The Accusers mdf-15 Read online

  I wanted to go straight home to prepare. Instead, Camillus Verus gathered me up. 'I'm taking this fellow to the gym,' he said nonchalantly to Helena.

  'Oh, Father. Not "going to the gym"? That's what Marcus says when he's off womanising and gambling.' Helena looked surprised by her father. So was I.

  He winked at her, playfully. 'Drinking bout. Don't tell your mother.'

  'Hmm. A hangover won't help when he's in court tomorrow.'

  'It's a ploy,' breezed Decimus. 'It tells the opposition you are so confident you can go out to a party when you ought to be at home studying your notes.'

  'I never heard that Demosthenes went on the wine when he had a big speech coming up…' Helena capitulated. 'Look after him.'

  'Of course. But Marcus may be late home.' Now I was worried.

  Helena justina raised her eyebrows even higher. They were heavy, like her father's. 'I'll tell myself he is safely talking to you.'

  'I shall be talking,' her father declared. 'Marcus will be taking notes.'

  His tone had changed. I had seen him serious before, though never quite so straight-faced. In fact I could not remember us ever going to the gym like this together; normally we met by chance. We saw each other in domestic contexts, but otherwise were not socially close. He was a senator and I was an informer. Nothing ever changed that.

  We had not far to go. We both frequented premises at the back of the Temple of Castor. I had introduced him, for not even a senator could gain membership of this gymnasium without a recommendation. It was run by my trainer, Glaucus, on the lines of a club. Clubs were illegal, lest persons of inflammatory politics congregate in them to plot against the government. I like to avoid that sort of trouble. But a private gym such as Glaucus set up was seen as acceptably sociable. Exercise is healthy. Dumbbell clowns who can't even spell 'republic' swing their arms about and heave heavy weights on to their mighty, hairy chests – don't they?

  Glaucus admitted a certain quiet class. Some, like me, had professional reasons for wanting to train. Others just preferred the refinement of a place where rowdy or crass social monsters were barred. There were no loud voices, no roistering inebriates – and no oily bastards looking out for pretty boys either. There was little room for spear-throwing, but wrestling and swordplay were available. For a steep fee, Glaucus would give you a lesson that was almost as uncomfortable as being ridden down by murderous tribesmen galloping on wild horses – or you could relax in a small courtyard and read poetry. There was even a library, though nobody much used it. You could find a delightful young lady to trim your fingernails, or buy an excellent pastry adorned with toasted pistachio nuts. Perhaps the manicurist offered extra services, but if so, she didn't push it; I always settled for a nutty slice instead, believe me. I doubt if the senator even had that; his wife was making him watch his weight.

  We bathed. Decimus usually had a slave to scrape him down, and today so did I. I stood lost in thought, while the boy expertly plied the strigil. Afterwards, Decimus swam in the tiny pool. I never did, though I carried out a few exercises, continuing after my companion hauled himself from the freezing water and huddled in a robe while he chatted to Glaucus.

  'Your name is on a lot of lips,' said Glaucus, when I joined them. He disapproved. So did I. Fame may be attractive to many, but in my trade it is an encumbrance. Informers should keep anonymous.

  'People will soon forget.'

  'Depends what kind of fool you make of yourself, Falco.' My trainer never reckoned to keep his clients with flattery.

  'Oh I'll be the usual fool,' I admitted.

  He laughed harshly. 'That's all right then!'

  The senator had finished drying off and pulling on tunics. At sixty plus, he kept himself well layered up in winter. He hauled me to the library; now I knew what it was there for: plotting. Glaucus had arranged to have a brazier sent in. Snacks and wine followed.

  'Should I fetch my note-tablet?' I wondered.

  'Better not.' The mood was now distinctly sombre. It had nothing to do with winter's early darkness closing in. 'Marcus, you'll prefer not to write down what I tell you.'

  I settled on a reading couch. 'And what,' I asked, still slightly askance, 'will that be, Decimus?'

