The Accusers mdf-15 Page 25

  'I withdraw the comment, your honour.'

  'Well, no need to go that far, Falco.' I could see my friend Petronius chortling as Marponius indulged himself. 'We like a good joke in the murders court – though I have heard you do better.'

  'Thank you, your honour. I shall try to improve the quality of my humour.'

  'I am obliged to you. Continue!'

  Let me sketch something of this man, Paccius Africanus. He too is of very great eminence. He has served the state through all the ranks of the cursus honorum and I note, with some amusement, that when he was a quaestor he presented games dedicated to Honour and Virtue! Perhaps Honour and Virtue have been better served.

  He too had been a consul, the year after Silius Italicus. Now when the senators all swore their oaths, Paccius was accused of perjury. Everyone knew he had brought about the deaths of the Scribonius brothers. Paccius had pointed them out to Nero as famous for their wealth and therefore ripe for destruction; at the behest of Nero's obnoxious freedman Helius, the brothers were tried and condemned for conspiracy. Perhaps there really had been a conspiracy. If so, which of us today would think that a conspiracy against the infamous Nero was wrong? Paccius and his colleagues would incur our hatred just as much for revealing it, if the plot were genuine. What is certain is that the Scribonii died. Nero grabbed their wealth. Paccius Africanus presumably received his own reward.

  When he was called to account in the Senate, Paccius could only fall silent, cowed, daring neither to confess nor to admit his actions. It is a measure of the times that one of his most persistent and damaging hecklers in the Senate that day was also an informer, Vibius Crispus – on whom Paccius then roundly turned, pointing out that Vibius had been an accomplice in the very same case, prosecuting the man who was supposed to have hired out his house for the purposes of the alleged conspiracy. Those who had made a living from targeting victims were now targeting each other. What a terrible picture it makes.

  In the event, Paccius Africanus was convicted of perjury. He was then forcibly ejected from the Curia. Yet he has never been stripped of his senatorial rank. Now he endeavours to rehabilitate himself by quiet work in a special court. Perhaps you have noticed how at home he seems to be here in the Basilica Julia; that is because it is his frequent workplace. Paccius is an expert in cases which involve inheritance trusts. He operates in the trusts court which normally meets in this very hall, the court relating to fideicommissum. And that, we shall see, is not just relevant but peculiarly significant.

  Paccius was on his feet again. He had learned: 'Your honour, we are hearing a lengthy speech of great importance. Clearly it will continue for some time yet. May I request a short adjournment?'

  Big mistake. Marponius remembered that his rabbit pie yesterday had caused a pain in his gut. Today, he was giving Xero's pie shop a miss.

  'I am perfectly comfortable. It seems a shame to interrupt such an interesting oration. I would hate to disturb the flow. How about you, Falco?'

  'If your honour allows me to continue, I shall be content to do so.'

  Gentlemen, I am about to address why the connection with Paccius Africanus affects the accused. I shall speak for no more than half an hour.

  When Silius Italicus charged Rubirius Metellus with corruption, Paccius Africanus stepped in to defend Metellus. You may perhaps suppose that it was the first time Paccius had any influence on the family. Not so. Rubirius Metellus had already made his will. He had written and deposited it two years before the corruption charges. Paccius Africanus was the expert who drafted it. That was the famous, very brutal testament in which Metellus disinherited his only son and his wife, leaving them no more than tiny allowances. The bulk of his estate was left, through that type of trust which we call a fideicommissum, to his daughter-in-law, Saffia Donata, of whom my colleague spoke to you previously. Not being allowed to inherit, she was to receive her fortune as a gift from the appointed heir. Now listen to this, please: the appointed heir was Paccius Africanus.

  At this point the jury could no longer contain themselves: a gasp ran around the Basilica.

