sitting on the Temple steps, with a large napkin spread on her lap, munching.
`You're becoming famous,' she said, after I kissed her. As I greeted her affectionately, by some sleight of hand she passed me her lunch basket. `Even Anacrites has come to see how the case is going. We had a long chat before he went inside.'
`You hate Anacrites.'
`I won't let him see that. He would think I was afraid.'
`You should be,' Aelianus warned her.
He and I paused to sling on our togas, for once making an effort to arrange woollen pleats and to create traditional sinuses (for provincial barbarians, those are the deep folds below the left arm, where you can hide your notes or, if desperate, a dagger to stab your enemy). Helena followed us towards the Basilica.
`Dear heart,' I remonstrated fondly, `you have already outraged ancient patricians by picnicking in the Forum Romanorum. Do not follow up your notoriety by invading the courts. Some of those traditionalists would rather see a slave rebellion than allow women in the Basilica.'
`I am a good wife to you, Marcus darling. A good wife is allowed to hear her husband make his speeches from a curtained niche.'
`You are a bad wife if you give me heart failure. Who says I am speaking?'
`Honorius,' smiled Helena, as she skipped away to the rear of the Basilica, where steps led to the upper galleries. `He wants you to do the tricky part – laying the blame on Paccius.'
I was stunned. Too late, I realised that Helena had left me to enter court carrying a large wicker hamper. This would not be viewed as a proper accessory for an orator.
I solved that. I passed it swiftly to Aelianus.
There were more spectators than previously. Too many for me.
The scene throbbed more with tedium than tension. The first person I saw was Helena's father, Camillus Verus, sharing a bench with Petronius. Petro noticed me and glared across the hall. My bugbear Anacrites was lounging on a seat, unpleasantly close to the defence party. Trust him.
Anacrites gave me what passed for a friendly wave. Most people would not have noticed his presence, but to me the Chief Spy was always a magnet; I wanted to know where he was and what he was planning in that dark mind. Habitually discreet in dress, when decked out in a formal toga he blended in even more, though his slickedback, oiled black hair gave him away. I joined the prosecution group and pretended to give all my concentration to Honorius.
I had come at the right moment. As Aelianus and I sat down behind him, Honorius moved from his oratorical introduction into the next phase of his speech. He assumed an expression of distaste for his subject matter. Here, he would set out the events in the Metellus death, making the facts look as bad as possible for Calpurnia Cara.
Beside me, I noticed Aelianus produce a note-tablet on which he scratched regular stylus notes. A clerk was taking shorthand, but our boy wanted his own record. His system was in contrast to Honorius who, I realised, had never paid much visible attention when our investigations were discussed in his presence, yet he was now able to remember and quote many small details from interviews. Colourful facts that I had long forgotten were reappearing just when required.
Honorius knew his stuff. Once he stopped looking like a schoolboy, juries would take him very seriously. If he stood on a plinth so he looked taller, it would be even better.
I slipped him a note I had prepared, covering where we found Olympia, Calpurnia's long association with her, the excuses for consultation, and the jewellery issue. He read it while he was speaking.
I settled down to enjoy the scene. Honorius was now blackening the character of our accused and her associates. For a young man of apparent refinement, he was laying it on thick:
The Accusation against Calpurnia Cara: Honorius on the Accused
I shall not, in default of evidence, try to woo your votes by denouncing the accused with endless stories of an unsavoury life -
The court revived. We all recognised the signal. His denial promised sensationally grubby details. That's the joy of rhetoric: Honorius had reached the juicy bits.
Marponius leaned forward. He sounded kindly, but Honorius was a target. `Young man, if you are intending to regale us with scandals, may I suggest you keep it short? Some of us are elderly and our bladders cannot take too much excitement.' The old-timers in the jury ranks fluttered nervously. The rest laughed as if Marponius was a great wit.
Honorius stumbled, though he should not have been surprised. Things had gone our way for far too long. The judge was ready to cause trouble.
Gentlemen, the accused lived her married life in apparent propriety -
`Elucidate, please!' Marponius must be in a tetchy mood. This unnecessary interruption was to make Honorius look amateur. It also made Marponius look foolish, but juries are used to that from judges.
We might expect a matron of Calpurnia's status to affiliate herself with temples. Honouring the gods would be a duty. If she had money she might even endow altars or sanctuaries. One of her own daughters is just such a benefactor to the gods and the community in Laurentum; she is so admired that a statue in her honour has been erected there by the townspeople.
`Is the daughter on trial here?'
`No, your honour.'
`Respectable woman, wife of a senator – what are you doing dragging her into this? Strike out the daughter!'
I guessed Marponius had eaten his lunch too fast. Now the glutton had indigestion. He had probably been to Xero's pie shop, his special haunt when he wanted to look like a man of the people (and to overhear, incognito, the public's views on how he ran his case). Petronius had long threatened to put something in Xero's rabbit pie and eliminate Marponius. He reckoned Xero would like the publicity.
Calpurnia Cara's spiritual expression took a different course. For decades she consulted a notorious practitioner of magic, one Olympia. This sorceress lives outside the city boundary, where she is able to run an unlicensed establishment and escape the notice of the vigiles. According to her, our supposedly happy matron has been troubled in her soul for many years. She has looked to magic for solace, as women in torment sometimes do, and yet-either because she felt constrained by her position or because her difficulties were simply too terrible to share – she has never revealed what troubled her. With no mother or mother-in-law, no sisters or close friends to advise her better, she has struggled to find a confidante, clearly unable to share her thoughts with the man who had married her and unable to bear the lone burden. By the time she had daughters who could have consoled her, the pattern was set. Her jewellery had long been sold – we are informed that it was not to pay the sorceress, but how can we believe that?
`Are you calling the sorceress?' Marponius had aroused himself from a doze.
`I shall do so, sir.'
`That's the end of the accused then!' The judge subsided.
Paccius, smooth as ever, shook his head at this anticipation. Silius pursed his lips. Honorius contented himself with a polite smile.
I mimed at Petronius my opinion that Marponius had finished off the rabbit pie with a large jug of Falernian. Petro mimed back that it was a jug and a half.
Is it hard to imagine that a woman of this type – the respected wife of a senator, a mother of three children, seemingly a matron all Rome should admire, and yet internally racked by unhappiness – might one day resort to extreme measures?
Calpurnia herself tells us she and her husband regularly quarrelled – quarrelled so badly they would resort to a grove at the furthermost end of their garden, lest household members overhear their furious arguments. When we consider the events that clouded the end of their marriage, it is all too easy to imagine how Calpurnia's life was blighted throughout the whole course of her ill-fated union. We are not here to try her husband, Rubirius Metellus; I remind you that that has been done in the Senate. The verdict was harsh. It truly reflected the man. Everyone says that Metellus had an unforgiving character. He took delight in the discomfiture of others. That he was morally corrupt is established beyond doubt: he sold contracts and accepted favours, using his son's high position. He corrupted contractors; he abused everybody's trust; he relegated his own son to the role of a cheating cipher; it is
