurnia replied haughtily. `And we both ate it!' That had to be a lie.
`I asked your gardener if Metellus spent much time out here. Was he given to inspecting his market garden?'
Calpurnia glanced around the patchy vegetables, before finally losing patience with me. She started walking back indoors. `Metellus and I used to come out here,' she told me coldly, `to be out of hearing of our household, when we were arguing.'
`And you argued a lot,' I said quietly, `in the days before your husband died.'
`We argued a lot,' confirmed Calpurnia, as though she meant it had always happened.
`Were you arguing out in the garden when the hemlock struck your husband down?'
She stopped. She turned and stared at me. `You have been told how my husband went to his death.'
`Lies! Metellus died out in the open.' I gestured back the way we had come. `Wasn't he taken ill there by the fig tree? Someone ran into the house and brought Saffia's bedding to wrap him in. Then total paralysis would have taken hours.' I went up close to Calpurnia. `I want to know what you did with him, once he was taken ill. I want to know who else knew what was happening. Did he die alone, or was he comforted – and had you locked him in that garden store? You can answer me now – or I'll see you in court.' She stared at me. `Yes,' I said. `I think you killed Metellus – and I intend to denounce you for it.
`You cannot prove anything,' Calpurnia sneered.
As she stalked off, I called after her loudly: `So what happened two years ago?'
She turned back, aglow with fury. She gave me one filthy glance without speaking, then she disappeared from view.
XXXIII
THE STEWARD had returned and was hovering in the atrium. As he showed me out, I took a chance: `So Perseus is parcelled off to Lanuvium?' He looked shifty, but I sensed I might squeeze him. `Things must be getting sticky. I assume the money has run out?'
`Nothing new in this house, Falco – unfortunately!'
`I thought the Metelli had funds? Still, I assume you haven't reached the low point – when the mistress sells her jewels and seeks consolation from an astrologer?'
His voice dropped. `Oh she did that some time ago!' It seemed unlikely – in fact, I had been joking – yet he spoke with feeling. And I had never seen Calpurnia wearing even a necklace.
I whistled gently. `Who's her confidante?'
`Olympia.' I noted the name mentally.
`A fortune teller?'
Nodding, he glanced over his shoulder. `Everyone's jittery. We are all waiting to hear we'll be transferred to Paccius.'
`Calpurnia says he will wait until the court case ends.'
`That doesn't help,' replied the steward.
None of the slaves had been manumitted by the Metellus will. That was mean. A quarter of the labour force, up to a hundred in number, of those over thirty years of age, could have been freed when their master died. All the Metellus slaves would have a good idea how Saffia Donata might treat them if she ever possessed them. She might take out her spiteful feelings against her husband's family on the slaves. Paccius, more likely, would be indifferent – but he would sell them.
We were on the threshold now. The slave who was acting as doorkeeper stayed back, though not far enough for me. I offered the steward, `Look, do you get time to yourself? Can I buy you a drink?'
He knew what this was for. He smiled. `No thanks. I'm not naive, Falco!'
I shrugged. `Will you clear up a domestic issue then? What was the menu for the last meal that your master had?' I thought the steward blenched. He was unhappy, that was sure. `The lunch,' I prompted. `The last lunch with his family.'
The steward claimed he could not remember. Interesting. He was the type who would regard it as his personal daily duty to plan menus and organise the shopping; maybe he even shopped himself The last meal eaten by a master who was subsequently poisoned should be etched into the elegant factotum's memory.
