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Death Most Poisonous - Part I

A short mystery set in Ancient Rome

Jess Steven Hughes

Rome, mid-September, A.D. 72

    At the sound of sandals on the mosaic path, Macha, on her knees in the garden tending the soil, turned to see her trusted servant, Shafer, towering over her. The Moorish freedwoman stepped beside the sundial with an apologetic look on her ebony face. Macha stood, slipped a silk cloth from the waistband of her blue and gold stola, and blotted her brow. It was mid-afternoon, the hottest time of the day.
    “Lady Carataca, Mistress Camilla is here to see you. She said it was urgent.” Shafer spoke in heavily accented Latin.
    Macha stepped outside the latticed fence surrounding a tree and onto the pathway. “Send her in and tell one of the slaves to bring refreshments.”
    Why would her friend Camilla come to see her during the hours of siesta, especially in this sweltering heat? The matter must be serious.
    Shafer led Camilla to where Macha waited on a cushioned bench beneath an ivy-covered trellis. Camilla was in her forties. Fine lines around her swollen copper-colored eyes and a single-stranded gold necklace stood out against her alabaster skin.
    She sat down, leaned forward, and placed a hand on Macha’s arm. “I am gratified you could see me, my dear.”
    “You are always welcome, but I thought you would be in seclusion after the funeral. You know how people talk.”
    “I know I’ve been a widow only three days, but seeing you is more important than custom. I thank you for attending Mettius’ rites yesterday. For some reason, your presence set me thinking about the circumstances of his death. I am no longer certain of how he died.”
    “You said it was food poisoning.”
    “Yes, but now I am not so sure. I do not know what to think.” Tears welled in Camilla’s eyes and she began to weep.
    Macha placed an arm around her friend’s sagging shoulders and comforted her until the tears stopped flowing.
    The Roman woman wiped her eyes with a black silk handkerchief. “I am sorry, Macha.”
    “You’re still grieving—it’s only natural. But do you really believe someone poisoned your husband?”
    Camilla sniffled. “I cannot say for sure, but the thought persists even though my physician said it was most certainly food poisoning.”
    Macha shook her head. Camilla’s so-called healer, Cimon of Lemnos, was a notorious quack. He wouldn’t know food poisoning from the throes of giving birth.
    “If there is any truth in what you say, shouldn’t you go to the Prefect of the Watch?”
    “I don’t want the Vigiles involved.”
    “But Camilla, your husband was of the Equestrian Order. His death warrants an investigation from the highest ranks of Rome’s law enforcement.”
    “The officers of the Watch are a hardened, unsympathetic lot. They would investigate his death as a murder when that may not be the case. I am suspicious, but not certain. No, the matter must be kept private.”
    “Then you must seek a private informer.”
    Camilla twisted her mouth into a sneer. “They are the vilest of men—they will lie about anything to line their filthy purses. No, it is your help I want.”
    “Why me? I have no experience in these matters.”
    “But you do. Your efforts cleared Titus of treason. And you learned who murdered two of your slaves.”
    “I had help.”
    In an instant, the whole sordid mess of involving Titus, Macha’s husband, then an officer in the Roman Army, came crashing back to her. She had spent two harrowing months clearing his name of treason. In the process two of her slaves were murdered because they could identify the real traitors. And twice she was almost assassinated. She had prayed to Mother Goddess that she would never again experience such a terrible ordeal.
    Camilla jabbed a finger in Macha’s direction. “But you were the force behind it. How many other women have done as much for their families?”
    And how many women had endangered their own lives and those of their loved ones, Macha wanted to say. If I help Camilla, I will place my own life in danger again. I’m not a skilled informant. Men are far more experienced in these matters. She sighed and shook her head. There had to be another way.
    “Are you sure you want a woman rather than a man to investigate your husband’s death?” Macha asked.
    Camilla crinkled her nose and frowned. “It’s been many years since I trusted any man, including my departed husband.”
    Macha raised an eyebrow. What woman did fully believe in her husband? Macha had more faith in Titus more than most, but even that had limits. Still she was puzzled why Camilla sought her services. Curiosity told her to pursue the matter, but that wasn’t all. In spite of Camilla’s contempt for foreigners, she had taken Macha under her wing and introduced her to all Rome’s nobility. Camilla had proven herself to be a good friend, and Macha believed in helping friends. She prayed she wouldn’t regret her decision.
    She would simply have to resolve the matter before her husband returned in four days. Titus, who had been transferred to the Praetorian Guard after being cleared of treason, was in Ostia inspecting the seaport’s Praetorian garrison. He was used to Macha’s independent Celtic ways—Celtic women had more freedom than their Roman sisters. But he would be against her putting herself in harm’s way.
    “All right, Camilla,” she said, “I’ll do what I can. I need to visit your house.”
    “You can return with me now, if you like.”
    Camilla’s answer startled Macha. She hadn’t expected to be invited so soon.
    “Wait here while I give instructions to my slaves to care for my son.”

