SPQR VIII: The River God's Vengeance

by John Maddox Roberts

  SPQR VIII

  THE

  RIVER GOD’S

  VENGEANCE

  SPQR

  Senatus Populusque Romanus

  The Senate and the People of Rome

  Also by

  JOHN MADDOX ROBERTS

  SPQR Series

  SPQR I: The King’s Gambit

  SPQR II: The Catiline Conspiracy

  SPQR III: The Sacrilege

  SPQR IV: The Temple of the Muses

  SPQR V: Saturnalia

  SPQR VI: Nobody Loves a Centurion

  SPQR VII: The Tribune’s Curse

  The Gabe Treloar Series

  The Ghosts of Saigon

  Desperate Highways

  A Typical American Town

  SPQR VIII

  THE

  RIVER GOD’S

  VENGEANCE

  John Maddox Roberts

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS

  ST. MARTIN’S MINOTAUR

  NEW YORK

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

  SPQR VIII: THE RIVER GOD’S VENGEANCE. Copyright © 2004 by John Maddox Roberts.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Roberts, John Maddox.

  SPQR VIII : the river god’s vengeance / John Maddox Roberts.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-312-32319-0

  1. Metellus, Decius Caecilius (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Rome— History—Republic, 265–30 B.C.—Fiction. 3. Private investigators— Rome—Fiction. 4. Tenement houses—Fiction. I. Title: SPQR 8. II. Title: River god’s vengeance. III. Title.

  PS3568.O23874S676 2004

  813′.54—dc22

  2003058560

  First Edition: January 2004

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Barbie Light

  Thirty years was too long to be out of touch.

  SPQR VIII

  THE

  RIVER GOD’S

  VENGEANCE

  SPQR

  Senatus Populusque Romanus

  The Senate and the People of Rome

  1

  IT WAS THE WORST YEAR IN the history of Rome. Well, perhaps it wasn’t quite that bad. There was, for instance, the year that Hannibal defeated our legions at Lake Trasimene, and the year Hannibal obliterated our legions at Cannae. We learned a great deal from Hannibal. Perhaps the worst was the year Brennus and his Gauls overran the City, put it to the sack, and levied an extravagant tribute. In return he gave us one of our best epigrams. When the tribute was weighed out and the consuls protested that the weights were dishonest, the Gaul tossed his sword onto the balance tray and said, “Woe to the vanquished!” He had an excellent grasp of Latin for a Gaul. We took this lesson to heart and applied it ruthlessly to everyone who fell afoul of us in subsequent years.

  But those things had happened centuries before. This was by far the worst year the City had endured in my lifetime. The year of Catilina’s conspiracy was a festival by comparison.

  In the streets, the gangs of Clodius and Milo, of Plautius Hypsaeus, and several others clashed and rioted daily, abetted by a corrupt Senate whose members clucked collectively over the disorder while, privately and individually, they all supported one gang or another. The political situation was so chaotic that no one was certain, from one day to the next, who held the consulship. If Rome’s enemies could have seen how things were in the City, they would have stood amazed.

  We did not lack for enemies that year. In the East, Crassus waged desultory war against a series of mostly unoffending nations, gathering strength and treasure for his projected war against Parthia. In the North, Caesar seemed determined to exterminate the entire Gaulish race. Not only that, but he had even made an assault upon the misty, myth-shrouded island of Britannia. The commons praised Caesar’s martial efforts because it is always pleasant to contemplate the slaughter of foreigners at a great distance. But the treasures fiowing Romeward from Gaul were more than offset by the hordes of cheap Gaulish slaves fiooding Italy, further depressing the value of everything, driving the few remaining southern Italian peasants off their land to make way for the ever-expanding, slave-worked latifundia.

  As you may well imagine, this was the ideal time for me, Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, to rise up and fulfill my destiny as the savior of the State, but I couldn’t because I was too busy. This was the year of my aedileship.

  Of all the offices of the Roman State, that of aedile is the most onerous, disagreeable, demanding, and, by a huge margin, the most expensive. The aediles have oversight of the markets, streets, and buildings of the cities. They have to prosecute usury, assure the honesty of building contractors, drive forbidden cults from the City, keep the sewers and drains clean and in working order, and inspect the brothels.

  Worst of all are the Games.

  The ludi are the official Games of the State, and they include plays in the theaters, chariot races, public feasts, and all the special celebrations in honor of the gods. The State provides only a stingy allotment for these activities, the sums set in a day when Rome and the Games were far smaller than they are now. Any cost beyond the allotment, which is to say about 90 percent of the expense by that time, have to be paid for by the aediles themselves.

  And then there were the munera. For munera you needed wild beasts and gladiators, and a single munera could easily cost more than all the other Games of the year put together. Foreigners often think that the munera are State Games, but they are not. They are funeral games put on entirely at the expense of individuals. In the past, certain aediles, courting popularity, put on munera along with their required ludi. Soon, the populace expected and demanded them.

