SPQR VIII: The River God's Vengeance

by John Maddox Roberts

  I left the salvage yard with much to think about.

  8

  NEAR THE GATE WE STOPPED AT a little tavern. The sun was well up, and I needed a pause to think. Also, it was time for a drink and something to eat. Who knew when I’d get a chance again? We found a table against a wall of white stucco beneath an arbor that was all but bare so early in the year. Light fell through the arbor in lozenge-shaped patches, making the table, the fioor, and ourselves look like pictures in mosaic. I ordered the wine to be very lightly watered, and we used it to wash down oil-dipped bread and olives for a while.

  Hermes spoke first. “It was the big slave, wasn’t it?”

  “Had to be,” I concurred. “That’s why he was dressed, and it’s why he was trapped there standing. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. It was pretty far-fetched to think he dropped there, landed on his feet, and got pinned there that way. He drilled one hole too many, and the building came down too fast.”

  “Why did he do it?” Hermes wondered. “Just to kill the master and mistress? I can understand why he’d want to. You saw how they treated their slaves. But why kill more than two hundred people just to get rid of them?”

  “I suspect he did kill them, personally,” I said. “He could have broken their necks easily, then gone down to the basement to bore those last few holes, figuring to disguise the murder as an accident. But he didn’t step lively enough.”

  Hermes shook his head. “It still doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Revenge was a good enough motivation for the slave, but it doesn’t explain how everyone else has been acting since the disaster. He may have had a personal justification for ridding the world of those two, but someone must have put him up to the final deed.”

  In a bit of spilled wine my fingertip traced a circle, then drew a slash across it. It took me a moment to realize what I had unconsciously drawn: the Greek letter “theta.” In the shorthand of the Games, it stands for Thanatos: killed. After the munera, this symbol is scratched on the walls, following the names of the gladiators who have been slain.

  “Two names keep cropping up,” I said. “Marcus Valerius Messala Niger and Marcus Aemilius Scaurus.”

  “Those are two important names,” Hermes pointed out.

  “Yes, and Valerius Messala is in the process of weaseling himself into the political affairs of my family. The family has been hinting heavily that I should drop this investigation.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “And let someone get away with murdering a whole insula full of people, free and slave?”

  Hermes spread his hands. “I’m just a slave; I do as I’m told. But if your family is against your prosecuting the people responsible for this, you are going to have some serious trouble accomplishing anything.”

  I mused, almost to myself, “They have been doing a number of things I am having trouble countenancing. Hermes, do you know why my family is so important?”

  He was taken aback. “Well, yours is one of the most ancient of the noble names—”

  “Certainly. But the Caesars are even more ancient, and they’ve amounted to nothing for centuries. Caius Julius is the first to win real distinction since Rome had kings. No, we Metelli have supplied Rome with praetors and consuls and censors since before written records, but we’ve dominated Roman politics for the last thirty years for one reason: We backed Sulla against Marius. When Sulla was dictator, the men who are now elders of the family, and some who are now dead, were his most forceful supporters: Celer, Pius, Creticus, old Numidicus, and my father.”

  Hermes shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t take much interest in politics or history. It’s not a slave’s business.”

  “What a liar you are. And a poor liar, at that. Those big fiap ears of yours take in anything that’s to your advantage. And as my personal slave, you have to know more about politics than most senators. Well, go ahead, pretend to be stupid. You may live longer that way.”

  To some it may seem strange that I would speak so openly to a slave. But the fact is that Rome has never been a place where the status of slave was a life sentence. A capable slave, or a lucky one, like Justus, could expect to be manumitted and then rise in the world. After a generation or two, all taint of servitude was forgotten. In the Senate, I sat beside many men whose grandfathers had been slaves. On occasion, even that generational period was waived. Many well-born men who were sonless adopted an especially esteemed freedman to carry on the family name with full privileges, the same as if he had been born into it.

