“You’ll do no such thing!” the old man informed me. “He has work to do.”
“I am Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, son of Metellus the Censor. I am an important man, and I demand that you give me the use of that boy for an hour.”
“Bugger that,” the old man said. “I am a client of the state and in charge here, and you are just a senator with no stripe on your toga. Get elected aedile and you can order me around, not before.”
“All right,” I grumbled, rummaging around in my rapidly flattening purse. “How much?” We reached an accommodation.
Outside, the boy walked beside me, unhappy about the whole situation. “What do you want me for?”
“You said a slave came and requisitioned the report on the murder of Harmodia. Would you recognize that slave if you saw him again?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. He was just a state slave. They all look alike. I’m a temple slave.”
“There’s another silver denarius in it for you if you guide me to the right man.”
He brightened. “I’ll give it a try.”
We trudged around the basilicas, and the boy squinted at the slaves who stood around waiting for somebody to tell them what to do. Since the courts were not in session, this was not a great deal. That is one of the problems with Rome: too many slaves, not enough for them to do.
We started at the Basilica Opimia and the boy saw nobody he recognized. It was the same with the Basilica Sempronia. Finally, we went to the Basilica Aemilia and it looked as if that was going to be a dead end as well. I was beginning to doubt my new, god-bestowed vision when the boy tugged at my sleeve, pointing.
“There, that’s him!” The man indicated was short, balding, and middle-aged, dressed in a dark tunic like most slaves. He held a wax tablet and was taking notes, apparently enumerating some great rolls of heavy cloth at his feet, probably intended to make an awning for the outdoor courts.
“Are you sure?”
“I remember now. Come on.” We walked over to him, and the man looked up from his task.
“May I help you, Senator?”
“I hope so. Do you run errands for the law courts?”
“Nearly every day they are in session,” he said. “I’ve been doing it for twenty years.”
“Excellent. Around the Ides of November, did you go to the Temple of Ceres to fetch a report for the aedile Murena? It was for a report he was to make to one of the praetors, probably the urbanus.”
The slave tucked his stylus behind his ear and used the hand thus freed to scratch his hairless scalp. “I do so many things like that, and that’s awhile back. I don’t recall …”
“Sure you remember!” the temple boy urged. “You asked about the trials going on in the circus that day, and I told you the new Spanish horses the Blues had were the best ever seen in Rome and I’d been watching them all week. I remembered that when I saw you just now because I recognized that birthmark on your face.” There was a small, wine-colored patch just in front of the man’s left ear.
The state slave smiled a bit, the light dawning. “And you told me the two Blacks called Damian and Pythias were pulling trace and they were better than the Reds’ Lark and Sparrow. I won some money on that tip at the next races. Yes, I remember now.”
Trust a Roman, whatever his station in life, to remember the names of horses when he’s forgotten the names of his parents or the gods.
“Do you remember the report then?” I said, elated and at the same time wanting to throttle them both.
“Well, yes, but …” he tapered off as if something was impeding his rather limited powers of reasoning.
“But what?” I asked impatiently.
“Well, it wasn’t for the curule aedile Caius Licinius Murena, it was for the plebeian aedile Lucius Calpurnius Bestia.”
I could have kissed him. “So you delivered it to him, and he took it into the praetor’s court?”
“I delivered it all right, but he just took it and walked away, toward the cattle market. It was nothing to me. My job was to fetch it.”
I tipped them both and bade them be about their business. My soles barely touched the pavement as I walked, once again, back around the base of the Capitol, skirting the northern edge of the cattle market, until I was once again in the precincts of the Temple of Portunus, amid the dense smells of our wonderful but all too fragrant sewers.
For the second time that day I ascended the stairs with their medical symbols and, upon the terrace, found the freedman Narcissus seated at a small table, eating a late lunch or early dinner. He was surprised to see me.
“Good day, esteemed physician Narcissus,” I said, all good cheer.
“Senator! I did not expect to see you again so soon. Will you join me?”