  'All I know,' replied Helena's father quietly, 'about the past careers of Silius Italicus and Paccius Africanus.'

  My jaw dropped. 'You can give me some dirt?'

  'Remind you, maybe. It came up in the Senate.'

  'I confess I don't recall either of them featuring.'

  'Well, I was there. So that helped it stick. It was in the early sessions, when Vespasian first became Emperor.' Decimus paused slightly. 'Had things worked out differently, I might have hoped to benefit from the accession. So I was a regular in the Curia – and it was riveting.' We both looked pensive. Camillus Verus had been destroyed politically, around that time, through the actions of a relative. He lost out on what could have become a big career; five years later, the taint still badly damaged him and his sons.

  He rallied and continued: 'Young Domitian was still presiding in his father's name; this was before he went too far and had his wings clipped.' Vespasian and his elder son Titus preferred not to dwell on the early career of Domitian. In fairness, the Emperor's younger son was only twenty at the time, representing his father five years before he would normally have been an acceptable face in the Senate. 'This is dangerous material. I cannot advise you how to handle it, but Marcus, I'll do my best to give you all the history.'

  I was impressed by the fact that Camillus had brought me here, rather than contaminate either of our homes with what he had to say. He was a man of curious refinement.

  As I said, the library was rarely used. Tonight I thought that was just as well. It would not do for others to know we had held this conversation.

  We spoke for a long time, until I was well rehearsed.

  Afterwards, I returned home silently, my head thronging with ideas. Helena accepted my stillness. Maybe her father had hinted at how he intended to brief me.

  None of what he told me was a secret. Six years ago I had despised the Senate and jeered at its day-to-day proceedings. Maybe I read about the relevant debates in the Daily Gazette columns, but it had little impact at the time. We were awash with news then. Vespasian's accession had come at the end of a long period of lurid events. Evaluating every one was impossible. Our main concern had been that the civil wars and city famine should end, along with street fighting, fires, destruction and uncertainty.

  That night, I could not decide what to do. I was nervous about using this hot material in open court. I talked to Helena; she encouraged me to be bold. Some members of our jury would have been present when the debates happened, after all. Dragging up old sensitivities was dangerous, however. I would be reviving a political scandal, which in a highly political city is always sinister.

  I slept all night. Long training helped. I was still undecided when I left home with Helena next morning. But as soon as I walked into the Basilica, saw the long rows of the jury and felt the hall humming, I knew: this was risky – but too good to ignore.

  I glanced up at the upper gallery. Peeking around the corner of a curtain, Helena Justina read my thoughts and smiled at me.

  The Accusation against Calpurnia Cara: M. Didius Falco on C. Paccius Africanus

  My young colleague Honorius spoke to you yesterday with great eloquence. I have been impressed by his setting-out of the issues. I congratulate him on the way he has addressed difficult material. In describing Calpurnia Cara's predicament, he has been most even-handed, while never forgetting the demands of justice for a terrible crime.

  Since he has done such an excellent job so far, you may be wondering why we have decided that I should address you on the next subject. Honorius is of senatorial rank, a promising advocate, who will without question make a fine career in both the special courts and the Senate itself. Gentlemen, having made such a start, he is eager to conclude the business before you; it is indeed hard f
or him now to hand over to me. He has stepped back because I have particular insight into a certain type of person who may have influenced the accused.

  My name is Marcus Didius Falco. I am of equestrian rank, a position for which I have to thank the personal interest of the Emperor. Some of you – and our most excellent judge, Marponius, who knows me well – will be aware that this is by no means the first time I have appeared before the murders court. I have made it a habit to identify killers and bring them to trial. I have had some success. If I were to explain myself for the benefit of those who do not know me, I would say I make it a speciality to investigate wrongs which are not suitable for the vigiles or for which the hard-pressed vigiles lack immediate resources. Sometimes I have been commissioned officially for enquiries in the community, and I may say to you that on occasions, my commissions came from the highest level. By its nature, I may not discuss that work. I mention it only so you may appreciate that people of shrewd judgement in powerful positions, the Emperor's closest advisers in fact, hold my services in some regard.

