“What about her astrological procedure?” I asked.
“Quite conventional. I would have expected from her appearance that she might have some unique interpretation of the signs, but it was just as it has been for centuries since the art came out of Babylon.”
“What do you make of that?”
“Either she learned the art since coming from her homeland, or the art spread from Babylon in all directions and is practiced identically in lands we have never heard of.”
“Did she strike you as being credible? I ask this because I am investigating a fraudulent scheme that involves falsified horoscopes.”
“Oh? You must tell me all about that, but as for the woman, I confess that I am not sure. I spoke of her odd gestures. It is amazing how much we interpret from the language of gestures. Here in the west we share the greater part of our vocabulary of gestures. A Greek, a Roman, a Spaniard, or a Gaul can converse and share a large amount of their unspoken communication. We recognize things like passion or untruthfulness as much through interpretation of these signs as through the words we hear. There will be differences between peoples, of course, but we share more than we differ.”
“I think I understand,” I told her. “When I have been speaking with a Gaul for some time, I am pretty confident whether he is lying to me, or angling for favors, or is afraid of me. Germans are much harder to read. They are more alien to us than Gauls.”
“You have it exactly,” she said. “I have seen the same thing in Alexandria, where black slaves are brought from the interior. When they are newly arrived their habitual gestures are as strange as anything else about them. A nod may mean dismay rather than agreement. Where we look for hands folded together they wave to the side instead. A shrug of the shoulders may denote happiness, and fear may be expressed by slapping the chest with the palms. That is how it was with Ashthuva. I observed her closely, but when she spoke everything was just enough off-key to prevent me from making a confident evaluation of her truthfulness or motivation.”
Echo appeared and announced the arrival of a group of people whose names I recognized vaguely as being among Rome’s intellectual elite, which is to say people without political significance. I rose to go and she apologized for having discovered so little.
“Callista, I cannot imagine anyone I would rather have studying this matter. Your knowledge is matched only by your breadth of insight.”
“You are far too kind. Oh, I must clarify something. In this unspoken language of gesture, which includes things like posture, physical address, attitude, and so forth, there is one exception to the cultural division.”
“And what is that?” I asked.
“The language of sexual allure and seduction. Ashthuva was using it last night.”
“But you were a group of women except for the escort—not Julia?” I was aghast, but she laughed almost girlishly.
“Oh, no, Senator, have no fear on that account. Ashthuva was trying to seduce me.”
7
I have always been able to summon up some courage when it was absolutely necessary, as it was now. I have dealt with unpredictable Gauls and Britons, fearsome Germans, ferocious Spaniards, treacherous Syrians and Egyptians, and even a dangerous Greek or two, although those were really Macedonians, which is not quite the same thing. Now it was time to dredge up that courage once more. I was about to call on Servilia.
This was an age of dangerous women, and Servilia was more dangerous than most because she was more subtle than most. I knew she was ambitious because she was trying to win Caesar and you couldn’t get more ambitious than that. Calpurnia stood in her way, but I doubt that she ever let a mere wife thwart her plans. There was also Cleopatra, but she was a foreigner whom Caesar would never marry. Servilia on the other hand was a patrician and eminently suitable, could she but convince him.
Their relationship was one of long standing, dating from a time when Caesar was nothing but a debt-ridden young politician whom nobody credited with much of a future. Yet Servilia saw something in him, or perhaps he was just a formidable lover. Caesar’s dalliances were legendary, and almost all of his conquests were wives of senators. When news of his affair with Cleopatra reached Rome certain Forum wags proposed a day of thanksgiving to Venus that this didn’t mean yet another senatorial cuckold.