“Are you certain it is no imposition?” I suddenly realized how long ago breakfast had been.
“A distinguished guest is never an imposition.” He turned to a slave. “A plate and goblet for the senator.” The man was back before I had arranged my toga to sit. For a few minutes we munched in silence, observing the proprieties; then I sat back as the slave refilled my cup.
“How went the operation?” I asked.
His face brightened. “It was perfect! Asklepiodes is the most marvelous physician. Marcus Celsius should make a complete recovery if infection does not set in. Asklepiodes actually lifted out the detached piece of bone and cleaned out clotted blood and some small bone splinters from the brain itself before replacing it and securing it with silver wire.”
“He is a god among healers,” I said, pouring a bit of wine onto the pavement as a libation so the gods should not take my words as a challenge and grow jealous of my friend Asklepiodes.
“And,” Narcissus said, leaning forward confidentially, “he actually did much of it with his own hands, instead of just directing his slaves. I only say this because I know you are his friend.”
“It will be our secret,” I assured him. “Now, my friend Narcissus, it occurred to me just now that I neglected to ask you something this morning touching upon the demise of your late patron.”
“What may I tell you?”
“I understand that he fell from a bridge and was drowned. Do you happen to know where the banquet was held where he imbibed too much?”
“Why, yes. He dined out most evenings, often at the house of someone distinguished. That afternoon, just before he left, he said, should he be needed for an emergency, by which he meant a sudden illness in a very rich and prominent family, he was to be found at the house of the aedile Lucius Calpurnius Bestia.”
“Calpurnius Bestia,” I said, all but purring.
“Yes,” he said, a little puzzled at my tone. He pointed to the south. “It’s up there someplace on the Aventine. He must have come down late, long after dark, and didn’t think to ask the aedile for a slave to accompany him. He was usually a moderate man, but most people drink too much at a banquet.”
“A common failing,” I noted.
“Yes. Well, when he came down onto the level area, instead of walking straight home, he must have accidentally turned left and not realized it until he found himself on the Sublician Bridge. It was a very dark night, I remember that. It is easy to lose one’s way, even near home. He probably went to the parapet to get his bearings, or perhaps he had to vomit. In any case, he leaned too far over and fell in, striking his head. He was found just a few paces downstream on the bank.”
I stood and took his hand in both of mine, cheered by both the wine and the recitation. “Thank you, my friend Narcissus, thank you. You have been of inestimable help, and I shall recommend you most heartily to my family.”
He beamed. “Any service I may render to the illustrious Metelli, I am overjoyed to provide.”
I left his terrace, chuckling and whistling. I must have looked a perfect loon, but I was past caring about my appearance. I walked back toward my house, not feeling the many miles my feet had carried me that long day. I would have more walking to
do before I went to my well-earned sleep.
As I walked I thought about Bestia. Bestia, Pompey’s cunning spy in Catilina’s conspiracy. Bestia, who would do anything to advance himself with Pompey. And how better than to eliminate Pompey’s rival for the Gallic command, Celer? Bestia hadn’t known that Pompey and Caesar had already reached an agreement on that. But perhaps not. Pompey might have wanted Caesar to go and fail and thus secure the command after the enemy had been softened up by his fellow triumvir. In any case the neat framing of Clodius through his sister could only help Pompey’s position in the city, while cutting down Caesar’s by destroying his henchman.
Ah, yes, Bestia. Bestia, whose voice I had recognized out on the Vatican field, muffled though it had been by his mask. I might have caught it sooner had I not been so terrified at the time. Bestia, whom I had seen only the night before, his face painted crimson, not because he had been elected King of Fools, but to hide the marks left by my caestus.
I had to marvel at the man’s slyness and his audacity. He had accomplished his ends through indirection and covered his tracks neatly. He had slipped only twice: He’d neglected to appropriate the brief mention of Harmodia’s murder in the tabularia, and he had not eliminated the slave he sent to the Temple of Ceres. Make that three times. He had failed to kill me. It was that last one he was going to regret.
