`Forget Paccius!' Helena retaliated crisply. Her eye landed on her younger brother. `Quintus, you're quiet. I suppose you thought you would be the centre of attention today, with your news from Lanuvium?'
He shrugged. When I saw him last night he had been weary, stressed by his encounter with the vigiles and livid that they had killed Perseus. Now he was down, but seemed glad to be here with us. His wife must have greeted him with a lively scene. `I'll tell you very quickly. I had a hard time getting anything out of the freedman to start with; he sees it as his role to act as guardian over the Metellus family troubles. He refused to admit that Perseus was there, then he did everything he could to prevent me finding the porter. Still, I tracked him down on the sly, roped him up and was bringing him back a prisoner.
`Didn't Alexander spot you leaving his property?' I asked.
`No, Perseus was on a different farm. Alexander runs a big outfit in his own right – but I found another place locally in which he has a disguised interest. Marcus, I reckon this is where the money from the corruption was salted away.'
`So Julius Alexander may have bought property at Lanuvium anonymously?'
`He did indeed, although he denies it. Perseus told me.'
`But did Perseus confess what the real secret is?'
`No. He only started gossiping about the property to stop me asking other questions – and we were almost back in Rome by then.'
`Just at that point, you ran into the vigiles?'
`Yes. If I had known,' Justinus growled, `I would have thrown Perseus in a ditch and hidden him. In fact, I might as well have killed the cocky bastard myself and at least enjoyed it. When the Second pulled us over and asked who we were, Perseus piped up and admitted his identity. The vigiles snatched him off me, and tore back to their station-house with me panting after them, unable to get word to you.'
`It's not your fault.'
`We could not have held on to him.' Honorius sounded pompous. `Stealing a slave is bad enough if you deprive his master of possession – depriving the vigiles would be madness.'
Annoyed at his pedantry, Helena briskly stirred her hot drink. `Don't forget: we think that Saffia poisoned Metellus. We think we know how she did it too – but we still have no idea why.'
`Impatient to get at her legacy,' Aelianus replied.
`If they were lovers, it could be a love quarrel.' His brother, so used to wrangling with his wife, gloomily put up a counter-suggestion.
`I don't believe they were ever lovers.' Helena looked as if she had a theory. `I suspect Saffia Donata was just a very efficient blackmailer.' She would not tell us more. She said she did not have time to look into it today; she was going to see her father, to warn him we were all bankrupt. Meanwhile, she had one last instruction, this time for me. I had to visit the midwife Euboule, and her daughter Zeuko too, if the vigiles had released her.
That was a waste of time. Zeuko was still in custody, but if she was as hard-bitten as her mother, I would have obtained little from her.
Once I made my inspection of their house, I agreed with Helena that the children seemed well cared for and treated with kindness; there was no apparent reason why Ursulina Prisca had heaped disparagement on the two women. The house itself was well furnished and warm. A couple of young slave girls were playing with the children, who had a large toy collection. Walls and floors were covered in a collection of Eastern carpets, a highly unexpected luxury. Helena and I had no walls tapestried with Eastern carpets, even though they were attractive, useful as an investment, and difficult for casual thieves to whip away. My father had a few. But carpets were for auctioneers and kings; they were well out of our reach.
Euboule was a boot-faced, belligerent old bag of bones in layers of green and blue, with a heavy antique necklace that looked like real gold. I wondered how she had acquired it. The granulated links lay on a skinny chest. There was so little meat on her it seemed unlikely she had ever been full of milk for other women's babies, but no doubt her daughter was fully endowed now.
She stood up to my questioning like a hardened criminal. If I had not known she was a nurse and foster- mother, I would have thought she kept a chop-house with an upstairs brothel, or one of those back alley bath houses that are famous for perverted masseurs. She seemed ready for me; expecting to be tackled; determined not to give.
Taken with the expensive carpets, I knew what it meant: Euboule and Zeuko were being paid for their silence. Whether the income was current or only in the past, I could not tell. But at some point in their history this pair had been paid a great deal.
My sense of foreboding deepened. I went to my banker for a rundown of my own assets; I was unimpressed. At least when I warned him I was done for, Nothokleptes scarcely blinked; he had heard this so often in my bachelor days. He would learn how serious it was now. A new villa at Neapolis was out, that was for sure.
It was another dreadful day, with thunder in the storms. Lightning flashed around the Forum as I made my way to the Basilica. Honorius must have persuaded Marponius to hold up the trial. Nothing was going on. Tomorrow we would have to come clean, though. I nearly decided to ask for a meeting with Paccius, but held off and went home to find out what the lads had turned up for us.
The Camillus brothers joined us that evening. Honorius was supposed to come too, though he never appeared.
Justinus had done a thorough job with the steward. He had learned that his name was Celadus. Now we had a written transcript of the story about Saffia's quails, plus further details about how Rubirius Metellus had begun feeling ill shortly after he ate them. Celadus had seen Metellus go out into the garden, gasping that he needed air. The steward then confirmed the sequence I had previously worked out: Calpurnia found her husband helpless and dying; she herself fetched a quilt for him; then when he passed away she hid the body. Negrinus was away in Lanuvium. Celadus thought he had gone to explain to Julius Alexander that Metellus had decided not to kill himself. When Negrinus returned to Rome, Calpurnia brought the body into the house and faked the scene of suicide.
`After Calpurnia was accused of the crime – come to that, when her daughter was accused first – why didn't the steward declare what he knew about the quails?'
Justinus pulled a face. `Greed, Marcus.'
`Greed?'
`He was planning to blackmail Saffia.'
`Dear gods, everyone was at it! That explains why the family never produced this as a rebuttal. They guessed hemlock was to blame – but they had no idea where it came from.'
`If Celadus hadn't started drinking yesterday, he might never have coughed.' Justinus sympathised with the man in some ways. `He's a freedman, from a family who have lost all their money. He has no expectations, unless he creates them for himself. But Saffia's dead. And then he heard that you had done a stonking job in court, Marcus.'
I laughed bitterly. `So Celadus thinks his mistress is for the lions – and since silence no longer holds a profit for him, he finds he's loyal enough to save her!'
Still, it was only one man's word. We could behave like true informers: since it spoiled our case, we could hide this. The silver dish on which the quails arrived would have been long ago washed up. Nobody else knew it ever arrived from Saffia. If we chose to press on with the Calpurnia case then discrediting a freedman who had kept quiet for so long would be easy; we could discount Celadus and his evidence. But in this miserable week, I guessed that now we were looking for it, corroboration would be found. The steward's evidence would stand. Anyway, we all had consciences.
Aelianus, meanwhile, had contacted some other funeral comedians who were subcontracted to Tiasus. They could not say what the secretive Spindex had discovered about the Metelli, but they did know the name of the informer – and drinking partner – with whom Spindex had often worked. His source when he needed dirt on senators was called Bratta.
Well, that fitted. That was neat as a nut. At once I sent word to Petronius that Bratta was implicated in the Spindex killing; Petro issued my description and an arrest warrant. Not that I expected a result. The vigiles are ex-slaves, most of whom cannot read. The description would be recited to them, if we were lucky. They would nod wisely. Perhaps some would remember. Generally they have too much to do bashing in the heads of villains they met last night to worry about somebody who might have killed somebody else on a different night six months ago.