* * *

    The two women arrived at Camilla’s palatial home on Aventine Hill overlooking the cavernous Circus Maximus and beyond to the Emperor Vespasian’s residence on the Palatine. They proceeded to the summer triclinium where the family took their meals. Small portraits of bucolic country scenes decorated the dining area’s three walls. Bright afternoon light pierced the broad windows on the fourth side, which bordered the manicured garden. Perched in the middle of the room were three cushioned reclining couches forming a U-shape around a small circular table. Behind each couch stood a tall bronze stand from which hung four oil lamps. The smell of rancid olive oil lingered in the stifling heat.
    “Has anything been changed since the night of your husband’s death?” Macha asked. She circled the room not sure what she was looking for. When Macha had attended Mettius’s funeral, she had learned that this was the room where he had died.
    “Everything is the same, except for the clean linen covering the couches. I have them changed every day.”
    “About what time did you eat the night of his death?”
    “Just before dusk. The slaves lit the lamps and tapers.”
    Macha pulled out her handkerchief and wiped the sweat from her cheeks and forehead. “Who dined with you besides your husband?”
    “Only our children, Diana and Didius.”
    “How many attendants were present?”
    “Four. One slave for each of us, to serve our meals.”
    “What did the family eat?”
    “Mettius ate a mullet in fish sauce, especially baked for his birthday.”
    Macha could no longer stand the heat of the dining room. She stepped out of the triclinium and into the shade of the colonnaded walkway bordering the garden. Camilla strolled beside her.
    Macha stopped by the little shrine to the household gods set into the masonry wall. She faced Camilla. “Did you and your children eat part of the fish?”
    “Oh, no. In this stifling heat we ate a much lighter meal. It was a simple fare of cold meats, vegetables, and fruit.”
    As Camilla and Macha continued their walk, Macha scanning the garden and passageway to see if anyone lurked nearby. She lowered her voice and asked, “Who served your husband?”
    “Tamos, the Egyptian. I doubt he would have poisoned Mettius. He has been a loyal slave for twenty-years and is well-treated.”
    Macha paused by a bed of yellow chrysanthemums growing along the walkway’s edge, the first growth of autumn. The pungent smell lingered in her nostrils, triggering a thought. “Do you think someone in the kitchen might have poisoned his food?”
    “Possibly, but I don’t see why they would.”
    “I need to speak to your kitchen slaves.”
    The matron nodded.
    “There is something else I must ask.” Macha studied Camilla closely. “Since you regard me as a friend, I will speak bluntly. Do you think one of your children might have poisoned their father?”
    Camilla clasped her hand to her chest, her voice rising in indignation. “How can you say such a thing? They loved him very much.”
    “I’m sorry to have to ask the question. But I need to learn if they may have had a reason for wanting his death.”
    “To my knowledge they have none.”
    “I’m sure they don’t, but I still must speak to them as well as the slaves.”
    “Slaves can be tortured to confess.”
    “I shall have no part of torture. A victim will confess to anything to avoid being torn apart on the rack.”
    “Then we shall not use it, but I need your help,” Camilla answered.

