Aelianus had no sense of humour sometimes. He bit his lip, scowling.

We then had a more businesslike discussion – one in which I feared we were being misled.

According to this soothing soothsayer, Calpurnia Cara came to her for `friendship'. Horoscopes were prepared from time to time, always for Calpurnia herself The other services rendered were flattery, wise counsel, and foot massage with aromatic oils to relax the soul. (Apparently your soul is seated in your arches, so take care when buying cheap sandals.) Calpurnia, like many clients, was afflicted with bad bunions and few female friends. Well, I knew she had a limp, and was overbearing.

I told Olympia she could have made a wonderful source for informers like us. I suggested that if she helped us, we could return the favour with information on her clients. She would not co-operate. I asked if she already had a partnership with some other informer, but she denied it. I asked if she worked for the vigiles. She scoffed. I gave up on it.

`Straight questions then: Did Calpurnia ever ask you about poisonous drugs?'

`Don't expect me to comment.'

`No, of course not. I'm talking about hemlock. That was used to kill her husband, did you know?'

`I had no idea.' Olympia pursed her mouth. `Calpurnia Cara was weighed down by troubles. She never told me what they were. My ladies have needs – illness, unhappiness, husbands, children… I often read Calpurnia's future, and reassured her that everything would be resolved.'

`By her poisoning her husband?' Aelianus snorted.

`By time and the Fates!' whipped back the seer. He had stung her into reacting, however. `Hemlock, you say? Well once when she was very low a few years ago, she did ask me what produces a kindly death, and I told her what I had heard. As far as I knew, Calpurnia was asking for herself'

`Herself." Now I was scathing. `That sounds like some well thoughtout excuse in the poison trade. A lawyer probably devised it. A litigation-proof contract term for the death suppliers' guild – if the woman was consulting you for solace, why should she need to do herself in?'

`Some unhappy moments cannot be smoothed away even with essential ointments,' mused Olympia.

`How did Calpurnia plan to ingest her hemlock?'

`I told her she could feed the leaves to quails, then cook the quails. That way she didn't have to think about what she was taking.'

`Or if she gave the quails to someone else, they didn't have to know anything!'

`You're a shocker, Falco.'

`I'm a realist.'

I then enquired whether Calpurnia sold her jewels just before her husband died, or was it about two years back? Surprised by both timescales, Olympia admitted Calpurnia had come for weekly consultations over several decades. Calpurnia had sold off her necklaces and rings many years ago – one of the `troubles' which had required consolation. The sale was not to pay the fortune-teller's modest fees. Olympia did not know who received the money.

`Maybe she gambled,' Olympia suggested. `Many of my ladies do. It's a bit of excitement for a lady, isn't it?' As I said to Aelianus afterwards, it would provide a lady's bit of excitement if sleeping with a boxer or with their husband's best friend in the Senate ever paled.

I could not imagine Calpurnia Cara doing any of those things. Nor could I see her ever being so depressed that she would end her own life.

`Calpurnia may have mistakes in her past,' Olympia insisted. `It does not mean she is a murderer. Put me in court and I shall say so for her.'

I did not remind her it is a tenet of Roman law that consulting a fortune-teller damns a woman automatically. Calling Olympia as a witness would guarantee jury votes for us. But as a matter of pride, I wanted to convict the accused with proper evidence.

`You're too idealistic,' Aelianus said. This was a rare, new insult for me. `You'll never make a lawyer, Falco.'

No; but I thought he would.

XLI

THE CAMILLUS litter had to be returned to the Capena Gate, but we had time to walk back to the Forum for the end of the afternoon court session.

As we came out into the major piazza in front of the Basilica, we were hailed from the corner of the Temple of Castor by Helena Justina. She had a lunch basket; I guessed it would be empty by now. Well, in our absence it made sense for her to eat everything, to save carrying the food home. What a scandal: a senator's daughter sitting on the Temple steps, with a large napkin spread on her lap, munching.

`You're becoming famous,' she said, after I kissed her. As I greeted her affectionately, by some sleight of hand she passed me her lunch basket. `Even Anacrites has come to see how the case is going. We had a long chat before he went inside.'

`You hate Anacrites.'

`I won't let him see that. He would think I was afraid.'

`You should be,' Aelianus warned her.

He and I paused to sling on our togas, for once making an effort to arrange woollen pleats and to create traditional sinuses (for provincial barbarians, those are the deep folds below the left arm, where you can hide your notes or, if desperate, a dagger to stab your enemy). Helena followed us towards the Basilica.

`Dear heart,' I remonstrated fondly, `you have already outraged ancient patricians by picnicking in the Forum Romanorum. Do not follow up your notoriety by invading the courts. Some of those traditionalists would rather see a slave rebellion than allow women in the Basilica.'

`I am a good wife to you, Marcus darling. A good wife is allowed to hear her husband make his speeches from a curtained niche.'

`You are a bad wife if you give me heart failure. Who says I am speaking?'

`Honorius,' smiled Helena, as she skipped away to the rear of the Basilica, where steps led to the upper galleries. `He wants you to do the tricky part – laying the blame on Paccius.'

I was stunned. Too late, I realised that Helena had left me to enter court carrying a large wicker hamper. This would not be viewed as a proper accessory for an orator.

I solved that. I passed it swiftly to Aelianus.

There were more spectators than previously. Too many for me.

The scene throbbed more with tedium than tension. The first person I saw was Helena's father, Camillus Verus, sharing a bench with Petronius. Petro noticed me and glared across the hall. My bugbear Anacrites was lounging on a seat, unpleasantly close to the defence party. Trust him.

Anacrites gave me what passed for a friendly wave. Most people would not have noticed his presence, but to me the Chief Spy was always a magnet; I wanted to know where he was and what he was planning in that dark mind. Habitually discreet in dress, when decked out in a formal toga he blended in even more, though his slickedback, oiled black hair gave him away. I joined the prosecution group and pretended to give all my concentration to Honorius.

I had come at the right moment. As Aelianus and I sat down behind him, Honorius moved from his oratorical introduction into the next phase of his speech. He assumed an expression of distaste for his subject matter. Here, he would set out the events in the Metellus death, making the facts look as bad as possible for Calpurnia Cara.

Beside me, I noticed Aelianus produce a note-tablet on which he scratched regular stylus notes. A clerk was taking shorthand, but our boy wanted his own record. His system was in contrast to Honorius who, I realised, had never paid much visible attention when our investigations were discussed in his presence, yet he was now able to remember and quote many small details from interviews. Colourful facts that I had long forgotten were reappearing just when required.

Honorius knew his stuff. Once he stopped looking like a schoolboy, juries would take him very seriously. If he stood on a plinth so he looked taller, it would be even better.