He shook his head. “I do hope she is not going to unscrupulous physicians and wise women to cure the problem. They are all frauds, and their remedies are sometimes dangerous.”
“I warn her not to, but I fear she does it anyway.”
“I know of no treatment for infertility other than maintaining her health through a good diet and moderate living. Beyond that, one can only sacrifice to the gods of fertility and hope for their favor.”
“I thank you for your concern, old friend.”
At that moment Hermes returned with a bag and a slave. With the gory clothes bundled up, we took our leave of Asklepiodes and left the temple.
Julia was ready when I got back home. “What’s this about you being involved in a murder?” she said, even as the door swung open. She caught sight of Hermes behind me. “And what’s in that bag?”
“Just some bloody clothes,” he said. “What the murdered man was wearing.”
“You will not bring any such thing into this house!”
“Oh, come now, my dear,” I said reasonably, “I’ve bled all over this house and no harm has come of it.”
“Your blood attracts nothing but flies,” she answered. “A murdered man’s garments can attract his vengeful spirit, and that man wasn’t well-disposed toward you when he was alive!”
I turned to Hermes. “Go stash that bag with the tavern keeper down the street. He won’t ask questions.” Most of my neighbors were under obligation to me. “And don’t hang around drinking either. We have a lot still to do today.” I went on inside.
Julia had laid out baked fish, sliced melon, and bread. Between bites I told her of the morning’s doings. She didn’t pale much when I described the condition of the body. She’d seen worse.
“So it wasn’t just one man out for a reputation,” she said. “I didn’t think so. But now there seems to be a whole crowd involved. A conspiracy. I think it’s to be expected if it’s a move against your family.”
“Possibly against the great families in general,” I pointed out.
She raised a hand to her brow. “Let’s try to limit this. If it’s a prelude to class war, it’s too big for us.”
“Do you know anything about this tribune, Manilius?” Julia had spent far more time in Rome than I in recent years.
“Just another young climber. Do you think he’s involved?”
“He was on the scene awfully fast, and of all the tribunes, he’s the only one I’ve heard of who has declared neither for Caesar nor Pompey.”
“That is odd. Will you attend this contio he’s called?”
“My presence might be seen as disruptive. Besides, I want to use whatever time I have left free to investigate. If he gets a decision to go to trial before the whole assembly, he may call for my arrest.” Usually, that meant that I would be confined to the house of one of the praetors until trial. I could always flee the City; but that would be an admission of guilt and I would just be tried in absentia, found guilty, and exiled.
I pushed away the plates. “Now tell me what you learned yesterday.”
She picked at her own lunch, which consisted mostly of fruit. I wondered if this were another of her fertility-inducing fads. The pome-granites suggested I was right.
“I called on Fulvia yesterday evening. As I suspected, she was glad of company. Clodius’s old friends are mostly staying away from town, and she won’t be received in decent society. Her brother-in-law, Appius, is even making noises about taking the house back.”
“Unfortunate woman,” I said idly.
“She’s brought it on herself. Anyway, she says she was about to give up and go back home to Baiae, but now she’s thought better of it since she’s to remarry.”
“I don’t expect to see Antonius back from Gaul anytime soon,” I said, raising a cup of her heavily watered wine.
“But she isn’t to marry Antonius. She’s going to marry that man you asked about this morning: Curio.”
I all but choked in midswallow. “What!”
“Exactly,” she said, pleased with her timing and effect. “Curio was one of Clodius’s friends who stayed in Rome. He’s on the rise, which is where Fulvia likes to catch them. He’s standing for Tribune of the People, and if he’s elected, he can’t leave Rome for two consecutive nights during his year in office, so she can’t very well leave Rome, can she?”
“But what about her betrothal to Antonius?”
“Neither of them is terribly serious about such things. They are two of a kind. Besides, Antonius is in Gaul while Curio is here. That makes a difference.”
