'They were strong enough to bear him up the stairway and through the corridors to this room. The moon is full, Gordianus. The power of the goddess invests them with a strength greater than any man's.'
A moment later the doors to the sanctum swung open. Six slave girls bore a litter into the corridor and lowered it to the floor.
Tiro hissed and drew back. Even Rufus, who had seen it already, drew in a sharp breath at the sight of what remained of Sextus Roscius. His clothing had been cut away, leaving him naked. The sheet beneath him was soaked with blood. He was covered all over with bruises and gashes. Numerous bones had been broken; in some places they speared through the torn flesh. Some attempt had been made to straighten his limbs, but nothing could be done to disguise the ruin of his skull. He had apparently landed headfirst His face was a wreckage, and the top of his head was a confusion of blood and phlegm held together by shards of bones. Unable to look at him, Tiro turned his back and Rufus lowered his eyes. Caecilia gazed down steadily at the body with no expression at all.
I knelt and pushed the broken chin aside; cartilage and bone grated beneath my touch. I ran my fingers down the throat, past mottled bruises and clumps of blood, and found what I sought by touch. 'Rufus, look here, and you too, Tiro. See, where my finger is pointing, the hole in the soft flesh just below the larynx?'
'It looks like a puncture wound,' ventured Rufus.
'Yes,' I said, 'such as might be made by a very sharp, slender object. And if we turn him on his side — here, Rufus, push with me — I believe we'll find the exact twin of this wound in the back of Roscius's neck. Yes, there, see it — just to one side of the spine.'
I stood and wiped my bloodied hands on a cloth offered by one of the slave girls. I choked back an abrupt surge of nausea and caught my breath. 'A strange wound, wouldn't you agree, Caecilia Metella? Not at all consistent with a plummeting headfirst collision and a tumble down stone stairs. Nor is it the type of wound that might be made by a knife. It seems to have gone straight through his neck - in the front and out the back, or the other way around, I wonder? Such a sharp, slender object, made of such strong metal that it plunged all the way through and then was pulled free. Such a clean wound that only a few drops of blood fell from the instrument onto the floor of the balcony. Tell me, Caecilia, was your hair already down when you encountered Sextus Roscius on the balcony? Or was it still up in a coil, held in place by one of those long silver pins you wear?'
Rufus gripped my arm. 'Hush, Gordianus! I told you already, Caecilia was never on the balcony tonight.'
'Caecilia was never on the balcony after Sextus Roscius fell. But before that — while you made ready to go to bed, Rufus, and Roscia Majora slept? Did he confess his guilt to you freely there on the balcony, Caecilia, or did you happen to overhear him babbling in his drunken stupor?'
Rufus tightened his grip until it began to hurt me. 'Shut up, Gordianus! Caecilia was never on that balcony tonight!'
I pulled my arm free and stepped towards Caecilia, whose basilisk composure never wavered. 'But if she was never on that balcony, how is it that I came to find this curious object there, lying on the railing?' I held up the tiny thing I clutched between my thumb and forefinger. 'Caecilia, may I see your hand?'
She raised one eyebrow, curious but not much concerned, and extended her right hand to me, palm down. I took it in mine and gently spread her fingers apart. Rufus and Tiro moved in beside me, keeping a respectful distance and peering over my shoulders.
What I sought was not there.
If I was wrong, I had gone too far to cover myself with excuses. An outrageous affront to a Metella was a spectacular way, at least, to destroy one's reputation and livelihood. I swallowed nervously and looked up into Caecilia's eyes.
No glint of comprehension sparkled there, no quiver of amusement, but a smile as cold as frost crossed her lips. 'I think,' she said in a low, earnest voice, 'that it must be this hand you wish to examine, Gordianus.'
She placed her left hand in my palm. I sighed with relief
At the tips of her withered fingers I saw five perfect red-stained nails — perfect except for the nail of her forefinger, which was chipped on one side, leaving a broken gap near the tip. I took the bit of red fingernail I had found on the balcony and placed it into the gap, where it fit as neatly as a nut in a shell.
'Then you were on the balcony tonight!' said Rufus.
'I never told you otherwise.'
'But - then I think you should explain, Caecilia. I insist!'
It was now I who restrained Rufus, laying my arm gently across his shoulder. 'No further explanation is called for. Beneath her own roof, Caecilia Metella is hardly obligated to explain her movements. Or her motives, for that matter. Or her methods.' I looked down at the ruined corpse. 'Sextus Roscius is dead, claimed by the goddess of this house to satisfy her own vengeance. No further explication is wanted. Unless, of course' — I cocked my head - 'the mistress of the house would condescend to explain the facts to three unworthy supplicants who have made a very long and tireless journey in search of the truth.'
Caecilia paused for a long moment. Gazing down at the corpse of Sextus Roscius, she at last allowed her disgust for him to show on her face. 'Take him away,' she ordered with a wave of her hand. The slave girls came running to bear the litter back into the sanctum. Clouds of incense roiled from between the doors as they opened and shut. 'And you, Ahausarus — round up the garden slaves and have them start scrubbing the rear stairway. I want every trace of that man's blood cleaned away by daybreak. Oversee the work yourself!'
'But, Mistress—'
'Go on!' Caecilia clapped her hands and the eunuch sullenly departed. She then turned a disdainful eye on Tiro. Clearly she wanted no superfluous witnesses to her confession.
'Please,' I said, let the slave stay.'
