Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (51 page)

‘And now irony, bitter and yet strangely just, enters the tale alongside tragedy. For by a peculiar twist of fortune
that man
was not to inherit the fortune he had committed parricide to obtain. Now as I said before, this is not a political court, nor is this a political trial. We are not concerned here with the drastic measures forced upon the state in the recent years of upheaval and uncertainty. And so I will not try to explain the curious process by which it came about that Sextus Roscius
pater
, to most appearances a good man, was nevertheless found to be among those on the lists of the proscribed when certain conscientious officers of the state looked into the matter of his death. Somehow the old man had escaped with his life for months! What a fortunate man he must have been, or else how clever!

‘And yet – what irony!
Filius
kills
pater
to secure his inheritance, only to discover that the inheritance has already been claimed by the state! Imagine his chagrin! His frustration and despair! The gods played an appalling joke on
that man
, but what man can deny either their infinite wisdom or their sense of humour?

‘In due course the property of the late Sextus Roscius was sold at auction. The good cousins Magnus and Capito were among the first to bid, since they were intimate with the estates and knew their value, and thus they became what they should have been all along, the heirs of the late Sextus Roscius. So it is that sometimes Fortune rewards the just and punishes the wicked.

‘And now – what of
that man
? Magnus and Capito suspected his guilt, indeed they were almost certain of it. But out of pity for his family they offered him shelter on their newly acquired estates. For a time there was an unsteady peace between the cousins – that is, until Sextus Roscius gave himself away. First it was discovered that he had held back various items of property that had been duly proscribed by the state – in other words, the man was no better than a common thief, stealing from the people of Rome what was duly theirs by right of law. (Ah, Judges, you yawn at an accusation of embezzlement, and rightly so – what is that, compared to his greater crime?) When Magnus and Capito demanded that he give these things up, he threatened their lives. Now, had he been sober, he probably would have held his tongue. But ever since the death of his father he had drunk excessively – as guilty men are known to do. Indeed, to all his other vices, Sextus Roscius had added drunkenness, and was hardly ever sober. He became intolerably abusive, to the point that he dared to threaten his hosts. To kill them, in fact – and in threatening their lives he inadvertently confessed to the murder of his father.

‘Fearing for his own life, and because it was his duty, Magnus decided to bring charges against
that man
. Meanwhile Roscius slipped out of his grip and escaped to Rome, back to the very scene of his crime; but the eye of the law watches even the heart of Rome, and in a city of a million souls he could not hide himself.

‘Sextus Roscius was located. Normally, even when accused of the most heinous crime, a Roman citizen is given the opportunity to renounce his citizenship and escape into exile rather than face trial, if that is his choice. But so severe was the crime committed by
that man
that he was placed under armed guard to await his trial and punishment. And why? Because the crime he has committed goes far beyond the mere offence of one mortal against the person of another. It is a blow against the very foundations of this republic and the principles that have made it great. It is an assault on the primacy of fatherhood. It is an insult to the very gods, and to Jupiter above all, father of the gods.

‘No, the state cannot take even the slightest risk that such an odious criminal might escape, nor, esteemed Judges, can you take the risk of letting him go unpunished. For if you do, consider the divine punishments that are sure to be visited upon this city in retribution for its failure to wipe out such an abomination. Think of those cities whose streets have run with blood or whose people have withered from starvation and thirst when they foolishly sheltered an impious man from the gods. You cannot allow that to happen to Rome.’

Erucius paused to mop his brow. Everyone in the square was watching him with an almost dreamlike concentration. Cicero and his fellow advocates were no longer rolling their eyes and mocking Erucius behind their sleeves; they looked rather worried. Sextus Roscius had turned to stone.

Erucius resumed. ‘I have spoken of the insult rendered to divine Jupiter by
that man
and his unspeakably vile crime. It is an insult as well, if I might digress only a little, to the Father of our restored Republic!’ Here Erucius made quite a show of spreading his arms wide as if in supplication to the equestrian statue of Sulla, which seemed, from the angle at which I sat, to be granting him a condescending smile. ‘I need not even speak his name, for his eye is on us all at this very moment. Yes, his watchful eye is on everything we do in this place, in our dutiful roles as citizens, judges, advocates, and accusers. Lucius Cornelius Sulla, Ever Fortunate, restored the courts, Sulla reignited the fire of justice in Rome after so many years of darkness; it is up to us to see that villains such as
that man
are withered to ashes by its flame. Or else I promise you, esteemed Judges, that retribution will fall on
all
our heads from above, like hail descending from an angry black sky.’

Erucius struck a pose and held it for a long moment. His finger pointed to heaven. His brows were drawn together, and he glowered like a bull at the gathered judges. He had spoken of Jupiter’s retribution, but what we all had heard was that Sulla himself would be angered at a verdict of not guilty. The threat could not have been more explicit.

Erucius gathered the folds of his toga, threw back his chin, and turned his back. As he descended the Rostra, there were no cheers or applause from the crowd, only a chilling silence.

He had proved nothing. In place of evidence he had offered innuendo. He had appealed not to justice, but to fear. His speech was a dreadful patchwork of outright lies and self-righteous bullying. And yet, what man who heard him from the Rostra that morning could doubt that Gaius Erucius had won his case?

XXV

The door through which Chrysogonus had vanished led into a short hallway. A narrow passage on the left opened onto the noise of a busy kitchen. The curtain which draped the opening on the right still swayed from Chrysogonus’s passing. The girl led us through neither passage but instead to a door, at the end of the hall, that opened onto a winding flight of stone steps.

‘There’s another staircase in the room where the master entertains,’ she whispered, ‘very showy, very fine marble, with a statue of Venus in the centre. But this is the stair the slaves use. If we pass anyone, just ignore them, even if they look at us oddly. Or better yet, give me a pinch hard enough to make me squeal and pretend you’re all drunk. They’ll think the worst for sure, and then they’ll leave us alone.’

But we met no one on the stairs, and the upstairs hall was deserted. From somewhere below we could hear the muffled music of flutes and lyres, and an occasional burst of applause or laughter – presumably in appreciation of Sorex’s dance – but the upper floor was dim and quiet. The hallway was quite broad and fabulously decorated, opening onto wide, high rooms even more sumptuously appointed. Every surface seemed to be carpeted, draped, inlaid, or painted. Everywhere the eye turned there was a riot of colours, textures, and shapes.

‘Vulgar, isn’t it?’ said Rufus with a noble’s disdain. Cicero would have agreed, but the furnishings were vulgar only for being so cramped and ostentatiously displayed. What impressed me most was the consistency of Chrysogonus’s taste in acquiring only the best and most expensive handicraft and artwork – embossed silver, vessels of Delian and Corinthian bronze, embroidered coverlets, plush carpets from the East, finely carved tables and chairs with inlays of shell and lapis, intricate mosaics of richly coloured tiles, superb marble statues and fabulous paintings. That all these creations had been looted from the proscribed there could be no doubt; otherwise it would have taken a lifetime to accumulate so many things of such high quality and disparate origin. Yet no one could say that Chrysogonus had looted blindly. Let others take the chaff; for himself he had chosen only the best, with the trained eye for quality developed by slaves of the rich who dream of someday being free and rich themselves. I was glad that Cicero was not with us; to see Sulla’s former slave living in stolen luxury on such a grandiose scale might have agitated his delicate bowels beyond endurance.

The hallway narrowed. The rooms became less resplendent. The girl lifted a heavy hanging, allowing us to pass beneath; she dropped it, and all sound from downstairs vanished. The world changed as well, and we were abruptly back in a house of plain plastered walls and smoke-stained ceilings. These were the rooms of necessity – storage chambers, slave quarters, work rooms – yet even here the booty was piled high. Crates of bronze vessels were stacked in the corners, rolled carpets drooped like sleepy watchmen against the walls, chairs and tables were wrapped in heavy cloth and piled to the ceiling.

The girl stole through the maze, glanced furtively about her, then motioned for us to follow. She drew back a curtain.

‘What are you doing up here?’ asked a petulant voice. ‘Isn’t there a party on tonight?’

‘Oh, leave her alone,’ said another, speaking through a mouthful of food. ‘Just because Aufilia brings me extra portions and turns her nose up at your ugly face . . . but who’s this?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘don’t get up. Stay where you are. Finish your meal.’

The two of them sat on the hard floor, eating cabbage and barley from cracked clay bowls by the light of a single lamp. The room was small and narrow with bare walls; the tiny flame carved their wrinkles into caverns and cast their stooped shadows all the way to the ceiling. I stayed in the doorway. Tiro moved in close behind me, peering over my shoulder. Rufus hung behind.

The lean, petulant one snorted and scowled at his food. ‘For what you want, Aufilia, this room’s too small. Can’t you find an empty room elsewhere with a couch big enough for the three of you?’

‘Felix!’ the other hissed, prodding his companion with his pudgy elbow and gesturing with the other. Felix glanced up and blanched as he noticed the ring on my finger. He had thought the three of us were all slaves, looking for a place to have a party of our own.

‘Forgive me, Citizen,’ he whispered, bowing his head. They fell silent, waiting for me to speak. Before, they had been human beings, one of them lean and irritable, the other fat and good-natured, their faces alive in the warm glow as they fed themselves and parried with the girl. In an instant I saw them turn grey and indistinguishable, wearing the identical blank face worn by every slave of every harsh master who ever breathed in Rome.

‘Look at me,’ I said. ‘Look at me! And if you aren’t going to finish eating, then put down your bowls and stand up, so that I can see you eye to eye. We don’t have much time.’

‘The knife was out before you could see it,’ Felix was saying. ‘In a flash.’

‘Yes, literally in a flash!’ Chrestus stood beside him, nervously rubbing his pudgy hands, looking from his friend’s face to mine and back again.

Once I had explained who I was and what I wanted, they were amazingly willing, even eager, to speak to me. Tiro stood quietly beside me, his face pensive in the lamplight. I had posted Rufus at the nearest chamber along the main hallway so that he might turn back any wandering guests. I sent the girl with him; she was his excuse for loitering upstairs, and besides that, there was no reason to involve her any deeper, or to trust her with the full truth of what we had come for.

‘We never had a chance to help the master. They threw us out of the way, onto the ground,’ said Felix. ‘Strong men, as big as horses.’

‘And stinking of garlic,’ Chrestus added. ‘They’d have killed us, too, if Magnus hadn’t stopped them.’

‘Then you’re sure it was Magnus?’ I said.

‘Oh, yes.’ Felix shuddered. ‘I didn’t see his face, he was careful about that. But I heard his voice.’

‘And the master called his name, remember, just before Magnus stabbed him the first time,’ said Chrestus. ‘ “Magnus, Magnus, curse you!” in a thin little voice. I still hear it in my dreams.’