  The ironic thing was that the aedileship was not strictly required for election to higher office. Theoretically, one was allowed to stand for the praetorship after a successful quaestorship, assuming that the age requirement was met. In reality, any such ambition was laughably futile. Your only hope of being elected praetor lay with the voters, who would elect you only if you had provided them with memorable Games. Hence, election to the highest offices was possible only if you had incurred the ruinous expenses of the aedileship.

  Unless you were Pompey, of course. He was always the exception to the rules that applied to everyone else, even Caesar and Crassus. Pompey was elected consul without ever holding a single one of the lower offices. But then, much may be forgiven a hugely successful general whose unbelievably loyal legions lay encamped outside the gates.

  The result was that the aedileship loaded the office holder with debts that would take years to pay off. It may be wondered that the officials in charge of ferreting out corruption were precisely the ones in debt and constantly in need of money. It was just one of the anomalies of our creaky, outdated, old republican system, a system that was soon to end, although we didn’t know that at the time.

  Needless to say, my mind at the time was not upon the forthcoming death of the Republic, nor even upon my debts, which I knew to be inevitable. My thoughts were fully occupied by my multitude of duties, by the incredible burden of office. By the time I was no more than one-quarter of the way through the year of my aedileship, I was certain that things could not get worse. As usual, I was wrong.

  It all began when a building collapsed.

  “ANOTHER BODY
HERE!” THE public slave yelled, already bored with his task. It was perhaps the fiftieth corpse to be discovered in the ruins. The building was, or rather had been, to keep my tenses straight, a five-story insula of a sort becoming distressingly common in Rome at that time—a hulking block of low-grade timber and masonry, jammed with as many impoverished families as could be crammed into its upper stories, with a few decent quality fiats occupied by the well-to-do and modestly wealthy on the two lowest fioors, the ones with running water. Shops were usually at street level, but this one had been strictly residential. Sometimes a single insula covered an entire city block. They were crowded, dark, verminous, and as fiammable as an oil-soaked funeral pyre.

  Oh, well, I suppose the poor had to live someplace. The occasional earthquake would bring down scores of them, and no small number collapsed from the ravages of neglect and inferior construction.

  What made the one where we were working now so distressing was that it was all but new, its mortar scarcely dry, its wood still smelling sweetly of resin. This was not supposed to happen. Which is not to say that it did not happen anyway and with some frequency. The laws concerning building materials and standards of construction were rigid, specific, and fiouted quite openly. It was much cheaper to bribe an official than to build according to the law.

  “Bring out the body,” I ordered the team of slaves who stood by with their tools and stretchers. These slaves were a degraded lot, the ones who tended the Puticuli, the public burial pits outside the City. They had this job because they had no qualms about handling corpses. In a disaster like this one, there was no way to perform the purification rites until the bodies were taken from the wreckage and laid out where the Libitinarii, the undertakers, could attend to them.

  By this time, there was a long row of such corpses lying in the little plaza before the collapsed insula, many of them terribly mangled, others scarcely marked and probably victims of suffocation. There were infants and old people, young men and women, slave and free. A great throng of people milled around them, trying to identify relatives and loved ones, sobbing and apprehensive. There was a general, low-level moaning to be heard, interrupted from time to time by a loud, wailing outcry as some woman recognized a husband, father, or child among the dead.

  There had been few survivors, and those had been carried off to the Tiber Island, where such aid as could be provided would be given them and their screams and groans would not add to the uproar.

  “Way!” came a lictor’s bellow. “Way for the Interrex!“ A double line of lictors pushed their way into the plaza, shoving the mourners and gawkers aside with their fasces. Behind them came the man who had all the power and prestige of a consul but not the title or the proconsular appointment. There had been such scandals and riots and lawsuits over the previous year’s elections that the consuls had not been allowed to take office yet, so an interrex had been appointed to preside in their place. This one happened to be a kinsman of mine, the resoundingly named Quintus Caecilius Metellus Pius Scipio Nasica.

  “How many dead?” he asked me.

  “About fifty so far,” I told him, “but we’ve only cleared away the upper stories. There’ll be more. Do you think this rates a day of mourning?” Metellus Scipio was a pontifex as well and could declare one.

  “If the list of dead is outrageously high, or if someone of note is found in there, I’ll call for one in the Senate. It seems rather pointless, though. This year has been so bloody already that the whole City should be wearing black togas and growing beards.”

  “All too true,” I said, “but I’m going to bring charges against whoever built this atrocity. A brand-new insula has no business collapsing without an earthquake. There hasn’t even been time for termites to get at it.”

  “At least there wasn’t a fire,” he observed. When such a building collapsed upon cooking and heating fires, the resulting fiames could spread all over the City.

  “A little blessing from Jupiter,” I said. “It happened just before dawn. No fires lit yet, and the night-lights all burned out.”

  “Tragic,” he mused, “but it could have been worse. Find out who’s responsible, and bring me his name. You’re going to be too busy to prosecute, but we can find one of the rising young family members to hand it to. My younger son can use the experience.” Naturally, he would try to use the catastrophe for family political advantage; we did that sort of thing all the time. It was his next revelation that stunned me.