* * *

    The women entered the sweltering kitchen from the far end of the atrium. Two shuttered windows opened onto the garden. Macha and Camilla were met by a combination of acrid smoke from the hearth’s charcoal fire and the savory aromas of a stew flavored with rosemary and thyme. A gaunt slave stirred the contents of a large earthenware pot on the hearth while two small bronze pots simmered on the iron grate over hot coals.
    At opposite ends of the kitchen, slaves chopped vegetables and meats at two large oaken tables, pushing the food scraps to the side. A stone mortar and pestle sat near where a tall female slave filleted a red snapper. Macha noted that the tufa stone floor was nearly spotless, which was most unusual. Even her own slaves never kept a floor this clean.
    Macha didn’t bother interviewing the serving slaves and kitchen staff. She went directly to the head cook, Formio. He was studying the daily menu on a waxed tablet at a desk in one corner of the kitchen. Macha and the slave had been acquainted for many years and she found him trustworthy.
    Macha motioned to Camilla. “I will speak to Formio, alone.”
    “I will be in the garden,” Camilla said.
    Macha and the cook proceeded to the atrium. They stopped a few paces inside the entryway and Macha’s eyes scanned the area before turning to the sweating Formio. She tilted her head slightly to meet the stocky cook’s scowling gaze.
    “You know why I’m here, don’t you?”
    “Yes, lady. It’s about the master’s death.”
    “You’ve always been honest with me.”
    “You mean blunt.” He folded his arms in front of his oxen chest.
    Macha chuckled. “Of course. Don’t change now.”
    “I can tell you this, if the master died from poisoning, it wasn’t at my hand,” Formio said in a haughty voice. “I take pride in my cooking. The mistress is very fussy. Every day she inspects my meal preparations and screams at me if any scraps are left on the kitchen floor. The place has to remain spotless. But it’s the little things she says that irritate me most.”
    “Such as?”
    “The texture of the sauce.”
    “What about it?”
    “The day the master died the mistress came to the kitchen to inspect as usual. What was strange was seeing her daughter with her. Diana hates anything to do with cooking. All she does is eat.”
    Macha understood. Camilla’s seventeen-year-old daughter was too heavy for her short height. “What does this have to do with sauce?”
    “The young mistress asked me questions about cooking while Mistress Camilla inspected my preparations. Usually, I follow the mistress around the kitchen, but Diana kept distracting me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mistress Camilla glaring down at a sauce pan, but I turned to answer another question by her daughter. Then the mistress ordered me to stir the sauce. She wasn’t satisfied with its texture.”
    Formio snorted. “I make the best sauces in Rome. I asked if there were any ingredients she wanted me to add. She yelled to do as I was told.” He threw up his hands.
    A chilling thought raced through Macha’s mind, and a sense of betrayal. Regardless of who might have committed the murder, she decided to refuse any offer of food and drink while she was in Camilla’s household.
    “What kind of sauce was it?” Macha asked.
    Formio folded his arms again. “A sauce for broiled mullet,” he answered. “It has many ingredients: pepper, lovage, cumin, small onions, oregano, almonds, figs, dates, honey, and much more. It’s very good.”
    Macha nodded. It would be easy to add poison to a sauce with so many ingredients. No one would taste the difference. “Was it to be used on all the family members meals or just the master’s?”
    “Only his.” Formio unfolded his arms. “That’s why I presumed the mistress was fussier than usual. You don’t think I killed him? I was told by the mistress he died of food poisoning, and it’s all too common. But not from my kitchen.”
    She shook her head. “You take too much pride in your work. I’ll see you again if I have further questions.”

* * *

    Camilla waited for Macha in the garden.
    “Did you learn anything from Formio?” she asked turning from a rose bush she had been inspecting.
    Macha sighed. “Not much except that you inspect all meal preparations.”
    “As mistress of the house, I can’t trust the slaves,” she answered with a huff. “Besides robbing you blind, who knows what they would serve you at mealtime?”
    Or what poison they might have added to the food, Macha wanted to say. She bit back the words.
    “When can I speak to Didius?”
    “He should be home soon.” Camilla called for a slave and gave instructions for her son to meet them in the garden.
    While they waited, the two women strolled along the pathway, Camilla pointing out many flowers and shrubs. Normally, Macha would have been impressed by their beauty, but today her mind was busy mulling over the problem at hand.
    “Naturally, I oversee the activities of my gardeners as well,” Camilla said. “Sometimes I take a personal hand in the planting and trimming. It is very relaxing. Most patrician women would not dream of soiling their hands. Foolish ladies: it washes off easily enough.”
    Camilla pointed to the flowering oleanders, roses, and snapdragons “The oleanders are so beautiful and fragrant.”
    “But every part of the plant is poisonous,” Macha said.
    “Many flowers are. That didn’t stop me from decorating Mettius’ funeral bier with oleanders. I personally cut the sprays.”
    Although the use of oleanders was customary, Macha had always found it ironic because the plants were so deadly.
    “Have you ever used oleanders for anything besides decorations?” Macha asked.
    Camilla paused and crinkled her forehead. “Why, yes. I do not believe in waste. The gardener told me when the leaves are ground into powder they make a good rat poison. We have been plagued by those awful pests.”
    A slave announced the arrival of Camilla’s son.
    As he approached, Didius weaved from side to side along the mosaic walkway, tramping the daisies growing along the edge. A wrinkled toga streaked with purple stains draped his tall emaciated frame. Dark curly hair crowned his flushed horse face, and his breath reeked of too much wine. He appeared old than twenty-one years of age.
    “Lady Carataca wants to talk to you about your father’s death,” Camilla said.
    Didius stopped before Macha, his body still swaying. He glowered at Macha through cavernous bloodshot eyes before turning back to his mother. “Why?”
    “Because I have asked her to look into the matter of his death.”
    “Isn’t obvious?” Didius shouted, gesticulating wildly with his soft patrician hands. “He died of food poisoning.”
    “I think it may have been otherwise, dear,” Camilla said.
    “Well, I don’t!” He turned to Macha and jabbed a bony finger barely missing her face. “You are a woman and a barbarian. I don’t have to answer your questions.”
    Macha lightly touched her smooth face. “It is true my tall height, freckles, and red hair tell all of Rome that I was born a Celt, but I have lived as a Roman for twenty years.”
    “You can dress as a Roman, but you’re still not one us, and never will be.”
    “Didius, why are you so rude?” Camilla asked, obviouslly appalled by his conduct. “Her husband is Titus Antonius, Tribune of the Praetorian Guard.”
    He belched and spat. “He’s a Gaul.”
    “You know very well he was born in Rome. His late father was a senator.”
    “Roman born or not, they’re still barbarians.” Didius turned and staggered out of the garden.
    Visibly shaken, Camilla braced herself against the side of a high-back wicker chair. “I apologize for my son’s rude conduct. He is usually charming to the ladies.”
    “I’ve been subjected to worse, Camilla.” Macha also knew that Didius treated everyone in the household with disdain, family and slaves alike. She had even seen him treat his mother with disrespect before. But Macha knew when to hold her tongue. In most situations she would not hesitate to defend her heritage as a British Celt. Her father was the great British chieftain Caratacus, who had been captured by the Romans and pardoned by the Emperor Claudius. But it was useless arguing with a drunk.
    “Camilla, it occurred to me, won’t Didius inherit his father’s fortune?”
    “Yes, and he is certain to ruin us all. He is a notorious gambler and deeply in debt. We shall become paupers.”
    Could it be that Didius murdered his father to pay his debts and have enough money to continue gambling? Although he treated the family badly, Didius was a known coward. Killing his father didn’t seem to be an act he would attempt, but Macha couldn’t discount him as a suspect.
    “If your son wasn’t around to inherit the family fortune, who would be next in line?” Macha asked.
    “Why, me.” Camilla gasped. “Macha, you do not believe I would be so foolish as to murder my own husband?”
    “No, you’re not a fool. In the end you would lose everything including your life. Bear with me. I have to look at this matter from all sides and at everyone remotely connected to your husband’s death.”
    Camilla wrung her hands and shook her head. “I can’t believe anyone in my house would kill my husband.”
    “Where is your daughter, Camilla?”

* * *

    Macha left Camilla and found Diana, dressed in a long flowing yellow tunic, sitting on a stone bench in the garden between rows of oleanders and roses. She noted the striking resemblance in facial expression between Diana and Camilla, but that’s where the similarities ended. Unlike her elegant mother, Diana was short, round, and plain. Macha sat down beside the girl.
    “Is it true?” Diana’s voice rose barely above a whisper. “Does Mother think Papa was murdered? One of the slaves told me she asked you to question the household, including me and my brother.” She slumped in her seat not meeting Macha’s gaze.
    “She has her doubts.” Macha turned in Diana’s direction. “Don’t you find it unusual that your mother asked me and not the Watch to investigate your father’s death?”
    “No.” The young woman lifted her head and met Macha’s eyes for a brief second before shifting her gaze to the roses across the pathway.
    “Do you know why anyone would want to kill your father?”
    Diana shook her head.
    Macha stood and dabbed the perspiration from her nose and forehead with her handkerchief. Slowly, she walked to the far end of the bench. “Who would want him dead?”
    “No one. Mother loved Papa and...and so did my brother. Papa was always kind to our slaves.”
    “Your brother is heir to your father’s estate. Wouldn’t he use the money to pay his creditors?”
    Diana glared back at Macha with dark hostile eyes. “He wouldn’t kill father—I know it!”
    “You loved your father?”
    Camilla’s daughter straightened her shoulders and set her thick jaw. “Of course. I wanted to please him.”
    Macha set her full lips into a straight line. “Look at me, Diana. If you didn’t please him, were you punished?”
    Diana nodded.
    “What kind of punishment?”
    Silence.
    Macha resumed her seat beside Diana and placed a hand on the young woman’s warm arm. “He’s no longer here. You can tell me without risk to yourself.”
    “I can’t!” She sighed. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
    “Sometimes talking about it helps.”
    Diana shook her head.
    “Very well. How did you please him?” Macha pulled her hand away.
    She blushed, twisted her fleshy fingers, and turned away from Macha.
    “Surely, you can tell me something. No one is going to harm you.” Unconsciously, Macha crossed her sandaled feet.
    “The harm’s already been done!” Diana blurted. She shot her hand to her mouth.
    Macha got up but kept her aqua eyes on Diana. “I’m sorry to have to ask these questions when you’re still grieving the loss of your father.”
    For the length of a heartbeat Diana’s face tightened. She glanced at the red oleanders.
    “Beautiful aren’t they,” Macha said.
    Diana sighed. “I can still see them surrounding my father’s body.”
    The Celtic woman gestured to a bed of yellow roses. “Do you ever work in the garden?”
    She raised her thin eyebrows. “Holy Mother Vesta, no. I hate soiling my hands. I leave gardening to mother—she loves it.” Diana seemed relieved Macha had changed the subject.
    “What are her favorites?”
    “Roses, chrysanthemums, and,” she hesitated and nodded, “oh, yes, oleanders.”
    For a split second Macha pursed her lips and closed her eyes. “I hear your house has been plagued by rats. Has anything been done to get rid of them?”
    “Mother says the gardener uses oleander leaves as poison.”
    Diana glanced about. Abruptly, she stood. “I see where this is leading. Next you’ll accuse someone in my family of killing my father with rat poison. It’s not true.” She turned and hurried from the garden.
    As Macha was about to leave, she spied the gardener hovering near the roses, a little closer than she would have expected. What did he know about Mettius’s death? Macha motioned him to her bench. He dropped his pruning knife by a pile of chopped vines and approached her.
    “How much did you overhear, gardener?”
    “Nothing, lady.” He stopped several paces away from Macha and wiped his dirt-stained hands on his homespun tunic. He removed the wide-brimmed straw hat, covering close-cropped red hair, and held it in one hand.
    “There is no need to lie. Your secret is safe with me.”
    “I didn’t mean to overhear,” the wiry, leathery-faced man answered.
    Macha motioned him to step closer. “I don’t know what your mistress has told you, but at one time I was a slave. I may be free and married to a Roman, but I still try to protect slaves whenever possible.”
    “I’ve heard rumors that you won’t allow the torture of slaves.”
    Macha nodded. “What’s your name and where are you from?”
    “Mael, from Hibernia.”
    “Ah, the green island west of Britannia. I thought I recognized your Celtic accent. Will you help me?”
    The gardener narrowed his piercing gray eyes and searched the area around them before returning his gaze to Macha.
    “I don’t know if this helps,” he said, “but since the master’s dead, do you promise not to tell the mistress?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’ve heard tell the master took liberties with his daughter that weren’t natural. Did things with her only a wife or slave should know, if you understand my meaning.”
    The gardener’s words confirmed her suspicions. The idea a father would molest his own daughter nauseated Macha, but it was common practice in Rome. She braced herself against the wooden backside of the bench and straightened her shoulders before turning back to the slave.
    “Like I say, it’s just a rumor,” Mael continued. “He started when she was five and didn’t stop till she was fourteen.”
    Macha sucked in her breath. “Merciful gods. If that’s true, why did he stop?”
    “He liked them young,” Mael answered in a voice of disgust. “He found a little slave girl to replace her.”
    “How old is the girl, and where can I find her?”
    Mael spat through his chapped lips. “You can’t—he killed her.”
    “A child?”
    The gardener shook his head. “Who’s to say? It’s the master’s right.”
    Taking a deep breath, Macha mulled over the revelations. The slave stood quietly waiting for her to speak again. Diana didn’t seem capable of murder, but it appeared she had every reason to kill her father. How could she have been expected to forget the degrading of her body and soul for nine years?
    Did Camilla know about the molestations? Macha wondered.
    “I hear the mistress is an avid gardener,” Macha said.
    “Aye, ‘tis true. She loves her flowers.”
    “Even oleanders?”
    “Them too, especially of late.”
    “Since the master’s death?”
    Squinting his eyes, Mael snorted as if he knew what she was thinking. “No, before. ‘Course we had problems with rats so I asked her if I could cut off the leaves and use them for poison. She said she would take care of it. I cautioned her to be careful, because the residue from its powder might be deadly if she didn’t wash her hands. She still insisted on doing it.”
    “How much powder did she make?”
    “Not sure, but enough to kill the rats.”
    Macha raised an eyebrow and motioned to the garden’s far end. “Did she store it somewhere?”
    “Aye, in the tool shed—in four earthen jars, but they’re empty.”
    “Strange that she wouldn’t allow you to help.”
    “Her daughter helped her, and that was odd ‘cause she hates gardening.” Mael removed a dirty linen cloth from his tunic’s waistband wiping his sweaty hands and face once again.
    “How do you know?” Macha asked.
    He stuffed the cloth behind the band. “They did the grinding in the garden shed. I’d pass in and out and see ‘em when I’d get my tools.”
    Macha cleared her throat. “When did this rat problem start?”
    “About a month ago—killed most of them.”
    “Can you remember the last time you saw your mistress and Diana grinding leaves?”
    Mael squinted and for a moment peered skyward. “I think it was about a week before the master’s death.”

* * *

    As Mael departed, Macha stood on the walkway shaking her head, oblivious to the birds chirping and squawking as they flew or hopped about the trees and bushes. Even the fragrant odors of the garden’s variety of flowers seemed lost on her. More and more it appeared that Camilla, and perhaps Diana poisoned Mettius. Had Camilla decided enough was enough? Had she found the courage to take revenge on her husband to vindicate her own weakness? Perhaps she decided to place the blame on her son, thereby inheriting her husband’s fortune. The thought that her good friend, Camilla, could be a murderer terrified Macha.
    How can I confront the women and get them to admit they murdered Mettius? Or did they? Macha pondered how her husband, Titus, would approach the situation.
    She would question Diana again, the weaker of the two women. If her father had committed the acts alluded to by the gardener, then he was a monster. Yet if Diana poisoned Mettius it was deliberate murder.
    How would justice be served if Camilla and Diana had killed Mettius? That wasn’t for her to decide. As disgusting as she found the molestation, premeditated murder wasn’t the answer. She hoped the courts would show mercy and allow them to go into exile—the same right allowed male Roman citizens.
    Macha loathed the fact that with nearly every type of murder committed by a Roman citizen, the justice system literally allowed them to walk away untouched. Patricide was one of the few exceptions, considered the most heinous of all crimes. She shuddered thinking of its penalty. Victims were stripped naked, scourged, and then sewn into a sack that was also crammed with a dog, a cock, a monkey, and a snake. The sack was tossed into the nearest river, drowning the victims and animals alike. Did anyone deserve to suffer such a terrible fate? Not Camilla—no, not Camilla or Diane.

