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 race 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 He 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 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 plumbing here? Like nowhere else I've ever seen. Running water right in the house. My rather used to talk about it — you know how an old man hates having to step outside to pass water in the night. Not here! Too good a place for slaves to take a shit if you ask me. Usually doesn't smell this bad, except it's so damned hot.'
'We were talking about your slaves, Sextus Roscius. There are two in particular to whom I wish to speak. Your father's favourites, the ones who were with him the night he died. Felix and Chrestus. Are they in Ameria, too?'
'How would I know?' he snapped. 'Probably run off by now. Or had their throats slit.'
'And who would do that?'
'Slit their throats? The same men who murdered my father, of course.' 'And why?'
'Because the slaves saw it happen, you fool.' 'And how do you know that?' 'Because they told me.'
'Was that how you first learned of your father's death - from the slaves who were with him?'
Roscius paused. 'Yes. They sent a messenger from Rome.'
'You were in Ameria the night he was killed?'
'Of course. Twenty people could tell you that.'
'And when did you learn he had been killed?'
Roscius paused again. 'The messenger arrived two mornings after.'
'And what did you do then?'
'I came into the city that day. A hard ride. You can make it in eight hours if you have a good horse. Started at dawn, arrived at sundown — days are short in the autumn. The slaves showed me his body. The wounds ...' His voice became a whisper.
'And did they show you the street where he was killed?'
Sextus Roscius stared at the floor. 'Yes.'
'The very spot?' He shuddered. ‘Yes.'
'I shall need to go there and see it for myself'
He shook his head. 'I won't go there again.'
'I understand. The two slaves can take me there, Felix and Chrestus.' I watched his face. A light glimmered in his eyes, and I was suddenly suspicious, though of what I couldn't say. 'Ah,' I said, 'but the slaves are in Ameria, aren't they?'
'I already told you that.' Roscius seemed to shiver, despite the heat.
'But I need to visit the scene of the crime as soon as possible. I can't wait for these slaves to be brought to Rome. I understand your father was on his way to an establishment called the House of Swans. Perhaps the crime occurred nearby.'