She scowled, but acquiesced. 'A few moments ago, Gordianus, you asked me whether Sextus filius confessed to his father's murder, or whether I overheard him. Neither is quite true. It was the Goddess who revealed the truth to me. Not in words and not in a vision. But it was her hand — I'm sure of it — that lifted me tonight from where I had prostrated myself in the sanctum, and led me down the corridors into the quarter of the house where the Roscii are lodged.'
She narrowed her eyes and clasped her hands together. Her voice became low and dreamlike. 'I came upon Sextus filius in one ofthe hallways, staggering about in a stupor, too drunk even to notice me in the darkness. He was babbling to himself, alternately weeping and laughing. Laughing because he was acquitted and free. Weeping because of the shame and uselessness of his crime. His thoughts were rambling and disconnected; he would start to say a thing and then stop short, but there was no mistaking the meaning of his ravings. 'I killed the old man, killed him as surely as if I'd struck the blows myself,' he kept saying, 'arranged for the whole thing and counted the hours until he was dead. Murdered him, murdered my own father! Justice had me in the palm of her hand and I slipped away!'
'To hear him speak that way made the blood burn in my ears. Imagine what I felt, standing hidden in that dark corridor, listening to Sextus filius confess to his crime with no one but myself to witness it - no one but myself and the Goddess. I felt her within me. I knew what I had to do.
'It seemed that Sextus was on his way to his daughters' bedchamber — why, I can't imagine; he was so drunk I suppose he must have lost his way. He started to step inside, but that would have been no good to me, having him wake the girls. I hissed at him, and he gave a terrible start. I stepped closer and he began to cringe. I told him to step outside onto the balcony.
'The moonlight was fierce, like the very eye of Diana. She is a huntress indeed this night, and Sextus was her prey. Moonlight captured him like a net. I demanded that he tell me the truth. He stared back at me; I could see that he was judging his chances of lying to me, just as he had lied to everyone else. But the moonlight was too strong. He laughed. He sobbed. He looked into my eyes and said to me: 'Yes! Yes, I murdered your old lover! Forgive me!'
'He turned his back to me. He was still several paces from the edge of the balcony. I knew I could never force him to the rail and over, even as drunk as he was and as strong as the moonlight had made me. I prayed to the Goddess to guide him closer to the rail. But the Goddess had led me so far, and I knew I would have to finish the matter on my own.'
'So you reached up,' I said, 'and pulled the pin from your hair.'
'Yes, the same one I had worn to the trial, decorated with lapis.'
'And you drove it clear through his neck, from spine to throat.'
The muscles of her face went slack. Her shoulders slumped. 'Yes, I suppose I did. He never screamed, only made a strange, gurgling, choking sound. I pulled the pin free; there was hardly any blood on it at all. He reached up to his throat and staggered forwards. He struck the rail, and I thought he would surely fall. But instead he stopped. So I pushed him, with all my strength. He never made a noise. The next thing I heard was the sound of his body striking the stairway below.'
'And then you fell to your knees,' I said.
'Yes, I remember kneeling. .. .'
'You peered over the edge and clutched the rail — clutched it so hard that you broke a fingernail against the stone.' 'Perhaps. I don't remember that.' 'And what became of the pin?'
She shook her head, confused. 'I think I must have cast it into the darkness. I suppose it's lost among the weeds.' Having told her tale she was suddenly emptied of all her vigour. Her eyes flickered and she drooped like a withered flower. Rufus was instantly at her side. 'Dear boy,' she whispered, 'would you see me to my chambers?'
Tiro and I took our leave without ceremony, to the smell of incense and the muffled wailing of the slaves within the sanctum.
'What a day!' Tiro sighed as we stepped inside his master's house. 'What a night!'
I wearily nodded. 'And now, if we're lucky, we might get an hour of sleep before the sun comes up.'
'Sleep? I can't possibly sleep. My head is spinning. To think, this morning Sextus Roscius was still alive . . . and Sulla had never heard of Cicero ... and I honestly believed—'
'Yes?'
In answer he only shook his head. Cicero had disappointed him terribly, but Tiro would not say a word against him. I followed him into his master's study, where alamp had been lit awaiting his return. He glanced about the room and walked to the pile of scrolls that Sulla had knocked from their table.
'I might as well straighten these now,' he sighed, kneeling down. 'Something to do.'
I smiled at his energy. I turned towards the atrium and studied the play of moonlight on the sand. I breathed deep and let out a great yawn.
'I'll be leaving with Bethesda tomorrow,' I said. 'I suppose I'll see you then; or perhaps not, if Cicero has some errand for you. It seems long ago that you came to my door, doesn't it, Tiro, though it's been only a few days. I can't remember a case with so many twists and turns. Perhaps Cicero will use me again, or perhaps he won't. Rome is a small place, in a way, but I might not see you again.' I suddenly had to clear my throat. It was the moonlight, I thought, making me sentimental. 'I suppose I should tell you now, Tiro — yes, here and now, while it's quiet and the two of us are alone — I should tell you that I think you're an exceedingly fine young man, Tiro. I speak from the heart, and I think Cicero would agree. You're fortunate to have a master who values you highly. Oh, I know, Cicero may sometimes seem brusque, but -Tiro?'
I turned about to see him lying on his side among the scattered scrolls on the floor, quietly snoring. I smiled and stepped softly towards him. In sleep, beneath the mingled lamplight and moonlight, he looked truly childlike. I knelt and touched the smooth skin of his brow and the shock of soft curls above. I took the scroll that lay in his hand. It was the crumpled copy of Euripides that Sulla had been reading and had thrown across the room. My eyes fell upon the chorus's summation: