JUNO! THAT’S disgraceful—it was never allowed?” cried Helena.
“Well, everyone was on their feet. There was uproar. It gave Rhoemetalces a moment to think, I dare say.”
“He had no choice!” I was shocked. “If he refused to cooperate, his entire defense would fall—”
“Exactly! Silius jumped up and tried a few ploys—he maintained that if the accused were to die, he would lose his rights as prosecutor. He knew damn well that if the man took a pill and lived, we would all go home, case ended. His protests sounded feeble. Paccius just sat down on the bench, waiting.”
“I bet he looked smug.”
“You could choke on the condescension he exuded. But the consul stopped the racket. He said it would be inhumane to argue over technicalities for long. He gave the apothecary a straight choice: would he do it, here and now, or not? Rhoemetalces asked for the box to be brought over to him, took a pill, and gulped it down straightaway.”
“I am ashamed!” wailed Helena.
“It was his decision, love—”
“No choice! He had no choice, you said so, Marcus.”
“Well, he did it.” I noticed her father was as brisk as me. We had both wasted too many hours while woolly arguments were waffled and decisions were avoided; this was pleasingly clear-cut. “The consul asked for a new waterclock to be set—”
“And you all waited? You just waited in the Curia for the next hour to pass?” Helena was still outraged. I patted her arm, trying not to look as if I wished I had thought of the test.
“Rhoemetalces was allowed to sit—he had been standing as he gave evidence, of course,” said her father. “So he stayed on a bench, back very straight, with his arms folded. Nobody dared go near him. Except Paccius sometimes.”
“To reassure his client?” Helena scoffed. “The client who might be dying in front of him? At his suggestion?” Decimus inclined his head, acknowledging the filthy ethics. “This is not about the defendants at all, is it? This is purely a battle between Silius and Paccius,” Helena scoffed. “They don’t care a quadrans what happens to anybody else.”
The senator spoke levelly. “They have a long-standing feud, yes. Not personal enmity, but a legal tussle for supremacy. While the man sat there, hoping, they even joked together. You could say they respect each other’s professional qualities—or you could say it stinks!” He knew Helena’s version. I think we all knew his. “The rest of us milled about, people rushed to and from the Forum, the news spread, more crowds gathered outside, everyone muttered in small groups and stared over at the apothecary.”
“And what happened to him?” I was bursting to know.
“Nothing happened.”
“He was right about the pills: he lived?”
“So far.”
“He may have a slow digestion,” Julia Justa commented, as if some child in her household was being watched after swallowing a denarius.
“Yes. The consul had him taken under guard to his own house, where he will stay, under surveillance, through tonight. He will be allowed neither food nor drink, lest he take an antidote. If he is alive tomorrow morning—” The senator paused. I did not begrudge him. The story was sensational.
“What do we think will happen?” I asked.
“We think—since he lasted an hour in court and still looked nervously confident—we think Rhoemetalces will survive the night.”
“That’s all he needs to do.”
“It is indeed, Marcus. Then the case is over.”
That was how it turned out too. It must have been the easiest defense Paccius Africanus ever came up with. Well, easy for him. For Rhoemetalces, and even for Juliana, it would have been nerve-racking.
The defendants were freed by the consul next morning. Juliana was taken home in procession by her husband and family, amid what many thought were unseemily signs of triumph. The apothecary, who was unmarried, returned alone to his medicine booth, where for a very short time he attracted a large queue of customers. Notoriety cast its usual sordid spells. He made a fortune that afternoon. Soon, however, people started to remember how he had owned up that he had made money from selling expensive pills that would not work. This was no more cynical than most lying lozenge-pushers, but when he thought it mattered, Rhoemetalces had been honest. We cannot have that. Rome is a complex, sophisticated society. Truth is distrusted as much as Greek philosophy. So the customers began to stay away.
His trade diminished until Rhoemetalces could no longer earn a living. The Senate had awarded him the most meager compensation for the court case, because of his low rank. The struggle became too hard. Eventually he took opium poppy sap and killed himself. Few people heard about it. Why should they? He was just the little man who was dragged into the troubles of the great. I seemed to be the only person who commented on the irony of his suicide.
The Metellus troubles, which were deemed so much more exciting, still continued to bubble like an unwatched pot that will thicken and splutter and slowly increase in volume until it boils over. There was bound to be more yet. The praetor had ruled that on the evidence, he could not say the death of Metellus was murder—nor could he decide that it had been an accident. Silius Italicus, an unforgiving informer, still wanted to be paid for the corruption case he won. Now he had been punched in the purse again—having to pay compensation at a senatorial level to Rubiria Juliana for the failed prosecution. Paccius Africanus would benefit from this, but even he wanted to screw yet more fame and money out of the events.
Occasionally someone would remember that if the corn cockle pills had not killed Metellus senior, then something else must have.