VIII

Next I risked raising my blood pressure with a visit to a praetor.

In the days of the Republic two magistrates were elected annually (selected, since it was an appointment from the ranks of the Senate so not exactly subject to a free vote), but by my time legal business had increased so much it kept eighteen of them busy, two solely on fraud. The one who had investigated the gold-digger was called Corvinus. The Forum Gazette had familiarised me with the ludicrous pronouncements of the current legal crop, so I knew Corvinus was a self-opinionated piece of pomposity. Praetors always are. In the scale of public appointments it is the last civil honour before a consulship, and if a man wants to parade his ignorance of modern morality then being praetor gives him dangerous scope. Corvinus predated the current Emperor’s campaign to clean up the courts, and I reckoned the praetorship would be his last position now Vespasian was in charge.

Unfortunately for my clients, before Corvinus was retired to his Latium farm, he had had time to make his pronouncement that poor little Severina had lost three wealthy husbands in rapid succession purely through bad luck. Well. That shows you why I think what I think about praetorian magistrates.

*   *   *

I had never met him, and in fact I didn’t intend to, but after I came down from the Pincian I went straight to his house. It was a quiet mansion on the Esquiline. A faded trophy hung over the door, commemorating some ancient military show in which an ancestor had been honoured for not running away. Indoors were two statues of dour republican orators, an indifferent bronze of Augustus, and a huge chain for a watchdog (but no dog): the usual tired trappings of a family which had never been as important as it thought, and was now sinking into oblivion.

I hoped Corvinus would be in Cumae for the summer, but he was the sort of conscientious fool who probably sat in court on his own birthday; he grumbled about the pressure of business—yet fed his ego by bungling pleas all through the August heat. A bored porter let me in. Bundles of ceremonial rods and axes were lolling in the atrium, and I could hear a murmur from a side room where his honour’s lictors were gnawing their midday snack. In a side passage a row of benches had been provided so clients and plaintiffs could hang about looking pathetic while the Praetor snored off his lunch. Sunlight slanted in from high square windows, but once my eyes grew accustomed to the harsh interplay of light and shade I discovered the familiar crowd of moaners who clog up the offices of famous men. All watching one another, while they pretended not to; all trying to dodge the mad-eyed know-all who wanted a conversation; all set for a long and probably disappointing afternoon.

I avoid sitting around catching other people’s diseases, so I strolled briskly past. Some of the hangdog crowd sat up straighter, but most were prepared to let anyone who looked as if he knew what he was doing carry on doing it. I felt no qualms about queue-jumping. They had come to see the Praetor. The last thing I wanted was to endure a pointless interview with some tedious legal duffer. Praetors always have a clerk. And because litigants are so touchy to deal with, a praetor’s clerk is usually alert. I had come to see the clerk.

*   *   *

I found him in the deep shade of an inner courtyard garden. It was a warm day, so he had moved a folding campstool out to the fresh air. He had a startling tan, as if it had been painted on—possibly the result of a week’s concentrated vine pruning. He wore a large seal ring, pointed red shoes, and a glittering white tunic; he looked as sharp as a furnace-stoker on his festival day off.

As I expected, after a long morning up against senators’ sons who had been caught peering into the changing rooms of women-only bathhouses and vague grannies who wanted to ramble through three generations of family history to explain why they stole four duck eggs, the clerk was glad to push aside his pyramid of petition rolls and enjoy a chat with me. I introduced myself straightaway, and he replied that his name was Lusius.

“Lusius, some clients of mine are worried about a professional bride. Name of Severina; I don’t know her cognomen—”

“Zotica,” said Lusius abruptly. Perhaps he thought I was a time-waster.

“You remember her! Thank the gods for efficiency—”

“I remember,” growled the clerk, growing more expansive with this chance to express his bitterness. “There were three previous husbands, who had all lived in different sectors of the city, so I had to cope with a trio of disorganised aediles all sending me incomplete local details, four weeks after I required them—plus a letter from the Censor’s office with all the names spelt wrong. I ended up co-ordinating the documents for Corvinus myself.”

“Routine procedure!” I commiserated. “So what can you tell me?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Did she do it, basically.”

“Oh she did it!”

“That’s not what your man decided.”

Lusius described his man in two brief words: the usual opinion of a praetor if you hear it from his clerk. “The honourable Corvinus,” Lusius confided, “would not recognise a boil on his own bum.” I was starting to have a lot of time for Lusius; he seemed a man of the world—the same shady world I inhabited myself.

“Routine again. So will you tell me the tale?”

“Why not?” he asked, stretching his legs in front of him, folding his arms, and speaking as if he thought anyone who worked as hard as he did deserved time off for anarchy. “Why not, indeed? Severina Zotica…”

“What is she like?”

“Nothing special. But the madams who cause the most trouble never look much to outsiders who are not involved with them.” I nodded. “And a redhead,” he added.

“I should have known.”

“Imported as a teenager from the big slave market at Delos, but she got there by a roundabout route. Born in Thrace—hence the hair—then passed about with different owners; Cyprus, Egypt, then before Delos Mauretania, I think.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I had to interview her at one point. Quite an experience!” he reminisced, though I noticed he did not dwell on it. In fact his expression became guarded, like a man keeping his own council talking about a girl he planned not to forget. “Once she reached Italy she was bought by a bead-threader; he had a shop in the Subura; it’s still there. His name was Severus Moscus. He seems to have been a decent enough old bastard, who eventually married her.”

