sides. They’ll be far more loyal to him than to you. Poison is an unworkable solution.’
The yellow curtain rippled. A gust of warm air slipped beneath its hem and entered the room like a mist clinging low to the ground. I felt it pool and eddy about my feet, heavy with the scent of jasmine. The morning was almost over. The true heat of the day was about to begin. I suddenly felt sleepy. So did Tiro; I saw him stifle a yawn. Perhaps he was simply bored. This was probably not the first time that he had heard his master run through the same string of arguments, refining his logic, worrying over the particular polish and gloss of each phrase.
I cleared my throat. ‘Then the solution seems obvious, esteemed Cicero. If the father must be murdered – at the instigation of his own son, a crime almost too hideous to contemplate – then it should be done when the old man is most vulnerable and most accessible. Some moonless night, on his way home from a party, or on his way to a brothel. No witnesses at that hour, at least none who’d be eager to testify. Gangs roaming the streets. There would be nothing suspicious about such a death. It would be easy to blame it on some passing group of anonymous thugs.’
Cicero leaned forwards in his chair. The machine was reviving. ‘So you wouldn’t commit the act yourself, by your own hand?’
‘Certainly not! I wouldn’t even be in Rome. I’d be far to the north in my house in Ameria – having nightmares, probably.’
‘You’d hire some assassins to do it for you?’
‘Of course.’
‘People you knew and trusted?’
‘Would I be likely to know such people personally? A hardworking Amerian farmer?’ I shrugged. ‘More likely I’d be relying on strangers. A gang leader met in a tavern in the Subura. A nameless acquaintance recommended by another acquaintance known to a casual friend . . .’
‘Is that how it’s done?’ Cicero was genuinely curious. He spoke no longer to the hypothetical parricide, but to Gordianus the Finder. ‘They told me that you would actually know a thing or two about this sort of business. They said: “Yes, if you want to get in touch with the kind of men who don’t mind getting blood on their hands, Gordianus is one place to start.” ’
‘ They ? Whom do you mean, Cicero? Who says that I drink from the same cup with killers?’
He bit his lip, not quite certain how much he wanted to tell me yet. I answered for him. ‘I think you mean Hortensius, don’t you? Since it was Hortensius who recommended me to you?’
Cicero shot a sharp glance at Tiro, who was suddenly quite awake.
‘No, Master, I told him nothing. He guessed it –’ For the first time that day, Tiro sounded to me like a slave.
‘Guessed? What do you mean?’
‘ Deduced would be a better word. Tiro is telling the truth. I know, more or less anyway, what you’ve called me for. A murder case involving a father and son, both called Sextus Roscius.’
‘You guessed that this was my reason for calling on you? But how? I only decided yesterday to take on Roscius as a client.’
I sighed. The curtain sighed. The heat crept up my feet and legs, like water slowly rising in a well. ‘Perhaps you should have Tiro explain it to you later. I think it’s too hot for me to go through it all again step by step. But I know that Hortensius had the case to begin with, and that you have it now. And I presume that all this talk about hypothetical conspiracies has something to do with the actual murder?’
Cicero looked glum. I think he felt foolish at finding that I had known the true circumstances all along. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s hot. Tiro, you’ll bring some refreshment. Some wine, mixed with cool water. Perhaps some fruit. Do you like dried apples, Gordianus?’
Tiro rose from his chair. ‘I’ll tell Athalena.’
‘No, Tiro, fetch it yourself. Take your time.’ The order was demeaning, and intentionally so; I could tell by the look of hurt in Tiro’s eyes,
The yellow curtain rippled. A gust of warm air slipped beneath its hem and entered the room like a mist clinging low to the ground. I felt it pool and eddy about my feet, heavy with the scent of jasmine. The morning was almost over. The true heat of the day was about to begin. I suddenly felt sleepy. So did Tiro; I saw him stifle a yawn. Perhaps he was simply bored. This was probably not the first time that he had heard his master run through the same string of arguments, refining his logic, worrying over the particular polish and gloss of each phrase.
I cleared my throat. ‘Then the solution seems obvious, esteemed Cicero. If the father must be murdered – at the instigation of his own son, a crime almost too hideous to contemplate – then it should be done when the old man is most vulnerable and most accessible. Some moonless night, on his way home from a party, or on his way to a brothel. No witnesses at that hour, at least none who’d be eager to testify. Gangs roaming the streets. There would be nothing suspicious about such a death. It would be easy to blame it on some passing group of anonymous thugs.’
Cicero leaned forwards in his chair. The machine was reviving. ‘So you wouldn’t commit the act yourself, by your own hand?’
‘Certainly not! I wouldn’t even be in Rome. I’d be far to the north in my house in Ameria – having nightmares, probably.’
‘You’d hire some assassins to do it for you?’
‘Of course.’
‘People you knew and trusted?’
‘Would I be likely to know such people personally? A hardworking Amerian farmer?’ I shrugged. ‘More likely I’d be relying on strangers. A gang leader met in a tavern in the Subura. A nameless acquaintance recommended by another acquaintance known to a casual friend . . .’
‘Is that how it’s done?’ Cicero was genuinely curious. He spoke no longer to the hypothetical parricide, but to Gordianus the Finder. ‘They told me that you would actually know a thing or two about this sort of business. They said: “Yes, if you want to get in touch with the kind of men who don’t mind getting blood on their hands, Gordianus is one place to start.” ’
‘ They ? Whom do you mean, Cicero? Who says that I drink from the same cup with killers?’
He bit his lip, not quite certain how much he wanted to tell me yet. I answered for him. ‘I think you mean Hortensius, don’t you? Since it was Hortensius who recommended me to you?’
Cicero shot a sharp glance at Tiro, who was suddenly quite awake.
‘No, Master, I told him nothing. He guessed it –’ For the first time that day, Tiro sounded to me like a slave.
‘Guessed? What do you mean?’
‘ Deduced would be a better word. Tiro is telling the truth. I know, more or less anyway, what you’ve called me for. A murder case involving a father and son, both called Sextus Roscius.’
‘You guessed that this was my reason for calling on you? But how? I only decided yesterday to take on Roscius as a client.’
I sighed. The curtain sighed. The heat crept up my feet and legs, like water slowly rising in a well. ‘Perhaps you should have Tiro explain it to you later. I think it’s too hot for me to go through it all again step by step. But I know that Hortensius had the case to begin with, and that you have it now. And I presume that all this talk about hypothetical conspiracies has something to do with the actual murder?’
Cicero looked glum. I think he felt foolish at finding that I had known the true circumstances all along. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s hot. Tiro, you’ll bring some refreshment. Some wine, mixed with cool water. Perhaps some fruit. Do you like dried apples, Gordianus?’
Tiro rose from his chair. ‘I’ll tell Athalena.’
‘No, Tiro, fetch it yourself. Take your time.’ The order was demeaning, and intentionally so; I could tell by the look of hurt in Tiro’s eyes,
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