13
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON WHEN I finished the letter, rolled it up, and sealed it. “Hermes!”
The boy came to my desk. He was nearly recovered from his excesses of the night before. I handed him the letter.
“Take this to the house of the aedile Lucius Calpurnius Bestia. It is on the Aventine somewhere.”
“The Aventine!” He groaned. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“No, it can’t. Give this letter to his doorkeeper and tell him that it is a matter of utmost urgency. Don’t wait for a reply; just leave and come straight back here. Waste no time.” Something in my tone cut through the fog of his hangover, and he lost his customary insolence. He nodded and left.
I opened my arms chest and took out my swords. My military sword was a bit bulky for my purposes, so I selected a smaller gladius of the sort that is used in the arenas. It was wasp-waisted, its swelling edges honed to razor keenness, its long, tapering point apt for stabbing. I tested the edges, found a couple of spots that felt slightly dull, and stroked them lightly with a small whetstone. Then I did the same with my dagger.
When all was in order I sat back and looked out my window to the west. Storm clouds were piling up beyond the Capitol, black and ominous. I lay down for a while, hoarding my strength. Despite my tension, I slept.
I woke when Hermes got back. A little twilight lingered in the sky, and I heard distant thunder. I rose, feeling greatly refreshed and oddly at peace with myself. I had determined upon a course of action, and I would see it through, whatever the cost.
“He got it,” Hermes reported. “The doorkeeper said he was home and he’d deliver it right away.” He glanced at the weapons laid out on my bedside table. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing you need concern yourself about,” I told him, fastening on my hunting boots. “Get my dark cloak.” I put on my military belt and hooked the sheathed blades to their suspension rings. Then I tucked my caestus beneath my belt. Hermes handed me my cloak and I draped it over my shoulders, hiding my weaponry. He fastened it at the left shoulder with a Gallic fibula.
“You’d better let me go with you,” Hermes said.
“There would be no point. Stay here and be ready to open the door for me later on tonight.”
“And if you don’t come back?” He was most solemn, a rare thing in Hermes.
“You’ll be taken care of,” I told him.
“Let me carry your other sword,” he urged.
“I am touched by your loyalty, Hermes, but I haven’t yet sent you to the ludus to be trained. Either matters tonight will work out as I hope or they won’t. In neither case will your presence help, and it would only expose you to needless danger. Now I must be going.”
Hermes was a little teary-eyed as he opened the door for me. He really wasn’t such a bad boy after all, on his better days. The door shut behind me with great finality.
So I set off on yet another long walk through the streets of Rome, perhaps to be my last. The light was dimming fast and soon would be inky black. The ugly clouds now piled high over the Capitol and through them snaked fitful lightning. We Romans love omens and it was altogether just and fitting that these should be such evil ones. Something bad was going to happen to someone that night.
I came into the northeastern end of the Forum and turned onto the Sacred Way. The darkness was so complete that even the whitest buildings were all but invisible, and I had to pause from time to time and wait for a lightning flash to give me my direction again. Then I was on the winding street that climbs the Capitol. The rising wind tugged at my cloak, but there was as yet no rain.
Roman law and Roman courts are the best in the world, but sometimes they fail. Very clever and ruthless men know how to circumvent the laws, how to use the courts to their own advantage, how to suborn juries and use the power of ambitious faction leaders to secure their own protection. Some of the worst men in Rome were our public officials, and they were the men best-trained in the law. At such times a man who loves the laws and customs of Rome must violate them if justice is to be served.
At the apex of the Capitol I walked up the steps of the great Temple of Jupiter. A low, smoky fire burned atop the altar that stood before the doorway of the temple. Inside, the awesome statue of the god was dimly illuminated by a multitude of oil lamps. I drew my sword and cut off a small lock of my hair, which I dropped onto the altar coals. As it sizzled and smoked, I called upon the god by one of his many names.
“Jupiter Tarpeius, punisher of perjurers, oath-breakers, and traitors, hear me! The laws of man and of the community of your sacred city fail, and I must take action in your name. If my deeds are displeasing to you, punish me as you will.”
