corner, and the two girls who knelt beneath the skylight playing some sort of game.
Ahausarus withdrew. Rufus stepped forward. ‘You look better today, Sextus Roscius.’
The man gave a faint nod.
‘Perhaps you’ll have more to say this afternoon. Cicero needs to begin preparing his defence – your trial is only eight days away. That’s why Gordianus has come with us. They call him the Finder. He is skilled at finding the truth.’
‘A magician?’ Two baleful eyes glared up at me.
‘No,’ said Rufus. ‘An investigator. My brother Hortensius often makes use of his services.’
The baleful eyes turned on Rufus. ‘Hortensius – the coward who turned tail and ran? What good can any friends of Hortensius do me?’
Rufus’s pale, freckled face turned the colour of cherries. He opened his mouth, but I raised my hand to silence him. ‘Tell me something,’ I said in a loud voice. Cicero wrinkled his brow and shook his head, but I waved him back. ‘Tell me now, before we go any further. Sextus Roscius of Ameria: did you murder or did you in any way cause the murder of your father?’
I stood over him, daring him by my very posture to look up at me, which he did. What I saw was a simple face, such as Roman politicians delight in extolling, a face darkened by sun, chapped by wind, weathered by time. Roscius might be a rich farmer, but he was a farmer nonetheless. No man can rule over peasants without acquiring the look of a peasant; no man can raise crops out of the earth, even if he uses slaves to do it, without acquiring a layer of dirt beneath his fingernails. There was an uncouthness about Sextus Roscius, a rough-hewn, unpolished state, a quality of inertness as blank and immovable as granite. This was the son left behind in the countryside, to whip the backs of stubborn slaves and see the oxen pulled from ditches, while pretty young Gaius grew up a pampered city boy with city ways in the house of their pleasure-loving father.
I searched his eyes for resentment, bitterness, jealousy, avarice. I saw none of these. Instead I saw the eyes of an animal with one foot caught in a trap who hears the noise of hunters approaching.
Roscius finally answered me in a low, hoarse whisper: ‘No.’ He looked into my eyes without blinking. Fear was all I could see, and though fear will make a man lie more quickly than anything else, I believed he was telling me the truth. Cicero must have seen the same thing; it was Cicero who had told me that Roscius was innocent, and that I would only have to meet him to know it for myself.
Sextus Roscius was of middle age. Given that he was a hardworking man of considerable wealth, I had to assume that his appearance on this day was not typical. The terrible burden of his uncertain future – or else the terrible guilt of his crime – lay heavy upon him. His hair and beard were longer than even country fashion might dictate, knotted and unkempt and streaked with grey. His body, slumped in the chair, looked stooped and frail, though a glance at Cicero or Rufus revealed that in comparison he was a much larger man with a fair amount of muscle. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. His skin was sallow. His lips were dry and cracked.
Caecilia Metella claimed he woke up screaming at night. No doubt she had taken one look at him and decided that his mind was unhinged. But Caecilia had never walked the endless, teeming streets of the poor in Rome or Alexandria. Desperation may verge into madness, but to the eye that has seen too much of both there is a clear difference. Sextus Roscius was not a madman. He was desperate.
I looked around for a place to sit. Roscius snapped his fingers at the woman. She was middle-aged, stout, and plain. From the way she dared to scowl back at him, she had to be his wife. The woman stood up and snapped her fingers in turn at the two girls, who scurried up off the floor. Roscia Majora and Roscia Minora, I assumed, given the unimaginative way that Romans
Ahausarus withdrew. Rufus stepped forward. ‘You look better today, Sextus Roscius.’
The man gave a faint nod.
‘Perhaps you’ll have more to say this afternoon. Cicero needs to begin preparing his defence – your trial is only eight days away. That’s why Gordianus has come with us. They call him the Finder. He is skilled at finding the truth.’
‘A magician?’ Two baleful eyes glared up at me.
‘No,’ said Rufus. ‘An investigator. My brother Hortensius often makes use of his services.’
The baleful eyes turned on Rufus. ‘Hortensius – the coward who turned tail and ran? What good can any friends of Hortensius do me?’
Rufus’s pale, freckled face turned the colour of cherries. He opened his mouth, but I raised my hand to silence him. ‘Tell me something,’ I said in a loud voice. Cicero wrinkled his brow and shook his head, but I waved him back. ‘Tell me now, before we go any further. Sextus Roscius of Ameria: did you murder or did you in any way cause the murder of your father?’
I stood over him, daring him by my very posture to look up at me, which he did. What I saw was a simple face, such as Roman politicians delight in extolling, a face darkened by sun, chapped by wind, weathered by time. Roscius might be a rich farmer, but he was a farmer nonetheless. No man can rule over peasants without acquiring the look of a peasant; no man can raise crops out of the earth, even if he uses slaves to do it, without acquiring a layer of dirt beneath his fingernails. There was an uncouthness about Sextus Roscius, a rough-hewn, unpolished state, a quality of inertness as blank and immovable as granite. This was the son left behind in the countryside, to whip the backs of stubborn slaves and see the oxen pulled from ditches, while pretty young Gaius grew up a pampered city boy with city ways in the house of their pleasure-loving father.
I searched his eyes for resentment, bitterness, jealousy, avarice. I saw none of these. Instead I saw the eyes of an animal with one foot caught in a trap who hears the noise of hunters approaching.
Roscius finally answered me in a low, hoarse whisper: ‘No.’ He looked into my eyes without blinking. Fear was all I could see, and though fear will make a man lie more quickly than anything else, I believed he was telling me the truth. Cicero must have seen the same thing; it was Cicero who had told me that Roscius was innocent, and that I would only have to meet him to know it for myself.
Sextus Roscius was of middle age. Given that he was a hardworking man of considerable wealth, I had to assume that his appearance on this day was not typical. The terrible burden of his uncertain future – or else the terrible guilt of his crime – lay heavy upon him. His hair and beard were longer than even country fashion might dictate, knotted and unkempt and streaked with grey. His body, slumped in the chair, looked stooped and frail, though a glance at Cicero or Rufus revealed that in comparison he was a much larger man with a fair amount of muscle. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. His skin was sallow. His lips were dry and cracked.
Caecilia Metella claimed he woke up screaming at night. No doubt she had taken one look at him and decided that his mind was unhinged. But Caecilia had never walked the endless, teeming streets of the poor in Rome or Alexandria. Desperation may verge into madness, but to the eye that has seen too much of both there is a clear difference. Sextus Roscius was not a madman. He was desperate.
I looked around for a place to sit. Roscius snapped his fingers at the woman. She was middle-aged, stout, and plain. From the way she dared to scowl back at him, she had to be his wife. The woman stood up and snapped her fingers in turn at the two girls, who scurried up off the floor. Roscia Majora and Roscia Minora, I assumed, given the unimaginative way that Romans
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