That morning I sent Hermes off to his practice at the ludus and walked alone to Servilia’s house on the Palatine. Hermes was useful and he was ordinarily good company, but I sometimes enjoyed being by myself. Julia thought this was terribly undignified, but I have never been perfectly conventional. I made my way, stopping from time to time to chat with shopkeepers and idlers. In a street lined with the stalls of cutlers, I found a dealer in luxury weapons and bought a new dagger, its ivory handle carved in the form of a Thracian gladiator. I decided that Julia would not upbraid me for extravagance because I wouldn’t tell her about it.
Whatever her plotting and scheming, Servilia maintained an exceedingly correct household, probably because she thought it was a fit setting for her beloved Brutus. The major-domo who greeted me at the door was a Greek of immense dignity, and educated Greek slaves were esteemed to be in the highest of taste. In fact, there was a notable absence of beautiful girls, which may have been because Servilia considered them a bad influence or because she didn’t want to be compared unfavorably with them. The Greek led me to the courtyard with its beautiful pool, and I admired the fine statuary around it, all of it original, from the Greek islands. The wall paintings were similarly tasteful.
“Senator Metellus!” Servilia swept in swathed in a saffron-colored gown of Coan cloth, layered to avoid the scandalous transparency for which that fabric was famous and for which it was frequently banned by the censors, to no effect. “Your dear wife visits me for the first time in ages, and now here you are. Can this be coincidence?” Servilia was nearing sixty, but her face was unlined and the years had served only to refine her loveliness, bringing out the fine bone structure that is the basis of true beauty. Admiring her, I had to remind myself that Medusa had been a beautiful maiden who turned out rather badly.
“As a matter of fact, it was something you said to Julia that brings me here today,” I said.
“Oh? What might that have been?”
“You are aware of the investigation Caesar has me working on?”
“About the murdered astronomers? Surely. How may I help?” While we spoke slaves hustled in and arranged chairs and a table. It was early in the day so they set out bread and sliced fruit and a pitcher of water instead of wine. This was more respectability than I cared for.
“According to Julia, when she inquired about a reputable astrologer, you told her that since Polasser of Kish was dead, the best to consult would be this foreign woman. I take this to mean that you had consulted with Polasser?”
“Why, yes, I did,” she answered coolly, offering no further information.
“When would this have been?”
“Several times in the last half-year.”
“Not to pry, but, what did you consult with him about?”
“You are prying.”
“And I apologize humbly, but I am trying to frame an impression of what this man was doing. Whoever killed him had a reason and that reason may have had something to do with his clients.”
“Why should that be? Demades was murdered as well. Why not inquire about him?”
“Demades was more of a cipher. Polasser was more colorful and, to be blunt, he was the sort of man to attract enemies.”
“I can see that he might be more enjoyable to investigate, but I certainly wasn’t one of his enemies.”
“I would never suspect that you were.” That was a laugh. “But did anyone of your acquaintance perhaps make remarks indicative of a certain hostility toward the late astrologer?”
“Let me see—” she seemed to go into a reverie, doubtless studying the mental scroll of all her acquaintances together with whatever they might have said. I found this somehow unlik
ely. Servilia would remember instantly anything pertinent that had been said, who had said it, exactly when, and probably the phase of the moon on that date. For whatever personal reason, she was stalling me. Finally she returned to the world we all know, shaking her head. “No, I can think of nothing.”
“That is unfortunate,” I said. “Caesar will be very unhappy if I do not soon find the man’s killer.” I expected this to strike home considering she wanted to link Caesar’s fortunes to her own, but I was disappointed.
“Caesar,” she said, “will rather quickly get over the death of a foreign astronomer. He has had to cope with a great many deaths, and some of those were persons of importance.” Servilia, patrician to the core, had a fine appreciation of the relative value of people’s lives. To her, Roman patricians were of utmost significance and no one else, Roman or foreign, counted for much at all. I myself, being a Caecilian and a plebeian, was one of those persons of little importance. My wife Julia, who was not only a patrician but a Caesar, was another matter entirely. I could see that I had made a mistake. I should have sent Julia to pump Servilia for more information.
