“Precious time wasted on worthless words,” Verres said.
“If it pleases the magistrate,” Cicero said. “The slave Medea was wild beast, in locked cell, from which she was somehow set free to bring destruction upon House Pelorus. The slave Medea, as her later actions in the arena have demonstrated with ample clarity to all, is a living weapon, capable of infecting great harm upon her victims. Whoever unleashed her on that night is as culpable in the death of Pelorus as falconer who looses bird, or hunter who frees hounds. Lady Successa, I implore you, who set Medea free that night?”
“It was Gaius Verres,” she said.
“Open eyes and see stipend’s end,” Verres spat.
“A thing never seen recieved,” she snarled at him, suddenly roused. “Nor would it buy me much in the afterlife!”
“Enough!” Helva declared, banging his hands on the arms of his chair. “Enough!”
“Magistrate, I implore you-” Verres began.
“Magistrate, I am yet unfinished-” Cicero began.
“Silence, I beg you!” Helva said. “This matter full of thorns, and attended by many deliberations, twists and turns. However, representatives for both sides have identified a means through whispered threats and honeyed promises. In the matter of Batiatus versus Verres, I find reasonable doubt in the assignation of rights familiae emptor to the aforesaid Verres. Perhaps Verres misheard his friend’s last words; perhaps he misinterpreted them.”
Batiatus made to stand in protest, but Cicero stayed his arm, a finger raised in a weak parody of the gladiator’s gesture of surrender. Batiatus saw the signal and read it for what it was-a sign that they would have to concede some ground.
“However, I can have no doubt that the intentions of the pious Verres were wholly honorable,” the magistrate continued. “In treatment of the injured lady Successa, he has displayed a noble quality in the dispensation of charity. In his attempt to do right by the freedman Timarchides, he has shown great kindness.”
Verres permitted himself a sly half-smile.
Batiatus stared at Cicero, his nostrils flared in anger.
“Do you misremember whose side you represent?” Batiatus hissed to the quaestor. “This fool has ignored every one of your words.”
“Patience, Batiatus,” Cicero whispered out of the side of his mouth.
“In the matter of the accusations leveled against him,” the magistrate stated, “I remind the plaintiff that Verres became the governor of Sicilia at midnight on the night of the event in question, and that henceforth, even if Cicero were to pursue his insinuations of wrongdoing, the person of Gaius Verres is sacrosanct, protected and above reproach.”
Verres smiled at Batiatus, the smile widening into a grin fit to contain the world.
“In the matter of the estate of the late Marcus Pelorus, I shall retire to deliberate on its best dispensation. It may take some days, considering the light of these crimes peripheral, now entered into the record.”
“If I may speed the process, magistrate?” Verres asked.
The magistrate shrugged and gestured for him to continue.
“Since my duties are not required in the role of familiae emptor, I have no matters to address in it. May I suggest that I withdraw all opposition to the suit of Batiatus, and depart as friend.”
Timarchides leapt to his feet in surprise, grabbing at Verres’s toga.
“You said that purse was mine!”
Verres held out his arms in conciliation.
“Timarchides, please!” he said. “The magistrate has spoken. We must abide by Roman law or we are no better than barbarians.”
“But-”
“What purse?” Helva asked, indicating the pile of scrolls. He held one up for them to see. “You will see from the accounts that the estate of Pelorus is already well discharged, almost into nothingness.”
XVII
“Do I dream,” Batiatus said, standing on the steps of the forum, “or did we just get bent over and fucked?”
“I have no idea of your dreams, Batiatus,” Cicero said, his eyes set ahead. The two men sighed in unison on the steps, and began to dawdle toward the street level. Varro walked behind, ever watchful.
“The magistrate made no note of our evidence,” Batiatus protested. “Rather keeping up the nonsense of the ‘last words’!”
“The magistrate showed himself to be a masterful diplomat,” Cicero replied. “Governors are not truly sacrosanct, but it is beneficial for the smooth running of the state if we assume that they are. Absent a truly monstrous cause, it is better to remove all talk of crime. The magistrate allowed each man to depart unsullied by accusation.”
“But I want Verres fucking sullied! I want him up to his neck in shit! He walks away with head held high.”
“But absent control of the Pelorus estate.”
Something was moving to the side of the two men, something oncoming with the speed of a charging gladiator, something in bright white edged with Greek borders. Batiatus turned to see, and found Varro bodily holding back the angry Timarchides.
“You will pay for this, Cicero,” the freedman snarled.
“Will I?”
“You steal from me. You rob the grave of a great man.”
Timarchides hurled Varro to one side, leaving the blond gladiator reeling in the dirt. But the slave had served his purpose, calming the angry Greek just enough to prevent him coming to blows with a noble Roman. Instead, Cicero faced no more than a pointing finger and a torrent of abuse.
“I merely made investigation into a suspicious abuse of power,” Cicero said calmly, when Timarchides eventually paused for breath.
“Listen well, Timarchides,” Batiatus crowed, “You and Verres have reached agreement’s end, your sullied fingers remain empty as will Pelorus’s house when next you seek shelter!”
“I am disinherited!” Timarchides growled. “Left with nothing!”
“From nothing left nothing!” Batiatus replied. “Returned to the heavy work of arm twisting, save now for Verres in Sicilia.”
“Pelorus would not have desired this.”
“I grow weary of this ludicrous performance,” Cicero said, suddenly impatient. “Pelorus did not want to die.”
Timarchides stood, fists clenched, before them breathing heavily for lack of words and direction. Varro clambered back to his feet, rendering the odds once more against the Greek. Batiatus stared directly into Timarchides’s angry eyes for a moment, before walking away with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Might I suggest,” Cicero said, “that the freedman Timarchides composes a will forthwith. If you were to die intestate, in the fashion of your former master, then your property would revert to Pelorus, who reverts to Batiatus, and you would end up leaving everything to the man you so despise.”
“Enough of such legal knots,” Timarchides spat. “I depart for Sicilia, and curse you all.”
“Knots of your own making. Matters would be eased if you but had a son.”
“Then I shall go out and sire one tonight!”
“A difficult task when men lay with men.” Cicero called after Timarchides’s retreating back. He sighed with the effort of a day’s work well done, and sauntered after Batiatus, who slowed his pace now that the danger of physical assault was past.
“Cicero, I stand amazed,” the lanista said.
“Do not be,” Cicero said, oddly sour. “There is no victory to be celebrated here.”
“On the contrary, you have executed every action exact.”
“I have done nothing. It is a disaster.”
“You make reference to the business of Verres being governor? An inconvenient ‘window,’ to be sure.”
“The means by which he could be held accountable destroyed, and if he is not accountable then he is removed entirely from deliberations. He disappears. As if Verres was never here.”
“Which means?”
“Which means that Pelorus died by means unknown in a slave attack. Absent will, which means everything lands upon you.”