* * *

    She found Diana sitting on a stool in a corner of the tablinum. The young woman held a parchment scroll. Macha nodded and glanced about the library. The walls were lined with shelves from ceiling to floor, filled with scrolls and leather canisters containing more documents. A citrus wood desk inlaid with lapis-lazuli sat in the center of the room.
    Macha took a seat behind the desk. “What are you reading?”
    “The poems of Sappho of Lesbos,” Diana answered. “They are so beautiful. She can see into the depth of a woman’s soul.”
    “She had little use for men, did she?”
    “Men are such animals!”
    “Does that include your father?”
    Diana met Macha’s gaze briefly but did not answer.
    Macha summoned up the courage to ask the next question. “Your father used you as he would a slave or wife. Do you deny it?”
    Diana slowly shook her head up and down. Tears welled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks.
    Macha rose from the desk and stepped around the side placing one of her hands on Diana’s. She soothed the girl with a few comforting words until Diana had dried her tears.
    “I’m sorry to have seemed so harsh, Diana, but I had to be sure. I want the truth.”
    “I know,” she answered quietly.
    Macha sat on the edge of the desk looking down on Diana. “Is that why you poisoned your father? Because he abused you?”
    “No! Neither Mother nor I poisoned him. It was the gardener, Mael. The slave girl who replaced me was his daughter. She was barely five!”
    Macha shot straight to her feet. “Great Mother Goddess, no!
    “It’s all true, I swear it.”
    Attempting to recover from her shock and thinking about her next question, Macha paced the room. Diana twisted her hands.
    “He didn’t mention that he had a family,” Macha said.
    “Papa bought Mael, his wife, and daughter about five years ago from a slave trader who brought them from Hibernia.”
    Macha stopped by the wall of scrolls. “How do you know he killed your father?”
    “I heard him swear an oath that one day he would.”
    “When and where?”
    “Two years ago, the day after his daughter died. I overheard him when I passed the tool shed. He was inside, weeping. I heard him say that someday he would find a way to revenge his daughter’s death. I thought it was the empty words of a grieving man.
    “But on the day Papa died, I saw Mael in the tool shed putting oleander powder into a pouch. The door was ajar and I watched him. I knew what he was going to do, and I didn’t stop him. I was too afraid of killing Father myself.” Diana paused and gazed at the floor.
    “Please continue,” Macha said.
    Diana sighed and clasped her hands together. “He went to the kitchen. Mael brings herbs from our garden to the cook before every meal and eats while he is there. So I went with my mother when she inspected the meal to see how he would poison papa’s food. Mael was in the kitchen when we arrived. I caught a glimpse of the pouch tucked behind the belt. No one seemed to notice but me. He must have put the poison in the sauce before we got there.”
    Macha pulled the chair from behind the desk and sat next to Diana. “What makes you think so?”
    “Mother was very fussy about the sauce. She must have thought something was wrong with it. I glanced to the floor in front of the hearth where it was cooking, and I saw a tiny bit of powder. I thought it was oleander. That’s why I kept distracting the cook: I was sure he would spot it. When Mother moved away, I casually walked by the hearth and scraped my shoe across the powder spreading it to nothing.”
    Macha flinched and wiped her hands on side of her stola. “There were other slaves working in the kitchen. Didn’t they see you?”
    “No. They keep themselves busy when Mother is around, especially, Mael’s wife, Bridget. Mother has beaten her for not keeping her area clean.”
    “I didn’t know the gardener’s wife worked in the kitchen. Which one is she?”
    “She’s the tallest one and wears her hair in a bun.”
    Macha remembered the woman filleting the red snapper when she first entered the kitchen with Camilla.
    “Does your mother know anything about this?” Macha asked.
    Diana shook her head.
    “So you allowed your father to be murdered.”
    She nodded. “He deserved to die. He did such awful things to me. I didn’t have the courage to kill him myself. I was glad Mael did it. Are you going to tell Mother?”
    “I will speak to Mael first and see if he admits to it.”
    “If he doesn’t?”
    “I will decide then what to do. But I’m still puzzled. Why would your mother want me to make inquiries?”
    “She wanted you to exonerate my brother, and she trusted you to be discreet. All Rome knows how you proved your husband’s innocence when he was accused of treason. Your bravery in killing two assassins is still the talk of the city.”

