mean. No, they were there mainly to hold the lamps and to see their master to his bed. Against a gang of armed thugs I don’t imagine they would have been much use.’
‘And did their master need seeing to bed, or help walking through the streets?’
‘You mean was he that drunk?’ Caecilia smiled fondly. ‘Sextus was not a man to stint himself of pleasure.’
‘I suppose he was wearing a fine toga.’
‘His finest.’
‘And did he wear jewellery?’
‘Sextus was not modest in appearance. I imagine there was gold showing on his person.’
I shook my head at the audacity of it: an old man walking virtually unguarded through the streets of Rome after dark, drunk on wine and showing off his wealth, answering a mysterious summons from a whore. His luck had finally abandoned Sextus Roscius on the Ides of September, but who had been the instrument of Fate, and for what purpose?
VII
Sextus Roscius and his family had been installed in a distant wing of the great house. The eunuch Ahausarus led us there through a network of increasingly narrow and less resplendent hallways. At last we entered a region where the paintings on the walls badly needed restoration, then vanished altogether to be replaced by ordinary plaster, much of it decayed and crumbling. The tile beneath our feet became uneven and cracked, with holes the size of a man’s fist. We were far from the formal gardens and the intimate dining room where Caecilia had received us, far beyond the kitchens and even the servants’ quarters. The odours here were less delectable than those of roast duck and boiling fish. We were somewhere near the indoor privies.
Like a true Roman patroness of the ancient mould, Caecilia seemed willing to undergo embarrassment and even scandal to protect a family client, but it was clear that she had no desire to have young Sextus Roscius anywhere near her within the house, or to spoil him with luxury. I began to wonder if Caecilia was herself convinced of the man’s innocence, to have given him such begrudging shelter.
‘How long has Roscius been living under Metella’s roof?’ I asked Cicero.
‘I’m not sure. Rufus?’
‘Not long. Twenty days, perhaps; he wasn’t here any earlier than the Nones of April, I’m sure. I visit her often, but I didn’t even know he was here until the guards were posted and Caecilia felt she had to explain. Before that she made no effort to introduce him. I don’t think she cares for him very much, and of course his wife is so very common.’
‘And what was he doing here in the city if he loves the countryside so much?’
Rufus shrugged. ‘I’m not sure about that either, and I don’t think Caecilia knows for certain. He and his family simply showed up on her doorstep one afternoon, pleading for admittance. I doubt she had ever met him before, but of course when she realized he was Sextus’s son she opened her house immediately. It seems this trouble over the old man’s death has been brewing for some time, beginning back in Ameria. I think they may have run him out of the village; he showed up in Rome with practically nothing, not even a household slave. Ask him who’s caring for his farms back in Ameria and he’ll tell you that most of them were sold, and some cousins are running the rest. Ask him to be specific and he throws one of his fits. Personally I think Hortensius dropped the case out of sheer frustration.’
Ahausarus made a show of admitting us with a flourish through a final curtain. ‘Sextus Roscius, the son of Sextus Roscius,’ he said, bowing his head towards the figure who sat in the centre of the room, ‘a much-esteemed client of my mistress. I bring visitors,’ he said, making a vaguely dismissive gesture in our direction. ‘The young Messalla, and Cicero, the advocate, whom you have met before. And another, called Gordianus.’ Tiro he ignored, of course, as he also ignored the woman who sat sewing cross-legged on the floor in one
‘And did their master need seeing to bed, or help walking through the streets?’
‘You mean was he that drunk?’ Caecilia smiled fondly. ‘Sextus was not a man to stint himself of pleasure.’
‘I suppose he was wearing a fine toga.’
‘His finest.’
‘And did he wear jewellery?’
‘Sextus was not modest in appearance. I imagine there was gold showing on his person.’
I shook my head at the audacity of it: an old man walking virtually unguarded through the streets of Rome after dark, drunk on wine and showing off his wealth, answering a mysterious summons from a whore. His luck had finally abandoned Sextus Roscius on the Ides of September, but who had been the instrument of Fate, and for what purpose?
VII
Sextus Roscius and his family had been installed in a distant wing of the great house. The eunuch Ahausarus led us there through a network of increasingly narrow and less resplendent hallways. At last we entered a region where the paintings on the walls badly needed restoration, then vanished altogether to be replaced by ordinary plaster, much of it decayed and crumbling. The tile beneath our feet became uneven and cracked, with holes the size of a man’s fist. We were far from the formal gardens and the intimate dining room where Caecilia had received us, far beyond the kitchens and even the servants’ quarters. The odours here were less delectable than those of roast duck and boiling fish. We were somewhere near the indoor privies.
Like a true Roman patroness of the ancient mould, Caecilia seemed willing to undergo embarrassment and even scandal to protect a family client, but it was clear that she had no desire to have young Sextus Roscius anywhere near her within the house, or to spoil him with luxury. I began to wonder if Caecilia was herself convinced of the man’s innocence, to have given him such begrudging shelter.
‘How long has Roscius been living under Metella’s roof?’ I asked Cicero.
‘I’m not sure. Rufus?’
‘Not long. Twenty days, perhaps; he wasn’t here any earlier than the Nones of April, I’m sure. I visit her often, but I didn’t even know he was here until the guards were posted and Caecilia felt she had to explain. Before that she made no effort to introduce him. I don’t think she cares for him very much, and of course his wife is so very common.’
‘And what was he doing here in the city if he loves the countryside so much?’
Rufus shrugged. ‘I’m not sure about that either, and I don’t think Caecilia knows for certain. He and his family simply showed up on her doorstep one afternoon, pleading for admittance. I doubt she had ever met him before, but of course when she realized he was Sextus’s son she opened her house immediately. It seems this trouble over the old man’s death has been brewing for some time, beginning back in Ameria. I think they may have run him out of the village; he showed up in Rome with practically nothing, not even a household slave. Ask him who’s caring for his farms back in Ameria and he’ll tell you that most of them were sold, and some cousins are running the rest. Ask him to be specific and he throws one of his fits. Personally I think Hortensius dropped the case out of sheer frustration.’
Ahausarus made a show of admitting us with a flourish through a final curtain. ‘Sextus Roscius, the son of Sextus Roscius,’ he said, bowing his head towards the figure who sat in the centre of the room, ‘a much-esteemed client of my mistress. I bring visitors,’ he said, making a vaguely dismissive gesture in our direction. ‘The young Messalla, and Cicero, the advocate, whom you have met before. And another, called Gordianus.’ Tiro he ignored, of course, as he also ignored the woman who sat sewing cross-legged on the floor in one
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