  And I fully expected to manumit Hermes, as soon as he showed the faintest sign of a sense of responsibility. As my freedman, he would still be bound to me by bonds of patronage, but he would be a free man, able to vote in the Assemblies, own property, and marry at will. I had been at some pains to educate him for this eventual role. I have mentioned his criminal proclivities, but I had a few of those myself. As Rome was in those days, it was no bad thing for a man to have a bit of the criminal and the thug in his character. It made survival a greater likelihood. Rome has changed, of course. Since the First Citizen’s reforms, the desirable qualities are those of the toady, the lickspittle, and the informer.

  “It is clear that I am going to have to tread carefully. I may have to go armed again. From now on we can expect to be attacked. In ordinary times, even the gangs have avoided violence against a serving magistrate; but these are not ordinary times, and it isn’t as if I were a praetor or consul. A plebeian aedile doesn’t rate that high.” In the past I had usually carried concealed weapons while in the City, skirting the law for the sake of my own hide. I had fondly hoped that my office conferred some sort of immunity, but that hope was fading fast.

  Hermes was fidgeting impatiently.

  “You have something to say?” I asked.

  “Why must you always think as if you must act alone? You have friends, allies, even political opponents who would be willing to help.”

  I considered this. “In the past, I’ve availed myself of Milo’s aid, but that would look very bad now. He’s responsible for a good deal of the bloodshed in the streets, and he wants to be consul next year. There is too much wrangling among the consular and proconsular persons just now to expect help from that quarter, and it looks as if Messala will be interrex soon. It’s like trying to separate fighting elephants. I’d be trampled. Besides, he was among the first to warn me against this investigation. Infiuential clients of his are worried about it.”

  “What about Cicero? He loves to prosecute, and he’s always liked you.”

  “Liking is a fieeting thing,” I pointed out. “I revere and admire Cicero, but he’s growing obsessive in his opposition to Caesar. He knows that Caesar, for whatever insane reason, values me. And I’m married to Caesar’s niece. Right now those things outweigh any lingering affection he feels for me. If I were to approach Cicero on this, he would suspect that Caesar was playing some subtle game, using me as a cat’spaw.”

  “Then what about Cato?” Hermes asked, exasperated.

  “Cato?” I barked. “I detest Cato!”

  “So what? You need help, not love! He was a great tribune of the plebs. The whole population sings his praises as upright and incorruptible, the enemy of all corruption and impiety, and, best of all, he is absolutely fearless! He’s taken on the whole Senate more than once. He took Cicero’s part when people called for his exile if not execution. He’s turned down bribes that would have tempted a pharaoh, and he doesn’t even know how much you loathe him because he’s too thick-skinned to notice your insults!”

  So much for Hermes’s ignorance of political affairs. I didn’t like even to contemplate going to Cato for help; then again, I didn’t like being in Caesar’s camp, either, but there I was. Everything Hermes said about the man was true. A great many Roman politicians made a public show of antique virtue and incorruptibility, contempt for greed and foreign luxury. They were all lying hypocrites, except for Cato. He meant every word, and he practiced
as he preached. It didn’t make me like him any better. Reasonable laxity of character and a pleasing personality have always been more to my liking.

  “Let me consider this,” I said. “We have the Libitinarii to question first. Then perhaps I can nerve myself up to talking with the glorious Marcus Porcius Cato.”

  The Libitinarii of Rome had their district surrounding the Temple of Venus Libitina. We identify Venus with the Greek Aphrodite, but the pretty, mischievous Greek deity has no aspect as a death goddess. Our Libitina is different. We Romans see no contradiction in having one goddess to preside over both copulation and death, since you pretty much have to have the one before you can have the other.

  Neither the Libitinarii nor their establishments are especially gloomy, since we are very fond of funerals. We figure that you are only going to get one funeral, and it is the last thing people will remember about you, so it might as well be gaudy. The Libitinarii, with their bizarre Etruscan trappings, are frightening figures; but that is mainly because they deal with corpses that are still in their dangerous, recently dead state. Romans have little fear of death or the dead, but we are horrified of the ritual contamination of death. Once the Libitinarii have carried out the lustrum that purifies the corpse, we are much easier about the whole business.