I knew Antonius well, and I knew that, if news of losing Fulvia to another man bothered him at all, he’d just console himself by taking another Gallic woman into his tent, to join the five or six who were already there.
“Did you learn anything about her brother, Fulvius?”
“She said that, at home, he’d been a layabout who accomplished nothing. He’d written her some time ago that he intended to come to Rome to become Clodius’s client, but Clodius was killed and Fulvius stayed in Baiae. Apparently, if he couldn’t get a great man to be his patron, he didn’t think he had much chance of rising in Roman politics.”
“So why did he come here?”
“She said that a few months ago he wrote her, said he was coming after all, and hinted that he now had powerful patronage.”
“But he wouldn’t say who it was?”
“He said that she’d learn soon enough. After he moved here he called on her a few times; but there was little affection between them, and he didn’t talk about anything important.”
“Where was he living?”
“He had a house near the Temple of Tellus,” she said. “She never went there.”
“Housing in Rome isn’t cheap,” I said, “even slum housing. Did she know who owned the place?”
“I didn’t think to ask her, but if she knows so little about her brother, I would doubt that the name of his landlord would be among her store of facts.”
“If she was telling you the truth. Somehow, truthfulness is not the quality that first comes to mind when discussing Fulvia.”
“Well, it may be true that her evil reputation is exaggerated. I felt rather sorry for her. It is a terrible thing for a woman of her birth, accustomed to every privilege and honor, to be forsaken by her own class. While Clodius was alive she could fancy herself the uncrowned queen of Rome. Now she is a friendless widow.”
“Not entirely friendless, if she’s to marry this Curio. I think I should talk to her.”
Julia’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I’m not as sympathetic as you. She might be more forthcoming under more rigorous questioning.”
Julia bit into an orange section. “Why should she talk to you at all? You have no official standing, and she may hold it against you that you killed her brother.”
“I doubt that. I suspect that she knows perfectly well I did not.”
“How are you so sure?”
“I didn’t say I was sure. I said I suspect.”
Julia rolled her eyes. Sometimes even she had trouble understanding me.
4
I WANT YOU,” I TOLD HERMES, “TO FIND out where Fulvius lived. It was somewhere near the Temple of Tellus. Once you’ve located the place, find out who owns it. Then report back to me.”
“I’ll do it,” he said. “Are you really going to Clodius’s house?”
“Clodius is dead. His widow has a bad reputation, but I don’t think she wants to kill me.”
“Take some men with you anyway.” We stood in my atrium with a crowd of my clients. A lot of them were hard-looking specimens: veterans from my various military postings who had attached themselves to me; farmers from Metellan-dominated areas of the countryside, in town for the elections; a few of Milo’s old gang, who needed a patron while he was in exile.
“It wouldn’t look good to have them with me in the daytime,” I told him. “I won’t have the voters thinking I go around in f
ear of my fellow citizens. I want these men to attend the Plebeian Assembly meeting and shout my praises.”
He looked disgusted. “You’re getting as bad as Julia. What’s more dangerous than your fellow citizens? Just be careful, and keep your weapons handy.”
“Did I take you on as a nurse?”
Out in the streets, I felt a pleasant sense of freedom, being on my own for a change. Since returning to Rome, I had been going everywhere amid a cloud of my supporters, constantly campaigning for election. It felt good to be alone. Since the gangs had been broken up and the noncitizens driven from the City, it was considered bad form for a politician to go around with a violent-looking following, although a small bodyguard was permissible. The voters would appreciate my show of bravado in appearing in public without so much as a single slave.
Being under suspicion of murder did not hamper my freedom. This is because Romans are civilized people and don’t clap suspects into prison like barbarians. It would take an order of a lawfully convened court even to place me under house arrest.