  I am not an expert in such matters, so I can only speculate on the reasons for this arrangement. You, like me, may very well think it significant that someone who was a trusts expert, who worked in the trusts court on a daily basis, should advise Metellus to use this device – and to nominate himself as its instrument. When I first saw the provision, I can tell you my thought was that informers have a bad reputation for chasing legacies and that this was an example. I believed Paccius Africanus must have set this up so he would in some way obtain all the money himself. Of course I was wrong about that. The holder of a legacy which is governed by a trust will have promised to pass over the money to the intended recipient – and a person of honour will always do so. Once Metellus died, Paccius would obtain the Metellus wealth, but give it to Saffia Donata. Paccius, as the famous saying goes, is an honourable man. I believe it, gentlemen, despite what I have told you about his stricken silence when asked to swear the oath denying harm to others.

  I can see two curiosities, as I will call them, arising from the very particular conditions in our case. I apologise to Paccius for mentioning them; no doubt when he comes to make his speech for the defence he will explain. He is an expert in this field and will understand everything.

  To me, however, it looks rather odd that two years after he advised Metellus on this will -with its strange provisions- it was Paccius Africanus who, in the aftermath of the corruption case, told Metellus that he should commit suicide. Suicide had the specific aim of safeguarding the family wealth – wealth which in form at least had been bequeathed to Paccius. This result was no doubt a sad quirk of Fate, one which cannot possibly have been what Paccius originally intended; he was an ex-consul and pillar of Roman life (even though, as I have told you, he had once been forcibly removed from the Senate for perjury). To have planned something devious regarding the will, he would have had to know, at the time it was written, that corruption charges were to be laid by his colleague Silius Italicus in two years' time. It was surely impossible for him to have known that. For one thing, everybody reckons that Paccius and Silius have a feud.

  I must say if this is right, in my experience it is a rather civilised feud. I have seen them in the Porticus of Gaius and Lucius taking morning refreshments at a pavement bar like long-term friends and colleagues. I suspect they dine together formally, which you would expect in two men of distinction, fellow ex-consuls from adjacent years, who have so many elements in common from their past. After the informing oath, they have both been accepted back as members of the Senate – even the evicted Paccius is now restored as a member – and both must be waiting impatiently to see what further honours will be bestowed upon them. They have too much in common to ignore each other. You, gentlemen, have seen them sitting close together in this court, even though Silius plays no part in our trial. You have seen them talking together during adjournments and even exchanging notes during the speeches. We can all say, these men are close. But that does not entitle us to believe they were part of some carefully planned, drawn-out conspiracy to plunder the Metelli, its plot put together at wine bars in a porticus over several years.

  Let me abandon that byway. I apologise for ever beginning it. Paccius had the unpleasant duty – which is how I am sure he must have seen it – of advising his convicted client that the only honourable course was suicide. Paccius was in a very difficult position, one with which we should sympathise. He was about to benefit greatly from the will – even if it was intended that his benefit should be brief. To bring about the premature death of Metellus could look rather bad. I must confess I am a coward. If I had been in his position, I would have been afraid that advising suicide might look so biased it would damage me. I congratulate Paccius on having the bravery to do it.

  There is another interesting point on which I hope Paccius will soon give us clarification: what happens now? He is a trusts expert, so he is bound to know. The problem
is this: Saffia Donata has died. She died in childbirth, which for a young married woman is always a tragic possibility. A fate, you may think, that could have been foreseen as possible when Paccius wrote the will. You may indeed feel that a good trusts adviser would have mentioned it to Metellus and asked him to write in alternative provisions; however, that was not done. So now, the will of Metellus has yet to be executed. Saffia can no longer receive her money. Paccius Africanus is the appointed heir. Paccius will have the bequest, with nobody to pass it on to. This-was clearly not the intention of Rubirius Metellus when he wrote that will – under the guidance of Paccius, an inheritance expert. It seems to me, Paccius can now keep everything. I hope you will eventually explain to us, Paccius, whether I am right or wrong?

