ration the father’s surname to all the daughters in a family, distinguishing them only by appending their rank.
Roscia the elder was perhaps Rufus’s age or a bit younger, a child on the cusp of womanhood. Like Rufus she wore a plain white gown that kept her limbs concealed. Great masses of chestnut hair were braided into a knot at the base of her neck and cascaded to her waist; in country fashion, her hair had never been cut. Her face was strikingly pretty, but about her eyes I saw the same haunted look that marked her father.
The younger girl was only a child, a replica of her sister in miniature, with the same gown and the same long, braided hair. She followed the other women across the room but was too small to help them carry the chairs. Instead she grinned and pointed at Cicero.
‘Funny-face,’ she shouted, then clapped her hands to her mouth, laughing. Her mother scowled and chased her from the room. I glanced at Cicero, who bore the indignity with stoic grace. Rufus, who looked as handsome as Apollo next to Cicero, blushed and looked at the ceiling.
The older girl retreated after her mother, but before slipping through the curtain she turned and glanced back. Cicero and Rufus were taking their seats; they seemed not to notice her. I was struck again by her face – her wide mouth and smooth forehead, her deep brown eyes tinged with sadness. She must have seen me staring; she stared back with a frankness not often found in girls of her age and class. Her lips drew back, her eyes narrowed, and the look on her face suddenly became an invitation – sensual, calculated, provocative. She smiled. She nodded. Her lips moved, mouthing words I couldn’t make out.
Cicero and Rufus were across the room, their heads together, exchanging a hurried whisper. I glanced over my shoulder and saw only Tiro nervously shifting from foot to foot. She could only have been looking at me, I thought.
When I looked back, young Roscia Majora was gone, with only the swaying curtain and a faint scent of jasmine to mark her passing. The intimacy of her parting glance left me startled and confused. It was such a look as lovers exchange, yet I had never seen her before.
I stepped to the chair that had been set out for me. Tiro followed behind and slid it beneath me. I shook my head to clear it. Another look at the girl’s father sobered me instantly.
‘Where are your slaves, Sextus Roscius? Surely in your own home you would never think of asking your wife and daughters to fetch chairs for company.’
The baleful eyes glittered. ‘Why not? Do you think they’re too good for it? It does a woman good to be reminded every so often of her place. Especially women like mine, with a husband and father rich enough to let them sit about and do as they please all day long.’
‘Pardon, Sextus Roscius. I meant no offence. You speak wisely. Perhaps next time we should ask Caecilia Metella to fetch the chairs.’
Rufus suppressed a laugh. Cicero winced at my impertinence.
‘You’re a real wise-mouth, aren’t you?’ snapped Sextus Roscius. ‘A clever city man like these others. What is it you want?’
‘Only the truth, Sextus Roscius. Because finding it is my job, and because the truth is the one thing that can save an innocent man – a man like you.’
Roscius sank lower in his seat. In a test of brawn he would have been a match for any two of us, even in his weakened state, but he was an easy man to beat down with words.
‘What is it you want to know?’
‘Where are your slaves?’
He shrugged. ‘Back in Ameria, of course. On the estates.’
‘All of them? You brought no servants with you, to clean and cook, to take care of your daughters? I don’t understand.’
Tiro bent close to Cicero and whispered something in his ear. Cicero nodded and waved his hand. Tiro left the room.
‘What a well-mannered little slave you’ve got.’ Roscius curled his lip. ‘Asking his master’s permission to take a piss. Have you seen the
Roscia the elder was perhaps Rufus’s age or a bit younger, a child on the cusp of womanhood. Like Rufus she wore a plain white gown that kept her limbs concealed. Great masses of chestnut hair were braided into a knot at the base of her neck and cascaded to her waist; in country fashion, her hair had never been cut. Her face was strikingly pretty, but about her eyes I saw the same haunted look that marked her father.
The younger girl was only a child, a replica of her sister in miniature, with the same gown and the same long, braided hair. She followed the other women across the room but was too small to help them carry the chairs. Instead she grinned and pointed at Cicero.
‘Funny-face,’ she shouted, then clapped her hands to her mouth, laughing. Her mother scowled and chased her from the room. I glanced at Cicero, who bore the indignity with stoic grace. Rufus, who looked as handsome as Apollo next to Cicero, blushed and looked at the ceiling.
The older girl retreated after her mother, but before slipping through the curtain she turned and glanced back. Cicero and Rufus were taking their seats; they seemed not to notice her. I was struck again by her face – her wide mouth and smooth forehead, her deep brown eyes tinged with sadness. She must have seen me staring; she stared back with a frankness not often found in girls of her age and class. Her lips drew back, her eyes narrowed, and the look on her face suddenly became an invitation – sensual, calculated, provocative. She smiled. She nodded. Her lips moved, mouthing words I couldn’t make out.
Cicero and Rufus were across the room, their heads together, exchanging a hurried whisper. I glanced over my shoulder and saw only Tiro nervously shifting from foot to foot. She could only have been looking at me, I thought.
When I looked back, young Roscia Majora was gone, with only the swaying curtain and a faint scent of jasmine to mark her passing. The intimacy of her parting glance left me startled and confused. It was such a look as lovers exchange, yet I had never seen her before.
I stepped to the chair that had been set out for me. Tiro followed behind and slid it beneath me. I shook my head to clear it. Another look at the girl’s father sobered me instantly.
‘Where are your slaves, Sextus Roscius? Surely in your own home you would never think of asking your wife and daughters to fetch chairs for company.’
The baleful eyes glittered. ‘Why not? Do you think they’re too good for it? It does a woman good to be reminded every so often of her place. Especially women like mine, with a husband and father rich enough to let them sit about and do as they please all day long.’
‘Pardon, Sextus Roscius. I meant no offence. You speak wisely. Perhaps next time we should ask Caecilia Metella to fetch the chairs.’
Rufus suppressed a laugh. Cicero winced at my impertinence.
‘You’re a real wise-mouth, aren’t you?’ snapped Sextus Roscius. ‘A clever city man like these others. What is it you want?’
‘Only the truth, Sextus Roscius. Because finding it is my job, and because the truth is the one thing that can save an innocent man – a man like you.’
Roscius sank lower in his seat. In a test of brawn he would have been a match for any two of us, even in his weakened state, but he was an easy man to beat down with words.
‘What is it you want to know?’
‘Where are your slaves?’
He shrugged. ‘Back in Ameria, of course. On the estates.’
‘All of them? You brought no servants with you, to clean and cook, to take care of your daughters? I don’t understand.’
Tiro bent close to Cicero and whispered something in his ear. Cicero nodded and waved his hand. Tiro left the room.
‘What a well-mannered little slave you’ve got.’ Roscius curled his lip. ‘Asking his master’s permission to take a piss. Have you seen the
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