When I came to the house of the late Publius Clodius Pulcher I thought how strange it was that I could just walk up to the door and knock. There were times when my life would have been forfeit just for showing up in the neighborhood. It was situated in the most fashionable district of the Palatine, just as in Catullus’s famous poem: “… five doors up the Clivus Victoriae.…”
The janitor who opened up at my knock wasn’t the usual aged, used-up slave you usually found performing that task. This one was a stalwart young man with handsome, Cappadocian features, wearing a brief tunic. The housekeeper to whom I gave my name and errand was a raven-haired Greek beauty and all the household slaves, at least in the front of the domus, were pretty boys and girls. Some things hadn’t changed in this household anyway. Clodia had had a similar liking for beautiful things.
“Please come with me, Senator,” the housekeeper said, returning from the inner fastnesses of the mansion. I followed her attractively swaying backside to the peristyle, where rare trees and shrubs grew from giant pots surrounding the pool. The woman showed me to an exquisite bronze table, its fretwork discus supported by three ithyphallic satyrs. The chair was one of three made as a suite with the table, all of the finest Campanian bronzework. Their cushions were stuffed with down and sweet herbs. This was one of those luxurious households Cato was always railing about.
“Please be seated, Senator. My lady will be here presently.” I sat and a pair of twin German slave girls brought a pitcher of hammered gold and cups of the same metal, embossed with doves and flowers. The wine was the exquisite Caecuban favored by the Claudian family, wholly unwatered.
While I sipped, admiring the Greek statuary, I tried to guess from which direction Fulvia would make her entrance. Every doorway opening off the peristyle was beautifully decorated and flanked by fine sculpture. Finally I settled on the door with Leda and the swan on one side, Ganymede and the eagle on the other. Both had been executed in scandalous erotic detail and were the most eye-catching works of art within sight. I was right. When she arrived it was between those two statues and for further counterpoint, the pale marble contrasted nicely with her gown.
Leave it to Fulvia to look good in mourning. In tribute to her recently departed brother, she wore a black gown, its fabric sheer to near-transparency, the gatherings of the sleeves drooping so low as to leave her arms and shoulders almost bare.
“Decius Caecilius!” She came forward, one hand extended. “Just yesterday your wife called for the first time in years; today I have the pleasure of your company. Dare I hope this signifies a warming of relations between us?” Her furry voice was as sensuous as her tiny, voluptuous body.
I took her hand. “My feelings for you have always been of the warmest, Fulvia, although your late husband and I had our differences. And speaking of relations, please accept my condolences on the untimely death of your brother.”
I fought to suppress the usual effect this woman had on me. Fulvia was in her midtwenties and at the height of her beauty. She was, in fact, one of Rome’s great beauties, more so even than Clodia and the equal of Fausta, the daughter of Sulla. But where Fausta’s beauty was icily patrician, Fulvia’s had a carnality we usually associate with Alexandrian whores and Spanish dancers from Gades. Her abundant, tawny hair; her huge, heavy-lidded gray eyes; her wide, full lips, all held promise of infinite depravity.
“Very kind of you, Decius, but I scarcely knew him.” She sat and one of the twins filled a cup for her. In those days women weren’t supposed to drink unwatered wine, but they weren’t supposed to wear those sheer gowns either. “People are saying you killed him, but I don’t believe it. I’ve heard he was butchered horribly, and I know that you would do a quick, clean job of it.”
“You flatter me. Yes, I’ve never killed a man willingly, but when forced to it I’ve always gotten the business done with as little fuss as possible.”
“I’ll have to see to his funeral arrangements. I still have a few friends. One of them is coming here soon to handle the details. I think I’ll just have him cremated here and send his ashes back to Baiae for the full funeral treatment and interment in the family tomb. It’s on a beautiful site beside the bay.”
“That would be best,” I told her. “With so few friends and relations here in Rome, he wouldn’t get a send-off proper to a man of his ancestry.”
“I’m so glad you agree. I have a bad enough reputation without appearing dry-eyed at the funeral. I am really not very good at wailing and clothes rending, although I did my best for poor Clodius.”