  Gentlemen of the jury, I am sure you will be seeing plenty of this man, when he is given the floor to defend the accused. He was close to her husband, and he has remained indispensable to members of the family. When Rubiria Juliana, the elder daughter, was accused by Silius Italicus of killing her father, it was Paccius who defended – which I must say, he did with extraordinary skill. You may have heard that he actually persuaded the apothecary who was supposed to have supplied the poison to take one of his own pills in open court, in order to demonstrate his claim that they were harmless. I shall not be asking anyone to swallow the hemlock which we believe did finally kill Metellus. It was bought by a man called Bratta; he is an intermediary who works with Paccius. At least, that Bratta bought the poison is what I believe, on the evidence of a reliable witness who sold him the hemlock, though Bratta has suddenly disappeared from Rome, so we cannot ask him.

  Let me sum up: Tomorrow my colleague Honorius will return to the details of the killing. He will talk about the poison and its terrible effects; he will discuss who suggested it to Calpurnia, and who then bought it for her to use. Poisoning her husband was her idea, she administered the fatal dose, and she covered up the murder. But we know she had consulted the family adviser, Paccius Africanus, about whether her husband ought to live or to die. Awkwardly, she was asking him, the appointed heir, to advise on whether the time had come for him to enjoy his bequest. He told her that Rubirius Metellus should die. He then supplied the man who bought the poison that she used.

  When Paccius Africanus begins to defend Calpurnia Cara – which undoubtedly he will do with great skill – I hope that what I have said today will stay in your memory and help you, gentlemen, to view his fine words in their proper context.

  XLIII

  I was feeling good. I should have known better.

  There was a noisy breaking up of the court, with much chatter among the jury members. This was better than we could ever have hoped. They were not only taking an interest, they were enjoying themselves. Marponius, backside prominent, strutted off in procession; he afforded me a gracious head gesture. If I had impressed him, we were home. Forget any belief in the impartiality of juries. No judge allows wishy-washy freethinking in his court. He makes sure the benchers know exactly how to vote. What would be the point of a presiding judge, if he just read out the verdict when the voting urns were emptied and the count taken?

  Marponius might be a jumped-up new man scrabbling shamelessly for recognition, but from where I stood he had one advantage. He and I were both Aventine boys. He had made his way with the encyclopaedia cribs, where mine was through a different route – but we both grew up in the shadow of the Temple of Ceres, we both played in the gutters under the Aqua Marcia, we had the same mud on our boots and we recognised one another for lowborn tykes with equal disadvantages and the same points to prove. If the senatorials tried to be too clever, Marponius would side with me. If the fancy troupe got up my nose, I might even start flattering Marponius. I was despised as a low-grade informer, but he too was despised – as a selfmade interloper.

  I had gone into this with huge anxiety. Now I cheered up. By the end of that day we had made serious progress. Paccius and his client hurried off, a little too fast to impress anyone. Calpurnia looked grim. She must think her choice of defender had damned her. Silius was still standing about, but after my insinuations of collaboration, he had to distance himself from Paccius.

  I Joined Honorius and Aelianus. Holding our elation in check in public, we gathered up our scrolls and styluses.

  An usher approached me. 'Didius Falco? There is a man waiting to speak to you, outside the court.' I decided to take no notice. I was exhausted. But anyone who wanted me would soon see me emerge from the Basilica. For all the observers, it was important that Honorius, Aelianus and I stuck in a tight group, smiling together and looking confident. Keeping up an air of suave good cheer, we all walked briskly through the colonnades to the exterior.

  The Basilica Julia has several steps leading down from it, steeper at one end, then petering away to cater for a rise in the Forum level nearer to the Capitol. Most of the jury members were still milling about on the long steps, where as if by chance they formed an inquisitive audience. I noticed Silius Italicus very near, looking watchful. Not far away lurked Anacrites. I could even see Helena Justina, standing down at street level; she waved to me, then I saw her falter. Her father was not there; we had agreed he would sit in the upper gallery while I spoke, then he and I would not be seen together.

  By magic, as I appeared through the colonnade, everyone parted. A man I had never seen before had planted himself a few levels below, waiting for me. We had the whole Forum stretched out around us. Behind me Honorius muttered abruptly, 'Shit, Falco!' He stopped himself Aelianus breathed in sharply. Like me, he cannot have known what was happening, but we all sensed trouble.

