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.'