I did not make contact with any of the family. A steward saw me. He was an eastern-born slave or freedman, who seemed alert. Late forties, clearly with status in the household, efficient, well-spoken, probably cost a packet to purchase though that would have been some years back. I decided not to prevaricate; incurring a false-entry charge was a bad idea. `The name's Falco. Your porter may have misunderstood. I represent Silius Italicus. I am here to check a few details about your master's sad demise so he can write off his fees. First, allow me to express our most sincere condolences.'

`Everything is in order,' said the steward, almost as if they had expected this. It was not quite the correct response to my condolences and at once I mistrusted him. I wondered if Paccius Africanus had warned them here that we would try to investigate. 'Calpurnia Cara -'

I took out a note tablet and stylus. I kept my manner quiet. `Calpurnia Cara is?'

`My late master's wife.' He waited while I made notes. `My mistress arranged for seven senators to view the corpse and certify the suicide.'

I held my stylus still and gazed at him over the edge of my notebook. `That was very cool-headed.'

`She is a careful lady.'

Protecting a lot of money, I thought. Of course if it really was a suicide, the husband and wife may well have discussed what Metellus intended. Metellus may have instructed his wife to bring in the witnesses. Paccius Africanus would certainly have advised it, if he were involved. It was a chilling thought that counselling his client to die might be good legal advice.

`Do you know whether Calpurnia Cara tried to dissuade her husband from his planned course?'

`I imagine they talked about it,' the steward replied. `I don't know what was said.'

`Was the suicide announced to the household staff beforehand?'

He looked surprised. `No.'

`Any chance I might talk with your mistress?'

`That would not be appropriate.'

`She lives here?' He nodded. I made a small symbol on my tablet, without looking up. `And the son?' Another nod. I ticked that off too. `Is he married?'

A minute pause. 'Metellus Negrinus is divorced.' I made a longer entry.

`So.' Now I raised my eyes to the steward again. `Calpurnia Cara ensured that her husband's death was formally witnessed by noble friends. I assume you can provide me with the seven names, incidentally.' He was already producing a tablet from a pouch. These people were expertly organised. Grief had not confused them at all. `Was the viewing conducted before or after your master actually -?’

'Afterwards. Straight afterwards.'

`Were the witnesses in the house while he -'

`No, they were sent for.'

`And do you mind – I am sorry if this is very painful – but how did he…?'

I was expecting the classic scenario: on the battlefield a defeated general falls on his sword, usually needing help from a weeping subordinate because finding the space between two ribs and then summoning the strength to pull in a weapon upwards is damned difficult to fix for yourself. Nero cut his throat with a razor, but he was supposedly hiding in a garden trench at the time, where there may have been no elegant options; to be skewered on a dibber would have lacked the artistry he coveted. The traditional method in private life is to enter a warm bath and open your veins. This death is contained, relaxing, and reckoned to be more or less painless. (Mind you, it presupposes you live in a grand home with a bath.) For a senator, such an exit from disaster is the only civilised way out.

But it had not happened here.

`My master took poison,' said the steward.

V

TO INTERVIEW seven senators, I needed help. I returned home and summoned the Camilli. They had to be found first. I sent out my nephew Gaius, a lad about town recently returned from having his habits reformed in the country. It had not worked. He was still a layabout, but agreed to be my runner for his usual exorbitant sweetener. Trotting off to the senator's house to ask where the lads were supposed to be, he soon rousted out Aelianus from a bath house then rounded up Justinus, who was out shopping with his wife.

While I was waiting I did some budgeting, wrote an ode in my head, and replanted some flower tubs little Julia had `weeded'. Helena pounced. `I'm glad you're here. A woman called for you.'

`Oh good!' I leered.

`One of your widows.'

`Sweetheart, I promise you: I gave up widows.'

`You may do this one,' Helena assured me cruelly. `Her name is Ursulina Prisca and she is about sixty-five.'

I knew Ursulina. She had been badgering me for a long time to take on an extremely complex wrangle involving her estranged brother's will. She was half crazy. I could have coped with that; most of my clients were. But she talked a torrent, she smelt of cats, and she drank. A friend of hers had recommended me. I had never worked out who the friend was, though I would like to have strong words with them.

`She's a menace.'

Helena grinned. `I said you would be delighted to take on her work.'

`I am not available to the widow Ursulina! She tried to grab me by the balls once.'

`Don't make excuses.'

Luckily the lads turned up and I forgot the harassing widow.

I divided up the suicide witnesses, two to each of the lads while I took three.

`What was the point of having all these witnesses, Falco?' Aelianus asked fretfully.

`It's like getting your will ratified, if you are an important bean. Looks good. Deters questions. In theory it stops Forum gossip. In this case it also raises expectations of a good scandal.'

`Nobody will query certification by seven senators,' mocked Helena. `As if senators would ever conspire to lie!'

We would be lucky if any of the seven agreed to see us. Having signed the certificate, they would hope to be left alone. Senators try to be unobtainable to the public. To be asked about their noble signatures by a pack of harrying informers would seem outrageous.

Sure enough, Aelianus failed to interview either of the men allocated to him. Justinus saw one of his.

`A strike! How come?,

'I pretended I had a good tip on a horse race.'

`Smart!' I must try that.

`I wish I hadn't bothered. He was rude, Falco.'

`You expected that, you're grown up. Tell.'

`He grudgingly said they were all called to the house by Calpurnia Cara. She announced calmly that since losing the court case, her husband had decided to seek an honourable exit from public life. She told them he had taken poison that afternoon; he wished them – as his circle of friends – to observe the scene and formally certify suicide. This, she said, would simplify matters for his family. They knew what she meant. They did not see Metellus die, but inspected the corpse. He was lying on his bed, dead. He wore a grimace, had a nasty pallor, and smelt of diarrhoea. A small sardonyx pillbox lay open on a side table. The seven men all signed the declaration, which the widow has.'

`Flaw,' I chipped in. 'Metellus did not himself tell them his intentions. Then they did not see him actually swallow any pills.'

`Quite. How can they say he did it willingly?' Justinus agreed.

`Still, well done; at least we know what song these warblers want us to listen to.'

`How did you get on, Falco?' Aelianus then asked, hoping my record with the witnesses was as bad as his. I had spoken to all three of my targets. Experience tells. Aelianus replied that it also causes pomposity.

`All my subjects told the same story,' I reported. `One did concede it was bad form that they had not been addressed by Metellus beforehand. That's the ideal procedure in a council of friends. But they trust his wife, apparently – or they are scared of her – and I was assured that availing himself of the suicide ploy was entirely in character. Metellus hated to lose. He would enjoy thwarting his accusers.