Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (132 page)

‘All this is circumstantial evidence,’ he said, ‘not legal proof.’

I spoke slowly and carefully. ‘Legal proof is narrowly defined. To satisfy a court of law, all the slaves involved would be called upon to testify – the litter-bearers, your doorkeeper, perhaps the personal attendants of Palla and Lucius. Slaves see everything, and they usually know more than their masters think. They would be tortured, of course; the testimony of slaves is inadmissible unless obtained by torture. Acquiring that degree of proof is beyond my means, Censor.’

He shook his head. ‘Never mind. We both know the truth. I knew it all along, of course. Lucius and Palla, behind my back – but I never thought it would come to this!’

‘What will you do, Censor?’ It was within Poplicola’s legal rights, as
paterfamilias
, to put his son to death without a trial or any other formality. He could strangle Lucius with his own hands or have a slave do it for him, and no one would question his right to do so, especially under the circumstances. He could do the same thing to his wife.

Poplicola made no answer. He had turned to face the wall again, and stood so stiff and motionless that I feared for him. ‘Censor . . . ?’

‘What will I do?’ he snapped. ‘Don’t be impertinent, Finder! I hired you to find out a thing. You did so, and that’s the end of your concern. You’ll leave here with some gold in your purse, never fear.’

‘Censor, I meant no—’

‘You vowed an oath, on your ancestors, to speak of this affair to no one but me. I shall hold you to it. If you’re any sort of Roman—’

‘There’s no need to remind me, Censor,’ I said sharply. ‘I don’t make oaths lightly.’

He reached into a pouch within his purple toga, counted out some coins, laid them on the little table before me, and left the room without saying another word.

I was left to show myself out. On my way to the foyer, addled by anger, I took a wrong turn and didn’t realize it until I found myself in a large garden surrounded by a peristyle. I cursed and turned to retrace my steps, then glimpsed the couple who stood beneath the colonnade at the far corner of the garden, their heads together as if engaged in some grave conversation. The woman was Palla. Her arms were crossed and her head was held high. The man, from his manner towards her, I would have taken to be her husband had I not known better. Lucius Gellius looked very much like a younger replica of his father, even to the chilly stare he gave me as I hastily withdrew.

In the days that followed, I kept my ears perked for any news of developments at the house of Poplicola, but there was only silence. Was the old man plotting some horrible revenge on his son and wife? Were they still plotting against him? Or had the three of them somehow come together, with confessions of guilt and forgiveness all around? I hardly saw how such a reconciliation could be possible, after such a total breach of trust.

Then, one morning, I received a note from my friend Lucius Claudius:

Dear Friend, Dinner Companion, and Fellow Connoisseur of Gossip
,

We never quite finished our discussion about Poplicola the other day, did we? The latest gossip (horrible stuff): on the very eve of the great purge in the Senate, one hears that certain members are planning to mount a prosecution against the censor’s son, Lucius Gellius, accusing him of sleeping with his stepmother and plotting to kill Poppy. Such a trial will stir up a huge scandal – what will people think of a magistrate in charge of morals who can’t stop his own son and wife from fornicating and scheming to do him in? Opponents (and likely targets) of the purge will say, ‘Clean up your own house, Poplicola, before you presume to clean ours!’

Who knows how such a trial might turn out? The whole family will be dragged through the mud – if there’s any dirt on any of them, the prosecutors will dig it up. And if Lucius is found guilty (I still can’t believe it), they won’t allow him exile – he’ll be put to death along with Palla, and to save face, Poplicola will have to play stern paterfamilias and watch while it’s done! That would be the death of Poppy, I fear. Certainly, it would be the end of his political career. He’d be utterly humiliated, his moral authority a joke. He couldn’t possibly continue as Censor. No purge of the Senate, then, and politics can go on as usual! What an age we live in
.

Ah well, come dine with me tonight. I shall be having fresh pheasant, and Cook promises to do something divine with the sauce . . .

The pheasant that night was succulent. The sauce had an intriguing insinuation of mint that lingered teasingly on the tongue. But the food was not what I had come for.

Eventually we got around to the subject of the censor and his woes.

‘There’s to be a trial, then,’ I said.

‘Actually . . . no,’ said Lucius Claudius.

‘But your note this morning—’

‘Invalidated by fresh gossip this afternoon.’

‘And?’

Lucius leaned back on his couch, stroked Momo, and looked at me shrewdly. ‘I don’t suppose, Gordianus, that you know more about this affair than you’re letting on?’

I looked him in the eye. ‘Nothing that I could discuss, even with you, my friend, without violating an oath.’

He nodded. ‘I thought it must be something like that. Even so, I don’t suppose you could let me know, simply yes or no, whether Lucius Gellius and Palla really – Gordianus, you look as if the pheasant suddenly turned on you! Well, let no one say that I ever gave a dinner guest indigestion by pressing an improper question. I shall simply have to live not knowing. Though in that case, why I should tell
you
the latest news from the Forum, I’m sure I don’t know.’

He pouted and fussed over Momo. I sipped my wine. Lucius began to fidget. Eventually his urge to share the latest gossip got the better of him. I tried not to smile.

‘Very well, since you must know: Poppy, acting in his capacity as censor, has convoked a special Senate committee to investigate his own son on a charge of gross immorality – namely this rumour about adultery and attempted parricide. The committee will take up the investigation at once, and Poppy himself will preside over it.’

‘But how will this affect the upcoming trial?’

‘There won’t be a trial. The investigation supersedes it. It’s rather clever of Poppy, I suppose, and rather brave. This way he heads off his enemies who would have made a public trial into a spectacle. Instead, he’ll see to the question of his son’s guilt or innocence himself, behind closed doors. The Senate committee will make the final vote, but Poppy will oversee the proceedings. Of course, the whole thing could spin out of his control. If the investigating committee finds Lucius Gellius guilty, the scandal will still be the ruin of Poppy.’ He shook his head. ‘Surely that won’t happen. For Poppy to take charge of the matter himself, that must mean that his son is innocent, and Poppy knows it – doesn’t it?’ Lucius raised an eyebrow and peered at me expectantly.

‘I’m not sure what it means,’ I said, and meant it.

The investigation into the moral conduct of Lucius Gellius lasted two days, and took place behind the closed doors of the Senate House, where none but scribes and witnesses and the senators themselves were allowed. Fortunately for me, Lucius Claudius was among the senators on the investigating committee, and when the investigation was done he invited me once again to dine with him.

He greeted me at the door himself, and even before he spoke, I could tell from his round, beaming face that he was pleased with the outcome.

‘The committee reached a conclusion?’ I said.

‘Yes, and what a relief !’

‘Lucius Gellius was cleared of the charges?’ I tried not to sound sceptical.

‘Completely! The whole business was an absurd fabrication! Nothing to it but vicious rumours and unfounded suspicions.’

I thought of the dead slave, Chrestus. ‘There was no evidence at all of Lucius Gellius’ guilt?’

‘No such evidence was presented. Oh, so-and-so once saw Palla and Lucius Gellius sitting with their legs pressed together at the Circus Maximus, and another so-and-so saw them holding hands in a marketplace one day, and someone else claims to have seen them kiss beneath some trees on the Palatine Hill. Nothing but hearsay and rubbish. Palla and Lucius Gellius were called upon to defend themselves, and they both swore they had done nothing improper. Poplicola himself vouched for them.’

‘No slaves were called to testify?’

‘This was an investigation, Gordianus, not a trial. We had no authority to extract testimony under torture.’

‘And were there no other witnesses? No depositions? Nothing regarding the poisoned cake that was rumoured?’

‘No. If there
had
been anyone capable of producing truly damning evidence, they’d have been found, surely; there were plenty of senators on the committee hostile to Poppy, and believe me, since the rumours first began, they’ve been scouring the city looking for evidence. It simply wasn’t there.’

I thought of the poison dealer, and of the blonde girl who had waited on me at the bakery shop. I had tracked them down with little enough trouble; Poplicola’s enemies would have started out with less to go on, but surely they had dispatched their own finders to search out the truth. Why had the girl not been called to testify, at least? Had no one made even the simple connection between the rumour of the poisoned cake and the bakery shop which produced Poplicola’s favourite treat? Could the forces against the censor have been so inept?

Lucius laughed. ‘And to think of the meals I left untouched, fretting over Poppy! Well, now that he and his household have been vindicated, he can get on with his work as censor. Tomorrow Poppy will post his list of senators who’ve earned a black mark for immoral conduct. Good riddance, I say. More elbow room for the rest of us in the Senate chambers!’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Really, all that grief, and the whole thing was a farce.’

Yes, I thought warily, so it had ended up – a farce. But what role had I played in it?

The next day I went to the street of the bakers, thinking to finally taste for myself one of the famous almond sweet cakes baked by the Baebius family – and also to find out if, indeed, no one from the Senate committee had called upon the blonde girl.

I strolled up the narrow, winding little street and arrived at the corner with a shock. Instead of the blonde girl’s smiling face behind the serving counter, I saw a boarded-up storefront. The sign bearing the family name, there for three generations, had been obliterated with crude daubs of paint.

A shopkeeper down the street saw me gaping and called to me from behind his counter.

‘Looking for the Baebii?’

‘Yes.’

‘Gone.’

‘Where?’

‘No idea.’

‘When?’

He shrugged. ‘A while back. Just up and left overnight, the whole lot of them. Baebius, his wife and daughter, the slaves – here one day, all gone the next. Poof ! Like actors falling through a trapdoor on a stage.’

‘But why?’

He gestured that I should step closer, and lowered his voice. ‘I suspect that Baebius must have got himself into serious trouble with the authorities.’

‘What authorities?’

‘The Senate itself !’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Just a day or two after he vanished, some pretty rough-looking strangers came snooping up and down the block, asking for Baebius and wanting to know where he’d gone. They even offered money, but nobody could tell them. And then, a few days after that, here come more strangers asking questions, only these were better dressed and carried fancy-looking scrolls; claimed they were conducting some sort of official investigation, and had “senatorial authority.” Not that it mattered; people around here still didn’t know what had become of Baebius. It’s a mystery, isn’t it?’

‘Yes . . .’

‘I figure Baebius must have done something pretty bad, to get out of town that sudden and not leave a trace behind.’ He shook his head. ‘Sad, though; his family had been in that shop a long time. And you’d think he might have given me his recipe for those almond cakes before he disappeared! People come by here day and night, asking for those cakes. Say, could I interest you in something sweet? These honey-glazed buns are fresh out of the oven. Just smell that aroma . . .’