  Why am I talking so much about myself? Because of this: my profession, if I may boldly call it that, is that of the informer. I hardly know how I can have named it – for informing is so often a term of abuse. If we were to go out into the Forum Romanorum now this minute, and ask passers-by to define informers, I believe their answers would include: immoral patricians, men who are intent on rising rapidly despite lack of personal talent, men without principle, and lowborn toadies hanging around the skirts of power. They might describe vicious ambition and pitiless manoeuvring. They might suggest that informers target victims for their own benefit, under cover of serving society by cleaning it up. They would undoubtedly complain about men who leap from extreme poverty into questionable wealth, men of insignificance who acquire inexplicable prestige. They would say that informers ruthlessly attack their victims, using means that are often of doubtful legitimacy. Worst of all, remembering the excesses and abuses under emperors like Nero, a creature now 'damned to the memory' for his appalling crimes, people would fear that the role of informers may be still that of secret, subversive informants, whispering poison in the ear of the Emperor.

  In making these statements about my own profession, I am speaking to my disadvantage, but I want to show you how fair I am. I know that these are the opinions of many, but I hope to suggest that there is another view. I put to you that ethical informers do exist. They do valuable work, their ambition is commendable, and their motives have morality and integrity. I myself have taken up causes where I knew there would be no financial reward, merely because I believed in the principles involved. Of course you are laughing -

  They certainly were. Mind you, they were all listening.

  Well, that shows you what an open and honest man I am!

  More laughter. With my thumbs tucked into my belt under my toga, I was grinning myself. Thinking about it, I removed the thumbs.

  Perhaps the worst prejudice against informers is that they have, in the past, involved themselves in manipulating government. Fortunately, it is well known that our new Emperor, Flavius Vespasianus, abhors such -behaviour. He is famous for opposing secrecy in political circles. One of the first acts of his administration – before Vespasian himself even returned to Rome from Judaea as Emperor – was to require all senators who had acted as informers under Nero to swear a solemn oath about their past actions. Without swearing the oath, such people would no longer be acceptable in public life. Honourable men would in this way exonerate themselves from the taints of the past. But any who perjured themselves would be prosecuted – as some were…

  'Objection!' Paccius was on his feet. 'None of this has relevance.'

  Marponius was eager to do me down – but he wanted to know what was coming. 'Falco?'

  'Your honour, I shall show that the accused and her family have associations with informers of the type I am now discussing. Their connection directly affects what happened to Rubirius Metellus.'

  'Objection denied!'

  Paccius, accustomed to unfair rulings from judges, was already resuming his seat. Was I wrong, or did he glance sideways at Silius? Certainly Silius leaned forwards as if he had a monumental stomach ache in that overfed gut.

  Marponius, who normally hunched slackly, had sat bolt upright on his judicial stool. Nobody had warned him that this seemingly domestic killing might have a political dimension. Luckily, he was too dim to be frightened, though even he realised that my naming Vespasian meant the Palace would inevitably focus on his court. Paccius and Silius were now staring at Marponius as if they expected him to warn me to exercise caution.

  A better judge would have stopped me.

  Gentlemen of the jury, I want to take you back – briefly, let me reassure you – to those heady days immediately after Vespasian accepted imperial power. You will clearly remember the turmoil of those times. Nero's reign had disintegrated into madness and chaos. The Empire was in uproar, the city lay in ruins, people everywhere were battered and grief-stricken. Armies had trampled through the length and breadth of the provinces, some were in open rebellion. We lived through what is now called the Year of the Four Emperors – Nero, Galba, Otto, Vitellius. Then we welcomed the fatherly figure who brought us rescue from that terror -

  I was concentrating on Marponius and the jury. For some reason I noticed Anacrites. He was watching with no expression. But I knew him. I was discussing the imperial family. The Chief Spy was intently noting all I said. When he reported back – as he would report, because that was his job – he would twist it to reflect badly on me.