I had done all I could do. I went down the steps and crossed the broad pavement to the precipitous southern edge of the Capitoline, overlooking the triumphal path. There I waited. I knew there had to be at least one attendant inside the temple to see to the lamps, but otherwise I seemed to have the whole hilltop to myself.
Then a lightning flash revealed a lone figure trudging up the path. When he reached the top and came out onto the plaza before the temple, he stopped and looked around.
“Over here, Lucius,” I said. He turned and I saw the gleam of his teeth when he grinned. He walked slowly toward me. Like me he wore a dark cloak, and within it he bulked larger than I remembered. His cowl was drawn up, so I saw little more than eyes and teeth.
“I am amazed that you really came alone,” I said.
“I know you to be a man of your word, Metellus, and I don’t expect to need help. It was the strangest letter I ever received: Murder, poisoning, treason, sacrilege. Tonight I will be atop the Capitoline, alone. Meet me there, alone, or see me in court. Admirably succinct.”
“I’ve always prided myself on a fine prose style. Would you mind answering a few questions before we start?”
He glanced up. “You won’t be long, will you? It’s starting to rain and I hate to get wet.”
“I shall be brief. Was all this Pompey’s doing?”
“Certainly not. You know how one serves great men, Decius: Try to do what they want, especially the less savory tasks, without waiting for them to tell you to. That way their hands stay clean, but they are aware of how much they owe you.”
“And your disgusting witch cult? How did you get involved in such a thing?”
“Decius, there are many such clandestine religions in Italy, and I am an initiate in several of them. The dark gods are far more interesting than the Olympian crew. Their worship provides a genuine personal experience instead of the collective civic event provided by the state religion.�
�
“I could tell you had little respect for the gods,” I said. “Throwing Ariston from the Sublician Bridge like that. And I take it especially ill that you sent men to kill me on Saturnalia when even condemned men can’t be executed. And why such inferior thugs?”
He shrugged. “I’m not a wealthy man. All the really good thugs work for Milo or Clodius, so I couldn’t hire them. And I had to use out-of-towners who wouldn’t know me by sight. Now answer me something: How did you figure it all out?”
So I told him where he had slipped up.
“Let that be a lesson to me,” he said, shaking his head ruefully, “always make a clean sweep, even if it means another few killings.”
The storm was coming on quickly. The lightning flashes were almost continuous, and the wind whipped dry leaves around so hard that they stung when they hit. I unpinned my cloak and let it fall.
“Let’s finish this,” I said, drawing my sword. I had to raise my voice to be heard above the wind.
He grinned again. “So we’re to have our own little munera? Here, on sacred ground? Aren’t you afraid Jupiter will be displeased?”
“If so, he can strike us both down. He has plenty of ammunition ready.”
“So he has. Well, I came alone, Decius, but I didn’t come unprepared.”
He threw back his cowl and I saw that he was wearing a helmet. Then he dropped his cloak. He had a shield, the small, square parma carried by the Thracian gladiators. He also wore a shirt of mail and greaves on both shins. No wonder he had appeared so bulky.
“Your little caestus won’t be enough to turn the balance in your favor this time, Decius. Pity we don’t have an editor to give the signal to begin.”
I reached to my belt and slipped the caestus over my knuckles. “Let Jupiter decide. Next thunderclap.”
We waited tensely for a few seconds, then bright lightning flashed so close that the thunder was almost simultaneous with it. We attacked before the sound even began to echo.
Bestia came in with his shield high and well forward. His sword, which was a full-sized legionary gladius, he held low, gripping it next to his right hip, its point tilted slightly upward. I flicked my smaller sword toward his eyes to draw the shield up and immediately stabbed low, trying to get his thigh above the greave. He brought the lower edge of the shield down and blocked easily, at the same time driving his blade forward in a powerful, gutting strike. I sucked my belly in and twisted to the right, avoiding his sword by an inch.
SPQR V: Saturnalia Page 22