* * *

    Macha found Mael heading rose bushes. He dropped his knife, removed his hat, and greeted her.
    For an instant Macha hesitated. The pruning knife was still within Mael’s reach. She stepped back from the gardener a couple of paces and looked about, seeing no one. Her lips and tongue went dry, her palms damp. Still she had to take a risk. Tall as the Celt, she searched his melancholy eyes. “Mael, I know you poisoned your master.”
    Mael raised his hand in protest.
    “It’s useless. Diana saw you with the oleander powder. You know who her mother would believe, don’t you? Although I won’t be part of torture, I can’t guarantee it won’t happen once I leave the house.”
    The color drained from Mael’s sun-baked face. He swallowed and his eyes darted about fixing on the knife for a split second. He glanced to Macha and back to the weapon. For the space of a few heartbeats a tense silence passed between them. Slowly, Macha backed another step.
    The gardener exhaled and slumped to a bench. “What good would it do to deny it? Whatever the truth be, I’m doomed.”
    Quickly, Macha retrieved the weapon before Mael changed his mind. Like any Celtic girl, her father had taught her to throw a knife with deadly accuracy.
    “Did you poison your master?” Macha asked.
    “Yes,” he answered in a strong voice.
    “Why?”
    “You know the reason,” he growled as if he were a wounded bear. “He molested and murdered my daughter.”
    Macha’s head snapped backwards as if she had been slapped. Noise rushed through her ears like ocean waves crashing on the beach. For a moment she remained speechless while pulling her thoughts together. What a monster. Finally, she asked, “Was anyone else involved with the killing of your master?”
    “Me alone, but there was someone else who wanted to kill him. You must believe me.”
    “Who?”
    “The young master, Didius.”
    Macha wasn’t surprised by Mael’s revelation. But she believed Didius too cowardly to involve himself.
    “Why did he want to murder his father?”
    “He needed his inheritance to pay his debts. He offered to set me free and give me fifty gold pieces if I would kill his father.”
    Macha gulped and swallowed. “That’s a small fortune. Why you and not someone else?”
    Mael balled his hands into fists but kept them at his side. “Because he knew I was still enraged about my daughter’s murder even though it happened two years ago. I was the right person.” He bared yellowed teeth. “That monster did terrible things to my little girl.”
    As Mael grew agitated, Macha kept hidden her own growing nervousness. “When did Didius ask you?” she asked in an even voice.
    “Last month, but I told him I would think about it.”
    She cricked her head to one side. “Oh? Why was that?”
    “I was suspicious. I was sure he would murder me later to keep my silence. Besides,” he added in a calmer voice, “I wanted to kill the master in my own way and time.”
    Macha shook her head, disgusted by the whole ordeal. She studied the gardener’s pleading eyes, turned away, and took a deep breath. Would justice be truly served if she informed Camilla? Macha had no stake in this sordid matter. Diana and Mael’s daughter had suffered terribly at the hands of Mettius. Like the rats that infested their house, Mettius had deserved death. Macha knew what it was like to be a slave and at the mercy of a master. No slave deserved such degradation and cruelly.
    Legally, she knew she had to report what she had learned to her husband, an officer in the Praetorian Guard. If Titus learned she’d withheld information, he would confine her to the house, or worse! She came to a decision.
    “Mael, I won’t tell your mistress anything. You and your wife have suffered enough.”
    Trembling, he went down on one knee in supplication. “Thank you, lady. May great Lugh bless you.”
    “Remember, this conversation never took place.”

* * *

    As Macha strolled into the atrium, she encountered Camilla standing near the shrine of the household gods.
    “I’ve just had a most revealing conversation with Diana,” Macha said as she halted by Camilla’s side. “Do you deny Diana was molested by Mettius for nine years?”
    “She told you?”
    “Should I doubt her?”
    Camilla screwed up her face, body quivering as she attempted hold back the tears. “It’s true. I know incest is against the law, but I am so weak. I did nothing to stop him. Nothing!” Tears rolled down the sides of her narrow cheeks.
    Quietly, Macha waited until Camilla’s sobbing subsided. She understood even though she found the whole travesty revolting. Had Camilla interfered, Mettius as head of the household could have killed her.
    The matron removed her handkerchief and dried her eyes. “I’m sorry, Macha.”
    “You needn’t apologize. You and Diana have been through enough.”
    “What does this have to do with my husband’s death?”
    “Everything and nothing.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Macha stepped to the empty impluvium, the tiled shallow pool in the middle of the atrium used for catching rain. Camilla followed in her wake.
    “You have to admit Diana had every reason to kill your husband, but she did not.”
    “I am thankful to hear that.”
    “Your son wanted him dead as well.”
    “Not Didius! How can you say that?”
    “He tried bribing the gardener, but Mael refused.” That part was true as far as it went.
    “Then who did murder my husband?”
    Macha shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve done all I can for you.” Macha hated lying: it wasn’t part of her nature.
    “I must return home,” Macha continued. “My son needs me.”

* * *

    A month passed, and a sense of peace settled over the House of Camilla. The click of pruning shears echoed through the garden, now in the hands of a new gardener. Within a week of Macha’s inquiries, Didius departed on a trip to the East for an indefinite time. Macha learned from her freedwoman, Shafer, through her slave contacts that Mael and his wife had committed suicide by taking rat poison.
    “But why?” Macha asked, shocked by the revelation.
    “Before his wife died, she told another slave she had poisoned the master, in revenge for killing her daughter,” Shafer answered. “Her husband had wanted to confess to the murder, but she would not allow it. He did not want to live without his wife, and they died together. It’s a shame because Mettius deserved death for what he did to the young ones.”
    Macha wiped tears from her eyes. Men! They always have their way. It had all been so sordid. Can I ever forget—keep Camilla as a friend? No.
    If only I could go back to Britannia where life is clean. But I must live here and pray to the gods to give me courage and do what they require of me.

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