“Nonetheless, I have been charged with this investigation,” I said.
“Which I am sure you will fulfill to everyone’s greatest satisfaction,” she said.
“What’s this?” The voice came from the direction of the atrium and a moment later I saw Brutus emerge from the dimness of the colonnade. He was a dreadfully serious-looking man who always seemed to have deep matters on his mind, although I suspected he spent more time thinking of ways to collect on his outstanding loans than on philosophical matters.
“Decius Caecilius is looking into the deaths of those two astronomers on the Tiber Island, dear,” Servilia said.
“Oh, yes. Terrible business. I shall miss Demades.”
“You knew him?” I said.
“Yes, and I wish I had known him better. He was marvelous when he spoke of his astronomical observations. He could make you feel the excitement of discovery, which can seldom be conveyed on the written page.”
This was new. “I think I know what you mean,” I told him. “The first time I met Sosigenes at the Museum several years ago he almost managed to convey some of the excitement of his work, and I am usually immune to the charms of philosophy. I think it was the enthusiasm he brought to the subject.”
“Yes, that is it exactly. I truly enjoyed talking with him.”
“I marvel to hear you say so,” I said. “Others I have spoken to considered him a dull sort, a drudge.”
“Then you have been speaking with the astrologers and their followers. I prefer philosophy unpolluted with superstition, so I esteemed the company of Sosigenes and Demades and the true astronomers.”
“Now, Brutus,” his mother said through tight lips. To my amazement, Brutus was entirely uncowed.
“Mother, you and your crowd pursue those fraudulent mountebanks like children chasing after the crossroads magicians who make doves appear from empty purses and extract denarii from their ears.”
“That will be quite enough,” she all but hissed, but somehow her son had grown a spine.
“I’ve studied too much philosophy and come to appreciate the truth in it, Mother. I’ve put aside all that childish nonsense about the gods taking a personal hand in the affairs of men and placing the stars in the heavens to tell us whether it’s a good day to arrange an advantageous marriage for a daughter or begin building a house. The gods are far too majestic for such sordid matters.”
She unwound to her feet like a cobra rising and spreading its hood. “That’s not how you talked when your horoscope predicted the highest of destinies for you! And you have forgotten how to treat your mother with respect before strangers.”
“Oh, Decius Caecilius is hardly a stranger, Mother. We’ve known him for rather a long time, haven’t we?”
She turned to me and I confess I flinched back. “Senator, I fear I must be rude and take my leave. I hope my son will be able to help your investigation.” With this she whirled and stalked off, radiating anger in an almost visible miasma.
“She isn’t going to forgive me for witnessing this little scene,” I sighed.
Brutus put a friendly hand on my shoulder, another unexpected gesture. “Pay no heed. Servilia’s day is done. She is an old woman trying to be a young one.”
“She seems to have regained Caesar’s favor,” I said. “I saw him squiring her about just a few days ago.”
“Caesar is the greatest man in the world at this moment,” Brutus said ponderously. “He can have any woman he wants. He already has Cleopatra and even an incredibly rich queen of Egypt is not enough for him. No, he retains a fond memory of his former connection with my mother, that is all.”
“Well, it’s none of my business anyway,” I said. “What is my business is these murders and I would greatly appreciate any help you could give me. I had not known you were acquainted with Demades, much less fond of him.”
He frowned at the pitcher of water and turned to a slave. “Bring the senator something more suitable to drink. The Campanian, from the estate at Baiae.” For once I found myself actually liking Brutus.
“How did you come to meet Demades?” I asked him.
“It was at one of Callista’s salons, shortly after the astronomers arrived from Alexandria. Callista made sure that they were introduced to Rome’s scholarly community. I met Sosigenes and the others at the same time. After that, I saw him from time to time at various gatherings of the philosophical set.”
“You found that they appealed to you?”