  I was a fool to do this.

  You will recall that after he departed from Judaea, leaving Titus Caesar to complete the work of crushing the local rebellion, Vespasian travelled first to Egypt. In his absence, Rome was guided on his behalf by the capable duo of young Domitian Caesar and the Emperor's colleague and minister, Mucianus. It was they who assisted the Senate to address the urgent task of rebuilding a peaceful society. It had to be shown that the abuses under Nero would be fiercely nipped out. There was resentment against all those who had destroyed innocent people by making cruel accusations, especially where it had been done from motives of profit. Some wanted recriminations and punishment. The new regime rightly sought peace and conciliation, but it was necessary to show that the evil practices of the past would be ended.

  In this situation, at one of the earliest sessions of the Senate a request was made for permission to examine imperial records from the time of Nero, to see which Senate members had acted as informers. This was an investigation which nobody could undertake lightly. The whole Senate had been forced to collaborate with evil prosecutions and to condemn to death those who were convicted; important men, potential holders of the highest office, would come under scrutiny for having been Nero's prosecutors – a role which, it could be argued, they had been powerless to refuse. Men of undeniable talent might be lost to the new administration if they were disgraced. The Senate might now be torn apart by revelations.

  In his father's absence, Domitian Caesar wisely ruled that the requested inspection of the archives would require the Emperor's personal permission. Instead, senior members of the Senate devised an alternative. Every senator swore an oath – a serious ordeal in itself. Each swore by the gods that he had imperilled no man's safety under Nero and had received no reward or office at the expense of another's misfortune. To decline the oath was a confession of guilt. Known accusers who did take the oath were convicted of perjury.

  'Objection!'

  'Paccius Africanus, I have already considered this. Objection denied.'

  Three prominent informers vanished from our sight for ever: Cestius Severus, Sariolenus Voccula and Nonius Attianus no longer disfigure our courts. Others could not be so certainly identified: consider Tiberius Catius Silius Italicus -

  'Oh objection!'

  'Silius Italicus, you are not taking part in this case. You are not entitled to speak. Objection overruled!'

/>   As Silius grumpily slumped back in his seat, I saw Paccius lean sideways and mouth something to him. Silius then spoke in an undertone over his shoulder to a junior, the replacement for Honorius, who accompanied him to the daily court sessions. The junior rose and quietly left the hall. Anacrites watched this with great interest. I should have done.

  Silius Italicus is the man who just rose and addressed the judge. Consul two years before Nero went to his death, he was thought to have prosecuted several of Nero's enemies, and to have done so voluntarily. For this he incurred general loathing. Yet later, his decency was not in question – I imagine he will make no objection to the judge when I raise this point – later he negotiated between Vitellius and Vespasian in the cause of peace. Perhaps for that reason, he was never prosecuted for perjury, so you may wonder why I have mentioned him in this section of my speech. My purpose is not to give you a history of an unpleasant aspect of the past, but to show how it affects the accused. Silius Italicus now likes to imply he has given up accusing – yet he it was who laid corruption charges against Rubirius Metellus, and in order to recoup his compensation award, he is soon to accuse Metellus Negrinus of killing his father. I was criticised for beginning this discussion of informers, but now, gentlemen, you can see why it is entirely relevant. And there is more.

  Next I shall come to a person whose influence on the Metelli is even more baleful. I have named three famous informers who were tried for perjury. Now let me name another one.

  'Objection!'

  'Sit, Paccius.' Marponius did not even look up from his notes.

  Caius Paccius Africanus – I hardly need to point out that you know him, for he has been so constantly on his feet today that his boot-mender must be expecting plenty of work -

  'Objection!' intervened Marponius wittily. 'The private expectations of the defender's boot-mender have no obvious connection with the case. Unless you are proposing to call the cobbler as a witness -'