  I stepped down once, on my own.

  The man who stood in my way was a stranger. Thin, tall, longfaced, drably clad, neutral in expression, he looked insignificant, yet everything about him implied that his business with me was dramatic. He had official sanction. He was sure of himself If he had pulled a knife and run at me, I would not have been surprised. But his intention was more formal. He was a messenger, and for me the message was deadly.

  'Didius Falco!' Some helpful swine had told him which sweaty toga was me. 'I summon you to appear before the praetor to answer serious charges of abuse of office!'

  Well that was fine. I did not hold any offices. Yes, I did.

  'What charges, you upstart?'

  'Impiety.'

  Well, that was a word. The sightseers gasped.

  'Accused by whom – of what impiety?'

  'Accused by me – of neglecting your duties as Procurator of Juno's Sacred Geese.'

  O Juno!

  O Jupiter and Minerva too, frankly. I would need the complete Olympian triad to get me out of this.

  Honorius stepped to my left side, playing the ventriloquist: 'That's Procreus. He is Silius' regular informer. We had to expect something.' It was the low, admiring murmur of a man who had worked with Silius and seen what he could do. 'The bastards!' he whispered. 'I never thought of this…'

  Aelianus rather unexpectedly was on my right, gripping my elbow supportively. His solid response was a new treat. We walked down the steps, smiling.

  'I am at the praetor's disposal,' I told Procreus pleasantly. I refrained from punching his crossed front teeth through the back of his thin neck. My companions were grasping my arms too hard for me to take a swing at him.

  We did not stop. Honorius and Aelianus walked me to my house, propping me up like a pair of bossy caryatids. It felt as if everyone in the street stared at us. Helena Justina followed us, silent and anxious. Only when I was safely indoors did I drop the fixed smile and start swearing.

  Helena was white. 'Given that you have just had a charge of impiety slapped on you, Marcus, bad language is not a smart reaction.'

  'Start thinking!' Aelianus instructed me. He was flushed with excitement, trying not to get hysterical. He had been an army tribune. They had taught him logical responses to setbacks. If regrouping in a square and doubling our guard would have helped, Aulus would have organised it. He asse
ssed my situation perfectly: 'When exactly was the last time you straightened any feathers on those bloody geese? And, Marcus, it had better be recent – or you are finished!'

  XLIV

  Impiety? I was innocent. My views on the gods might not be flattering, but I kept those views to myself.

  My post as Procurator was ludicrous, but I carried out my duties at the temple, more or less. The job showed the world that the Emperor had recognised me. And besides, it carried a salary.

  No one could spot any fiddles. I was a market gardener's grandson. Country matters were in my blood. The Sacred Geese and the Augurs' Sacred Chickens were safe in my hands. If, after tending them, I carried home stolen eggs, I knew how to stuff them in my tunic invisibly.

  But there was a problem. Last year, I could not deny it, there had been a long period – over six months – when I did not oversee the geese at all. I was in Britain. I was working for the Emperor. I had a genuine excuse – but one I could not use in open court. The whole point of the tasks I had carried out in Britain was that Vespasian wanted them kept secret.

  I could hardly summon the Emperor to vouch for me. One alternative existed: Anacrites. If he swore I was away on imperial business, nobody would need to know why. Even the praetor would shrink from querying the Chief Spy. But if Anacrites was my only solution, I would rather be condemned.

  Helena tried to calm me down. 'Procreus, and his manipulator Silius, know perfectly well you are innocent. Making the charge is a ploy. You dare not ignore an accusation of impiety, let alone in a position that was your personal gift from the Emperor.'

  'Too right. Tomorrow I shall be pacing the corridors, waiting for an appointment with the praetor. Something tells me he will be in no hurry to oblige me. I know just how they will fix it. Procreus won't show; without him to state his evidence, I'll be stuck in limbo.'