“That was a noisy funeral, what with the riot and the burning of the Senate house. I’m sorry I missed it.” I took another long drink of the Caecuban and held out the cup for a refill. “On a happier note though, I understand congratulations are in order. You are to marry Scribonius Curio?”
“Oh, yes. I know Antonius will be disappointed, but he’ll just shrug and wait for me to be widowed again. It happens often when your husband is in politics.”
“Too true. I don’t envy you if he wins the tribuneship.”
She rolled her eyes. “All the gods protect me! I’ve been a tribune’s wife before—people tramping through the house at all hours, stuck here in Rome in the hottest weather, constant political meetings—it’s all a great bother, but it establishes a man’s political reputation like no other office.” Among other things, a Tribune of the People was forbidden to lock or even close the doors of his house. He had to be accessible to the people at any hour.
“So it does. Might I ask how it comes about that you are going to marry this man?”
Fulvia looked as if she needed to give this some real thought. “To be honest, he asked. I haven’t been exactly mobbed by suitors lately. Men want me, but they are intimidated by me.” She said this as matter-of-factly as she would have if someone remarked upon the color of her eyes. “Or they are afraid of the memory of Clodius—of having to bear comparison with him. That was one thing that attracted me to Antonius—he’s afraid of nothing and nobody. Curio is the same way.”
“Antonius is rather dense,” I told her. “Fearless men often are.”
“Curio isn’t dense. You haven’t met him?”
“Never had the pleasure. I know Cicero regarded him as something of a protégé at one time, thought he possessed great gifts.”
“Cicero!” she said with venom. “I hate that man! He pretends to be such a virtuous and pure servant of the Republic, but his brand of politics is no cleaner than Clodius’s was. And Clodius really did things for the people. Cicero fawns on the aristocrats and acts as their mouthpiece—people who despise him as an out-of-town upstart if he only knew it!”
I was a little taken aback by this sudden fury, but she shed it as quickly as it had appeared.
“Forgive me. I get angry when anyone mentions that man. It wouldn’t be so bad if Cicero wasn’t such a hypocrite.”
“Do you think it was a tribuneship your brother was
pursuing when he came to Rome?”
“It might have been. I am sure the action and drama of a tribune’s life would have appealed to him far more than the drudgery of a quaestorship.” These were the two offices that would boost a man into the Senate.
“But all political offices are costly. He would have needed a wealthy patron to underwrite his expenses, unless he had family money.”
“No, our eldest brother, Manius, has control of that. And he’s quite happy being one of the biggest frogs in the pond of Baiae.”
“Baiae is a wonderful place,” I said. “I wonder that any of you left.”
“Luxury is good,” she said. “Power is better.” She took another sip and looked around her. “Luxury with power is best of all.”
I could scarcely argue with the logic of that statement. Moments later the comely housekeeper arrived with the news that Fulvia’s obsequy-arranging friend was in the atrium.
“Bring him in, Echo. I want Decius Caecilius to meet him.”
Moments later a well-favored young man entered the peristyle. “Decius Caecilius,” Fulvia said, “I want you to meet Caius Scribonius Curio, my dear friend, future husband, and soon to be Tribune of the People.”
I took his hand and we studied each other. Curio was about twenty-five, well built, with sandy hair and bright blue eyes. His hand had broken knuckles and calluses only in the places where weapons-training will put them. His square face was hard and belligerent, which was a good sort of face for a tribune to have in those days. His nose was slightly askew, his ears a bit deformed, and his eyebrows scarred, all marks of the boxing enthusiast. This was something of a rarity among upper-class Romans, who preferred wrestling or armed combat. What he saw I cannot say for certain, but I suspect he classified me as a man approaching his middle years who lived too hard and drank too much. In other words, typical of my generation and class.
“You are a man to whom Fortuna has been generous, if all that I hear is true,” I said.
“I’ve wanted to make your acquaintance for a long time,” Curio responded, “but I scarcely expected to find you in this house this day.”
SPQR X: A Point of Law Page 6