`You will need a wet-nurse for the little one; I can recommend someone clean and reliable -'

`Leave that to us,' Juliana replied, rather quickly.

`Saffia always used Tubule’s daughter, I was told,' the midwife continued fussing.

'Zeuko. Oh yes, Zeuko! I don't think so.' Carina's views on Tubule’s daughter Zeuko seemed uncomplimentary.

A silence fell.

`What has happened to Saffia's other son, little Lucius?' Helena asked quietly. `He is not alone at the apartment, I hope?'

The midwife looked troubled. `His father is there. He is with his father -'She hesitated, but left it.

A couple of household slaves peered in enquiringly and were signalled to escort the visitors away. Others came and carried off the children. We heard the baby cry as the door closed, but an elderly woman spoke to him kindly. After a moment, Carina glanced at her sister then went out herself, presumably to make arrangements.

Helena and I offered our excuses and retreated.

Birdy had slumped on a couch, his eyes glazed and his face set. Laco, the host, merely sat looking thoughtful. Neither Juliana nor her husband made any attempt to go home at that point. They were all waiting to hold intense discussions of some kind, after we were gone. It was polite to leave them to it. Besides, I wanted to rush over to Saffia's apartment to see what Lutea was doing.

`You don't need to come,' I murmured to Helena as she rescued her cloak from Carina's slaves and threw it on.

`Oh yes I do!'

I had already grabbed her hand as we hurried along. Despite the tragedy, for us this was good. This was the kind of moment we both enjoyed together – rushing through the evening streets to an unexpected rendezvous where we might witness something material.

Verginius Lace’s house lay in what had been the old Suburb, the area north of the Forum, once seedy but now redeveloped and upgraded since the Aeonian fire. From there it took us less than half an hour to reach Saffia's apartment, across the Vicinal Hill. It was now well into the evening, but her lodgings lay in near darkness. Everyone who worked here must be tired out and terrified. Not much point owning masses of brilliant bronze lamp stands, if your slaves become too distraught to light the lamps. Not much point in anything, if you die in childbirth.

Saffia's body was lying unattended in a dim bedroom, waiting to be laid out. I had suspected Licinius Lutea might be found counting silverware, but I maligned him. He was sitting in an anteroom, lost in grief. He was weeping uncontrollably. I watched Helena assessing him: good-looking in a slewed way, early thirties, smart clothes, professionally manicured – apart from his shattered confidence at the moment of bereavement, he was the type she loathed. All the signs were that he had been there, lost, for hours. She left him to his self absorption.

Helena found the little boy. Alone in his neat bedroom, silent and white-faced, he lay curled up on his bed, not even clutching a toy. After three days of hearing his mother screaming in childbirth, he must be petrified. When silence fell, his world ended. We knew he had been told his mother was dead; at four, he may not have understood. Nobody had fed him, comforted him, made any plans for him. No one had even spoken to him for a long while. He had no idea that his father was here. He let Helena pick him up, but accepted her attentions almost like a child who expected blows. Concerned, I even saw her checking him for marks. But he was sound, clean, well nurtured. He owned a shelf of clay models and when I offered him a nodding mule, he took it from me obediently.

We brought parent and child together. Lutea stopped weeping and took the boy in his arms, though Lucius went to his father with as little reaction as when Helena gathered him up. We instructed some weary slaves to look after them. It might have been the moment to catch Lutea off guard, but Helena shook her head and I bowed to her humanity.

Helena and I walked home together quietly, with our arms around each other's waists, feeling subdued. The fate of the small boy depressed us both. Little Lucius had lost more than his mother there. Saffia had done her best for the other two by sending them to Negrinus, but this boy was Lutea's property. It would never turn out well; Lucius was destined to spend his life being abandoned and forgotten. The father may have loved the mother, but neither Helena nor I now had any faith in Lutea's so-called great affection for the four-year-old. The little boy behaved as if he had very low expectations. Lutea held his supposedly adored son like a drunk with an empty amphora, staring over his head with regret in his soul, but no heart.

`At least he is weeping for Saffia.'

`No, he is weeping for the lost money.'

You may assume that sympathetic comment came from Helena and the harsh judgement from me. Wrong!

`You find me very cynical,' Helena apologised. `I just believe that Saffia's death has robbed this man Lutea of expectations in a lengthy scheme to prey on the Metelli – and I believe he is sobbing for himself. You, Marcus Didius Falco, the great city romantic, hate to see a man bereft. You believe that Lutea was genuinely moved today by the loss of his heart's companion and lover.'

`I allow him that,' I said. `He is distraught at losing her. But I don't disagree with you entirely, fruit. The only reason Lutea is not weeping for the money is that – in my view, and I am sure in his – he has not lost it yet.'

XXXVII

THE FULL title of the murders court is the Tribunal for Prisoners and Assassins. Poisoning is routinely associated with spells, potions and other foul magic. Assassins may be all kinds of murderers, including armed robbers. This court thus relates to the grimiest side of human nature. I always found sessions there quite gruelling.

There is a panel of lay judges, drawn from both the upper and middle classes – a fact which irritates the senators and makes the equestrians smug. Their names are kept in a public register, the White List, which we were about to consult. A name from this album would be picked by Paccius Africanus, and if we approved, the chosen judge (with no right to refuse) would preside over our court case. The judge would not vote with the jury, though after hearing the evidence formally, if there was a guilty verdict he would pronounce punishment and fix the accusers' compensation. Seventy-five reputable citizens would act as the jury, their selection subject to challenges by both prosecution and defence. They would hear the evidence in strict silence and vote secretly; equal votes would mean acquittal.

`If there are seventy-five judges, how can there be equal votes?' I mused.

`Oh Falco!' Honorius deplored my simplicity. `You can't expect seventy-five men to turn up without anybody sending a note to say he has a bad cold or must attend his great aunt's funeral.'

The judge meanwhile did not have to remain silent – and was unlikely to do so. I won't say we expected any judge to be crass, legally ignorant and biased against us – but Honorius became extremely exercised over who would be appointed.

`Paccius and Silius know the panels, and I don't. The trial could be effectively over for us, if we get the wrong man.'

`Well, do your best.' I despised them all and found it hard to care. `All we need is someone who can stay awake. That's the purpose of choosing from the panels, I take it?'

`No, Falco. The purpose of choice is to ensure neither side has an opening to bribe the judge.'

I had not bargained on expenditure. `Do we have to bribe him?'

`Of course not. That would be corrupt. We just need to make sure the opposition doesn't bribe him either.'

`I am glad you explained that, Honorius!' I was seeing the seedy side of law here – and the humourless side of our barrister. `Surely all judges are appointed to panels for their fair-mindedness and independence?'