“The true astronomers, not the fortune-tellers. As you may have gathered I learned to regard the latter with some distaste. I have studied philosophy for much of my life, but the astronomers struck me as the men of purest thought, matched only by the mathematicians.”
“You mean like the Pythagoreans?” I asked. “I’ve known a few of those.” The slave returned with the wine and it was excellent.
Brutus snorted. “Pythagoreans are to real mathematicians what astrologers are to true astronomers. They are just mystics who cloak their mummery in some of the trappings of philosophy. They propound absurd doctrines of transmigration of souls and commerce with spirits and ridiculous dietary practices and try to justify it all with some basic geometry and progressions of musical notes.”
“I always thought it was rather silly,” I said.
“Men like Demades and Sosigenes are the farthest thing from all that trash. They draw their theories and conclusions only from observable phenomena, eschewing all mysticism and supernatural explanations. If their observable data cannot explain a thing, they look for more data instead of resorting to the supernatural.”
“Admirable,” I murmured.
“Exactly.”
“But where does that put our auguries?” I asked him. “Where does it put most of our religious practice, for that matter?”
“I would never suggest that the gods do not exist,” he said, “but as I told my mother, they are not petty creatures that take an interest in the affairs of individual mortals. They are not Homer’s Olympians. It may be that they take an interest in the fates of entire nations, though I rather doubt the efficacy of discerning their will in the flights of birds, or in thunder and flashes of lightning. These are the beliefs of our primitive ancestors.” He’d been hanging around those Greeks on the island, all right. “At least,” he went on, “the augurs are more dignified than the haruspices, with their examinations of the entrails of sacrificial animals.”
“I’ve never liked that business either,” I agreed.
“The people must have religion and they must see that their leaders are suitably pious. This is essential to social order. One of the wisest provisions of our constitution was to make the priesthoods a part of official office. Thus we have always avoided the dangers of religious fanaticism, and of hereditary priesthoods contending for power with legitimate government. You have been in places where these things prevail,
have you not?”
“I have. Things can get quite awful. Egypt, Gaul, Judea, the list goes on.”
“Yes, religion has a place, but it must be a clearly restricted, controlled place. And I feel that the childishness of fortune-telling, divining, astrology, and so forth have no place at all. If I were censor I would drive them all from Rome, and from Roman territory.”
“They’d just come back,” I told him. “They always do. I’ve seen the mountebanks and the mystery cults expelled from Rome three or four times in my lifetime. I would say that right now they are more numerous than ever.”
“You are correct, of course. Something stronger than expulsion is called for. Caesar was rather thorough in cleansing Gaul of Druids.”
Caesar had considered the Druids’ habit of mass human sacrifices distasteful, but it was their political influence he could not countenance. Kings followed their counsel and they were a uniting force among the very disunited Gallic tribes. Caesar had solved the problem by slaughtering them all. I wondered whether that was the fate Brutus had planned for the fortune-tellers. I didn’t like them myself, but it seemed a bit drastic. I decided it was time for a change of subject.
“Did Demades have other admirers? Conversely, did he have enemies? I already know that he disputed with Polasser, but they are both dead, which pretty much clears Polasser of the charge.”
“Why so? Demades was killed first, wasn’t he? Perhaps Polasser killed him, then someone else killed Polasser.”
“That would be a consideration, were it not for the fact that they were killed identically and in a fashion so strange that even Asklepiodes, who knows all about killing people, is having a hard time figuring out how it was done.”
“Really? That is intriguing. What is so unique about it?”
I saw no harm in explaining about the broken necks and the odd marks flanking the vertebrae. Like many other aristocrats Brutus fancied himself an expert amateur wrestler, though he couldn’t have gone a single fall with an expert like Marcus Antonius. With his hands he pantomimed various grips and agreed that it didn’t seem possible with the hands alone. “And the garotte is ruled out, you say? I’ve known some Sicilians who are excellent with the garotte.”
SPQR XIII: The Year of Confusion Page 12