silence fell, his world ended. We knew he had been told his mother was dead; at four, he may not have understood. Nobody had fed him, comforted him, made any plans for him. No one had even spoken to him for a long while. He had no idea that his father was here. He let Helena pick him up, but accepted her attentions almost like a child who expected blows. Concerned, I even saw her checking him for marks. But he was sound, clean, well nurtured. He owned a shelf of clay models and when I offered him a nodding mule, he took it from me obediently.
We brought parent and child together. Lutea stopped weeping and took the boy in his arms, though Lucius went to his father with as little reaction as when Helena gathered him up. We instructed some weary slaves to look after them. It might have been the moment to catch Lutea off guard, but Helena shook her head and I bowed to her humanity.
Helena and I walked home together quietly, with our arms around each other's waists, feeling subdued. The fate of the small boy depressed us both. Little Lucius had lost more than his mother there. Saffia had done her best for the other two by sending them to Negrinus, but this boy was Lutea's property. It would never turn out well; Lucius was destined to spend his life being abandoned and forgotten. The father may have loved the mother, but neither Helena nor I now had any faith in Lutea's so-called great affection for the four-year-old. The little boy behaved as if he had very low expectations. Lutea held his supposedly adored son like a drunk with an empty amphora, staring over his head with regret in his soul, but no heart.
`At least he is weeping for Saffia.'
`No, he is weeping for the lost money.'
You may assume that sympathetic comment came from Helena and the harsh judgement from me. Wrong!
`You find me very cynical,' Helena apologised. `I just believe that Saffia's death has robbed this man Lutea of expectations in a lengthy scheme to prey on the Metelli – and I believe he is sobbing for himself. You, Marcus Didius Falco, the great city romantic, hate to see a man bereft. You believe that Lutea was genuinely moved today by the loss of his heart's companion and lover.'
`I allow him that,' I said. `He is distraught at losing her. But I don't disagree with you entirely, fruit. The only reason Lutea is not weeping for the money is that – in my view, and I am sure in his – he has not lost it yet.'
XXXVII
THE FULL title of the murders court is the Tribunal for Prisoners and Assassins. Poisoning is routinely associated with spells, potions and other foul magic. Assassins may be all kinds of murderers, including armed robbers. This court thus relates to the grimiest side of human nature. I always found sessions there quite gruelling.
There is a panel of lay judges, drawn from both the upper and middle classes – a fact which irritates the senators and makes the equestrians smug. Their names are kept in a public register, the White List, which we were about to consult. A name from this album would be picked by Paccius Africanus, and if we approved, the chosen judge (with no right to refuse) would preside over our court case. The judge would not vote with the jury, though after hearing the evidence formally, if there was a guilty verdict he would pronounce punishment and fix the accusers' compensation. Seventy-five reputable citizens would act as the jury, their selection subject to challenges by both prosecution and defence. They would hear the evidence in strict silence and vote secretly; equal votes would mean acquittal.
`If there are seventy-five judges, how can there be equal votes?' I mused.
`Oh Falco!' Honorius deplored my simplicity. `You can't expect seventy-five men to turn up without anybody sending a note to say he has a bad cold or must attend his great aunt's funeral.'
The judge meanwhile did not have to remain silent – and was unlikely to do so. I won't say we expected any judge to be crass, legally ignorant and biased against us – but Honorius became extremely exercised over who would be appointed.
`Paccius and Silius know the panels, and I don't. The trial could be effectively over for us, if we get the wrong man.'
`Well, do your best.' I despised them all and found it hard to care. `All we need is someone who can stay awake. That's the purpose of choosing from the panels, I take it?'
`No, Falco. The purpose of choice is to ensure neither side has an opening to bribe the judge.'
I had not bargained on expenditure. `Do we have to bribe him?'
`Of course not. That would be corrupt. We just need to make sure the opposition doesn't bribe him either.'
`I am glad you explained that, Honorius!' I was seeing the seedy side of law here – and the humourless side of our barrister. `Surely all judges are appointed to panels for their fair-mindedness and independence?'
`Where have you spent your life, Falco?'
I started to take a reluctant interest. Aelianus was showing off, explaining the judges' qualifications. `Freeborn, in good health, over twenty-five and under sixty-five, has to be a decision or other local official, and has to have a modest property portfolio.'
I was shocked. `Good gods, I could end up on a panel myself'
`Feign sickness or madness, Falco.'
`Think of his tombstone,' Helena ruled. `Aulus, I want my husband to have a whole list of dead-end, pointless positions, running off his alabaster slab.' Alabaster, eh? She seemed to have planned it already. Mention of dead- end positions reminded me to visit the Sacred Geese again. `Marcus, be a judge but make sure every time in court, you go for acquittal. Go on the panel, but build up a reputation as a soft bastard, so you don't get picked for cases.'
`The jury decides verdicts,' I protested.
`The judge directs the course of the trial,' Honorius argued, in a hollow voice. He was definitely nervous. It might perk up his advocacy. But it made me tense.
Honorius did not like the judge Paccius first chose. There was no reason, but on principle Honorius would not take the first offer. We objected.
We made another suggestion. Paccius refused our name. Apparently this was normal.
Then began several days of negotiating the published lists. The album of approved judges was laid out in three panels. First, two of these had to be eliminated. It was quick. Paccius rejected a panel, then we did. I could not see what grounds they had – guesswork, perhaps. I noticed that Paccius acted out a charade of deep thoughtfulness, chewing a stylus as he lengthily pondered; Honorius glanced down with an air of confidence before making a swift selection as if it hardly mattered.
That thinned the lists to a third. The remaining panel was subjected to intense scrutiny, as each side removed one name at a time alternately. We were using a panel with an uneven number of names, so we had first pick; had it been an even panel, Paccius would have started. In either case, the intention was to allow the defendant 'to make the final rejection. We all had to keep going until one name was left.
There was no time limit, except that if we spent too long debating we would look amateur. Hasty research was conducted. Both sides were steered by their private advisers. Paccius had a whole group of spindly specialists who looked like clerks with chest diseases. Falco and Associates were just asking my friend Petronius. He had one great advantage: he had appeared in front of most judges.
`Do you want a cretin or a meddler?'
`Which is better for us?'
`Whoever gets the larger backhander.'
`We won't pay. We are going for probity.'
`Can't afford true justice, eh?'
Nobody knew the judges in this court well. At first I thought the opposition were proceeding in some clever manner; then I spotted them off guard one day when I was half concealed behind a pillar, and I could see that where we were facetious, they were frantic. As the names were whittled down, they threw up their hands. Even with Petro's guidance, we were not removing judges on the basis of what we knew against them, but leaving them