  “By the way, speaking of my children”—he looked around to be sure that no one was eavesdropping—”keep this to yourself for a while, but the family has agreed that my daughter is to marry Pompey.”

  “Are you serious? We’ve been fighting Pompey for years!” I was more than a bit put out that I hadn’t been let in on the deliberations. Despite my age, dignity, and experience, the elders of my family still thought me too young and unreliable to attend their councils.

  “It’s been decided that it is time to renegotiate some alliances.”

  He didn’t have to spell it out for me. The family had decided that Caesar was now the more dangerous man.

  “But Pompey’s supporters have been calling for a dictatorship! We’re not going to support them, are we? I’ll go into voluntary exile first.”

  He sighed. “Decius, if you only knew how many of the older men have been calling for your exile anyway. No, don’t go all dramatic on us; we’re going to work something out that will satisfy everyone.”

  “I’ve heard that sort of talk before. I believe in the principle of compromise, but if you’ve figured out an office between consul and dictator, I’d love to hear about it.”

  “Give it time,” he said. “Just find out who’s responsible for this,” he made a broad gesture toward the heap of rubble, “and let the higher councils deal with Pompey.”

  Pompey was proconsul of both Spanish provinces that year, but they were peaceful so he let his legates run them while he stayed in Italy to oversee the chaotic grain supply— and, it seemed, to negotiate an advantageous marriage.

  I should have expected it. A similar bout of fence-mending a few years before had resulted in my betrothal and eventual marriage to Julia, Caesar’s niece. I shuddered to contemplate how Julia would react to this change in the family position.

  All through the day the public slaves labored over the wreckage, loading the rubble onto carts to be hauled out to one of the City’s refuse dumps, most of them landfills to create level ground for the ever-expanding suburbs beyond the ancient walls. These slaves were not actually owned by the State, which owned relatively few slaves at this time. They were owned by the publicanus, who held the contract for this sort of work. The carts and oxen were his as well.

  The man himself stood by one of the carts, making notes with a stylus on a wax tablet, apparently keeping a talley of the carts and their loads. He was a big, tough-looking specimen, as unskilled labor contractors often are. Their slaves are the dregs of the market, sometimes criminals or insurrectionists sold off in gangs by foreign kings. He nodded curtly as I approached him.

  “Good day, Aedile. Some mess, eh?”

  “Very much so, and I find myself wondering why.” I rapped a fiat facing brick. “Everything is new and seemingly sound.”

  “Looks so, doesn’t it?” He handed the tablet to a secretary and took one of the bricks from the cart. Pinching off a bit of mortar, he squeezed it between a thick finger and thumb, where it crumbled to powder. “Cheap mortar, for one thing, but that’s not why it fell. See, they always make the part above ground look good, else how are they going to get tenants to move in? But I’ll wager that when we get to the basement, we’ll find rotten timber and not enough of it. The upright supports are supposed to be spaced no more than an Egyptian cubit apart, but I’ve seen them spaced so you can lie down comfortably between them. The foundations won’t be dug deep enough, and they’ll be resting on river mud instead of a man’s height in gravel, as the code requires. Where you can’t see it readily, th
e builders cut every cost they can.”

  “Disgraceful,” I said, disgusted but far from shocked. “How do they get away with it? Why don’t all the buildings collapse?”

  He gave me a smile of genial cynicism. “Usually they don’t last long enough. How often does an insula like this last as long as ten years before a fire gets it? And who’s going to notice the code violations then?”

  “Every builder in Rome should be fiogged in the Circus,” I said.

  “Well, that’s the aediles’ job, isn’t it?” His implication was clear: Every one of my predecessors in office had been bribed to look the other way when these death traps had been erected.

  “I may need you to testify in court,” I told him.

  “Always at the service of Senate and People,” he said with that marvelous, toadying humility that only large, brutal men can display when dealing with superiors.

  “Your name?”

  “Marcus Caninus, sir.”

  “And you received your contract from?”

  “The Censor Valerius, sir.” This was Marcus Valerius Messala Niger, the consul of some seven years previous and still censor the year before I took this burdensome office.

  I looked around for Hermes, my personal slave, who carried all my writing materials and was supposed to be standing by to take notes. As usual, he was nowhere to be seen. I began to stalk around the site, plotting his punishment.

  Eventually I found him standing by one of the rubble carts, this one piled with wooden beams. He was amusing himself with an ancient Roman pastime, carving his name on the timbers. Every wall, monument, and tree in Rome bear these blessings of widespread literacy. The graffito is the only art form we did not steal from the Greeks or the Etruscans.

  “Improving your skills as a scribe, Hermes?” I asked.

  He refolded his knife, stuck it beneath his tunic belt, and affected not to notice my ominous tone. “This is fresh wood,” he said, tapping the newly carved letters of his name. I had to admit he had carved the letters with some precision. Beads of sap oozed from the incised lines.