  The establishments of the Libitinarii in this quarter were built, not like shops nor like factories, but rather like houses, with alterations suitable to their purpose. A little asking brought me to the business of Sextus Volturnus. Libitinarii favor Etruscan names, even if they are not of that ancestry. We have always associated the Etruscans with the underworld deities, since they are so fond of them.

  This house looked little different from my own, except that the gate that opened onto the street featured a double door and was far taller. This was so that pallbearers carrying a corpse on a litter could pass through easily. It was almost twice a man’s height, since some people still preferred to be carried to the pyre sitting upright in a chair. The atrium was very large for the convenience of those who would lie in state at the funeral house instead of in their own homes. This allowed for more visitors than most houses could comfortably accommodate. All was painted in bright colors, with many fioral designs and frescoes of the open countryside, nothing to associate with death or the underworld.

  The man who came forward as I entered the spacious atrium of the place wore the only symbol in sight of his profession: a black toga. This was not merely the dingy, brown toga most of us wore when in mourning, but a genuine, midnight black toga. Somehow, in the cheery surroundings, it looked all the more ominous. His expression, when he saw me, was stricken.

  “A great Roman has died!” he intoned. “Alas!”

  “Eh?” I said. “See here, I am the Aedile Metellus—”

  He clasped his hands together, all but squeezing the blood from them. “The gods forbid it! Your father, the great censor, has left us! All Rome will weep! Sir, if you will leave all the arrangements to me, I shall be honored to—”

  “Nothing like that!” I said. “Nobody has died. Nobody in my family, anyway. I need to inquire into the disposition of a couple of corpses I sent here yesterday morning.”

  “Oh.” He lowered his hands to his sides, severe disappointment written upon his face. “That would be Lucius Folius and his wife.”

  “It would.” I was beginning to wonder whether the woman had ever had a name. “I sent a physician here to examine them for signs of foul play, and he informed me that they had been taken away.”

  “They were. Barring any instructions to the contrary, it is customary to surrender the bodies of the dead to whatever heirs or others who wish to remove them for cremation and interment. Since these rites were to be performed in their ancestral town of Bovillae, there was no need to keep them here.”

  “And this heir was one Caius Folius?”

  “So he said.”

  “Did he provide any proof of identity?” I asked him.

  The man was totally mystified. “Is there some sort of law requiring this? I certainly never heard of such a thing. Proof of identity? What would that be? And who would claim a body without cause? These weren’t like the mummies of pharaohs, decked out in gold and jewels. They were just a pair of corpses getting no more fragrant with the passage of time.” He was growing quite indignant.

  “I get your point,” I said, holding out a palm for peace. “Did this Caius Folius claim that he was a son of the late couple?”

  “Not likely. He looked older than either of them, and I took him for a brother or cousin or some such relative.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Balding, plump, wore a lot of rings. He looked rather nondescript altogether”—he thought for a moment—”except for his nose.”

  “What was singular about his nose?”

  “He had a large, wine-colored wart on it. If I’d been getting him ready for the pyre, I’d have dusted it with powder to make it less glaring.”

  “Thank you, Sextus Volturnus,” I said, grasping both his clammy hands in mine. “You’ve been a great help!”

  “If you say so. Please keep me in mind should any of your illustrious relatives depart.”

  We left the funeral home and turned our steps toward the Forum. So Juventius, the steward of Aemilius Scaurus, had claimed the bodies of the late Folii; and they were, in all likelihood, on their way to Bovillae with Aemilius himself. Why? That, along with a great many other questions, remained to be answered.

  Cato wasn’t hard to find. He never was.

  Marcus Porcius Cato was the enemy of all things modern or foreign. These things included sleeping late, eating well, bathing in hot water, and enjoying anything beautiful. He studied philosophy and even wrote philosophical tracts, but he was naturally attracted to the Stoics since they were the most disagreeable of all the Greeks. He believed that all virtue resided in the practices of our ancestors, and that the only path to greatness lay in narrow adherence to those practices. He revered above all others his ancestor Cato the Censor, the most repulsive man among all Rome’s many disgusting personages, most of whom were content to be cruel and vicious on their own behalf. Cato the Censor wanted everyone to be as nasty as he was.