“Husband number one. Short-lived?”

“No; the marriage had lasted a year or two.”

“Peacefully?”

“As far as I know.”

“What happened to him?”

“Died of heatstroke while he was watching a gladiatorial display. I think he had sat where there wasn’t an awning, and his heart just gave out.” Lusius was evidently a fair man (or wanted to be, when he was assessing a redhead).

“Maybe he was too stupid or too stubborn to sit in the shade.” I could be fair myself. “Did Severina buy his ticket?”

“No; one of his male slaves.”

“Did Severina weep and wail over losing him?”

“No…” Lusius pondered thoughtfully. “Though that was in character; she’s not the type to create.”

“Nice manners, eh? And Moscus liked her enough to leave her everything?”

“To an old man, a redhead—who was sixteen when he married her—is bound to be likeable.”

“All right: so far she looks genuine. But did her sudden inheritance supply her with an idea for getting on in life?”

“Could be. I could never ascertain whether she had married her master out of desperation or honest gratitude. She may have been fond of him—or she may have been a diplomat. The beadseller may have bullied her—or perhaps she coerced him. On the other hand,” said Lusius, balancing his arguments like a true clerk, “when Severina realised how comfortable Severus Moscus had left her, she immediately set out to acquire greater comfort still.”

“Exactly how well off was Moscus?”

“He imported agates, polished them up and strung them. Nice stuff. Well, nice enough for senators’ heirs to buy for prostitutes.”

“A flourishing market!”

“Especially when he branched out into cameos. You know—heads of the Imperial family under patriotic mottos. Peace, Fortune, and an overflowing cornucopia—”

“Everything one lacks at home!” I grinned. “Imperial portraits are always popular with the creepers at court. His work was in fashion, so his ex-slavegirl inherited a thriving enterprise. What next?”

“An apothecary. Name of Eprius.”

“How did he die?”

“One of his own cough lozenges stuck in his throat.”

“How long had he lasted?”

“Well it took him nearly a year to get her to the priest; she put on a good show of dithering. Then he survived another ten months; perhaps she needed to steady her nerve.”

“The apothecary may have lingered because Severina wanted to acquire a knowledge of drugs … Was she there when he choked? Did she try to revive him?”

“Desperately!” We both laughed, certain we had the measure of that. “She was rewarded for her devotion with three drugshops and his family farm.”

“Then what?”

“Grittius Fronto. He imported savage animals for Nero’s arena shows. She was bolder that time. She must have been courting Fronto while the executors were still snipping the tape on the Eprius will. The circus manager only managed to survive four weeks—”

“Eaten by a lion?”

“Panther,” Lusius corrected without a pause. He was as cynical as me; I loved the man. “Strolled out of an open cage below the stage at Nero’s Circus and backed poor Grittius up against some lifting gear. They say the blood was horrible. The thing mauled a tightrope walker too, which seemed a bit superfluous but made the ‘accident’ look more natural. Grittius had been making a lot of money—his empire included a sideline in unusual floor shows for sleazy dinner parties. You know—naked females doing peculiar things with pythons … Servicing orgies is like owning a Spanish gold mine. Severina danced away from the Fronto funeral pyre with what I estimated at half a million big gold ones. Oh, and a parrot whose conversation would make a galley overseer blush.”

“Was there a medical report on any of the bodies?”

“The old beadseller’s heart failure looked too natural, and there was no point calling a doctor to examine the panther’s handiwork—not enough left!” Lusius shuddered fastidiously. “But a quack did see the apothecary.” I lifted an eyebrow and without needing to look it up he gave me a name and address. “He saw nothing to take exception to.”

“So what put the law onto Severina?”

“Grittius had a great-nephew in Egypt who used to arrange shipping for the wild beasts; the shipper had expected to inherit the loot from the lions. He sailed home fast and tried to bring an action. We made the usual enquiries, but it never came to court. Corvinus threw it out after an initial examination.”

“On what grounds, Lusius?”

His eyes were darting angrily. “Lack of evidence.”

“Was there any?”

“None at all.”

“So where is the argument?”

Lusius exploded with sardonic mirth. “Whenever did lack of evidence stop a case?” I could tell what had happened. Lusius must have done the work for the aediles (young local officials, responsible for investigating the facts but keen only on pursuing their political careers). The case had gripped him, then when his efforts came to nothing due to the Praetor’s stupidity he took it personally. “She was clever,” he mused. “She never overreached herself; the types she picked had plenty of cash, but were nothing in society—so seedy no one would really care if they had met a sticky end. Well, no one except the nephew who was a rival for one of the fortunes. Perhaps Grittius had forgotten to mention him; perhaps he forgot deliberately. Anyway, apart from that slip, she must have been extremely careful, Falco; there really was no evidence.”

“Just inference!” I grinned.

“Or as Corvinus so lucidly put it: a tragic victim of a truly astonishing chain of coincidence…”

What a master of jurisprudence.

*   *   *

A portentous belch from a room indoors warned us that the Praetor was about to emerge. A door pushed open. A sloe-eyed slaveboy, who must have been the tasty bite Corvinus used to sweeten his palate after lunch, sauntered out carrying a flagon as his excuse for being there. Lusius winked at me, gathering his scrolls up with the unhurried grace of a clerk who had learned long ago how to look busy.

I had no intention of watching the Praetor amuse himself rejecting pleas; I nodded politely to Lusius, and made myself scarce.