  There was a trial that morning in the Basilica Opimia, and I was sure that Cato would attend because it was a capital case and he had been complaining that Roman juries hadn’t been demanding harsh enough sentences lately. He would want to be there to press for the most savage punishments decreed by his revered ancestors.

  Sure enough, there he was on a bench, surrounded by his cronies, many of whom affected his “antique simplicity.” Despite the coolness of the weather, he eschewed a tunic, wearing only a primitive, square-cut toga that draped him awkwardly, leaving half his torso bare. Instead of having his hair cut and styled by a barber, he shaved his head every month or so, so that he sported an uneven stubble over his whole scalp.

  When he saw me, he got to his bare feet. He thought sandals to be an effeminate luxury, unworthy of our barefoot ancestors, and wore footgear only when campaigning with the army. He was not a large or imposing man and was not particularly powerful, but he refused to recognize any weakness in himself and so was capable of extraordinary feats of strength and endurance through sheer stubbornness.

  “Hail, Aedile!” he cried, like a soldier saluting his general as Imperator.

  “And a fine morning to you, Marcus Porcius Cato,” I said. “Did you get the felon cut in two with a timber saw or torn to bits by Mollosian hounds or whatever the punishment was?”

  “It was a woman who poisoned her husband, and the jury voted for exile just because the man had been beating her regularly.” I did not know whether his grimace of distaste was for the mild punishment or my own levity, another thing of which he disapproved. He had no sense of humor whatsoever.

  “Well, better luck next time. Marcus Porcius, I may soon need your help on a matter pertaining to my activities as aedile.”

  His perpetual fr
own deepened. “You have seldom sought my help in the past,” he said. “Never, now that I think of it. Why now?”

  “Because my usual sources of support have turned their backs on me, and for once I think you will approve of what I am doing.”

  “That would indeed be a prodigy,” he said, with his usual, heavy sarcasm. “I am listening.”

  So I told him of my investigation and where it had led me. His expression did not change throughout the recital, but I knew that he was absorbing every word and would be able to repeat them verbatim ten years hence. He had a rare fixity of concentration. When I was finished, he gave a curt nod.

  “This is most worthy,” he said. “You have a genuine devotion to duty, Decius Caecilius, despite your deplorable frivolity. I especially disapprove of your emphasis on theatrical performances in your upcoming Games. Such alien entertainments render the people weak and passive. You need more combats and animal hunts and executions. Those are the things that strengthen and harden the citizens. And awnings are a totally unnecessary luxury. Let them endure a few hours of sunlight; it will do them good. And another thing—” and so on and on. You had to put up with this sort of thing from Cato if you wanted his aid. Wait, I thought, until he hears about my seat cushions. Finally, he got back to the business at hand.

  “I think it has been far too long since anyone has taken action against the whole pack of greedy, money-grubbing builders. I don’t recall a serious campaign against them since Sulla. He fined them, drove them from the City, and executed a few as an example. That is what we need now.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I said, “but you realize that it means crossing some of the most important men in the Senate as well as the richest of the equites?“

  “What of that?” he snarled. “Anyone, however highborn or powerful, who puts riches above the public weal should be cast from the Tarpeian Rock, then dragged on a hook through the streets and down the Tiber steps and cast into the river, preferably still breathing through the whole ordeal. That’s how we used to deal with traitors! And traitors they are, Decius! It is bad enough that wealthy freedmen have gained so much power, but now they have corrupted their betters as well. Since our earliest days, filthy commerce has been forbidden to the nobility. Using money to make money is an abomination! Some avaricious sophist came up with the dodge that stone, clay, and timber come from the land and therefore owners of estates may traffic in them legitimately as products of virtuous agriculture.”