I had thought that I knew Rome intimately, but here was something new to me. At the time I dismissed it. Talk was one thing, but the ability to endure the hard privations of a soldier's life? I knew how much I detested military life. Caesar's reputation for the love of ease and luxury exceeded my own by a wide margin, and my reputation in that area was by no means small. He could never amount to anything as a general. That was how much I knew.
Of far more interest to me were his cryptic words about Julia. Was he suggesting a union between our houses? I could think of it in no other terms. Marriages between the great families were always political, but there were gradations of meaning. We Caecilii were an immense gens, but the Julians were tiny. At any given time they had no more than one or two marriageable daughters. Such an offer was serious indeed. If it was an offer. More likely, I thought, it was a distraction. That would mean that Caesar was afraid I would find out something he wanted to remain concealed.
The whole matter, or rather matters, had grown too confusing. I decided to narrow my attention. I decided that if I were to regain any perspective at all, I would have to grasp my courage in both hands and confront the person in Rome I feared above all others. I would go and question Clodia.
I dismissed my clients. After the morning's delays, it would be futile for us all to troop off to attend Celer's morning call. I was especially courteous in my dismissal, though. These men had stood by me unflinchingly when I was about to go to battle with my mortal foe, even though many of them were too old for a street brawl. It was only a client's duty, and I was obligated to do the same for them, but an actual instance of fulfillment of the mutual obligation was special, and despite my lifelong reputation for laxness, I have never been accused of ingratitude by my clientela.
It was a daunting prospect, but I did not need to nerve myself up to the task as I might have on ordinary days. I had faced a death-fight with her brother and bearded Caesar already since breakfast, so a bout with Clodia was not as daunting as it might have been.
By the time I arrived at Celer's house he had long since departed for the Curia on public business. The great house was quiet as his household staff busied themselves with their various domestic tasks. I told the majordomo to announce me to the lady Clodia and inform her that I requested an interview. He conducted me to a small waiting room off the atrium, and I stood about there for a few minutes until a barefoot slave girl appeared.
"Please come with me, sir," the girl said. "My mistress will see you now." I followed her. She was a slight but beautiful creature, with yellow Gallic hair. Clodia always surrounded herself with beautiful things: slave, freeborn, animal and inanimate.
She led me to a suite of rooms in a corner of the mansion. These rooms were plainly newer than the rest of the house, and Clodia's touch was visible everywhere. The walls were painted by masters, mostly landscapes and mythological scenes, and the floors were mosaics of equal quality. Every humblest furnishing was exquisite. The vases and statuary were worth a good-sized town.
"A private interview, Decius? How brave."
I turned from the lamp of Campanian bronze work I had been admiring. Clodia was as beautiful as any of the art in the room, and knew it. She stood in a doorway that opened onto a garden. It was a trick of hers with which I was all too familiar. It allowed light to pass through the sheer garments she favored. This day she had outdone herself. She wore a gown made of the famous, or rather infamous, Coan cloth. It was forbidden by every new pair of Censors, but that just meant that it was inadvisable to wear it in public. Her gown had been dyed purple, a further extravagance. She appeared to be surrounded by a fine violet mist.
"Why, Clodia," I said, "I am here on a mission assigned by your husband. I even have his permission to call on you."
"How unthinkably proper," she said. "You are always so dutiful."
"Attention to duty is what made Rome great," I said, quoting my second old saying of the day.
She smiled. "You know, Decius, every time I've counted you out of the game, you show up again with more friends, more influence and just a tiny bit more rank. I won't say power."
"Slowly and steadily," I said. "That's the best way to advance."
"The safe way."
"Safe is the best way to stay alive," I said. "At least, I've always thought so. Lately, someone has been trying to kill me for no reason I can imagine. It wouldn't be you, would it?"
"Just because I tried to have you killed before?" She looked truly hurt. "You were in my way then. I'm not frivolous. I don't try to kill people out of spite. Why do you suspect me?"
"Your little cousin Appius Nero tried to poison me a few nights back. Afterward he was seen coming here. You and Celer are the only people of consequence in this house, and that narrowed things somewhat."
"You're an idiot. He had no cause to poison you, and he came here because he'd had an argument with my brother and needed a place to stay. They must have patched things up, because I haven't seen him since yesterday morning."
"You won't be seeing him," I told her. "Someone killed him right in front of my house last night."
Her face froze in mid-smile. "Killed?" she said. Her control was great, but I was sure that she was shocked.
"Yes. Done in just like Capito."
She turned away from me so I couldn't read her expression. "Well. Poor Nero. I didn't know him well, but he was a kinsman and rather young."
"Old enough to try to poison me," I said.
"It's all distressing, but that isn't why you came here today, is it?" She turned back, and her mocking face was in place once more.
"No. What I came to ask about was your brother's indiscretion at the rites of Bona Dea. The city is shocked. There must be an accounting."
"Oh, you know Clodius. He loves to make fun of our religious guardians. He's never grown up and loves to make his elders angry."
This was an amazing thing to hear from Clodia because it was so perfectly true. Her adulation of her brother was legendary. She had even changed her name when he had changed his. She was often angry with him, but it was unlike her to belittle him in front of an enemy. I was already suspicious. Suspicion was a habit when dealing with Clodia. But this was intriguing. Could she be a bit upset with her beloved brother? Then someone called from another room.
"Clodia? Who is it?"
"Am I intruding?" I asked.
"Yes, but I forgive you. Come, Decius, you must meet Fulvia."
"Fulvia? Is she back in Rome?" I knew only one prominent woman of that name, but she had fled Rome after the Catilinarian debacle.
"No, this is a kinswoman of hers. She's just come to Rome from Baiae."
We went into a bedroom, this one betraying Clodia's taste for erotic art. It resembled the decor of a brothel in subject matter, but here as elsewhere everything was of highest quality. A young girl sat up in a silk-cushioned bed and I made a formal obeisance, careful to be impassive, because once again Clodia was trying to upset my equanimity.
The girl was exquisitely beautiful, her hair as blond as a German's. She was so slight and tiny that she might have been a child, but she wore another of the Coan gowns, and that dispelled any such illusion. Her eyes were huge, her mouth startlingly full-lipped. She appeared to be no more than sixteen, but her face, despite its purity, had that indescribable yet unmistakable stamp that bespoke depthless depravity.
"My dear," Clodia said, "this is Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, son of the Censor."
"I am terribly honored to meet such a distinguished man," Fulvia said. It was against such a voice that Ulysses had his men stuff their ears with wax. Unlike Ulysses, I was not lashed to a mast, but it required some effort not to leap onto the bed with her.
"All Rome rejoices to have so lovely a visitor among us," I said. "Is this just a visit, or can we hope you are here to stay?"
"Fulvia," Clodia said, "is betrothed to Clodius."
I looked at her with an eyebrow sardonically arched. I could not resist. "Aren't you
jealous?"
She didn't flinch. "People such as we have a flexibility you cannot imagine, Decius."
She was underestimating my imagination, but I let it pass. "And was young Fulvia in Caesar's house on the now-infamous evening of the rites?" I asked, dragging her back to the subject at hand.
"The rites are only for married women, Decius," Clodia said. "Fulvia accompanied me there, but she could not take part in the rituals."
"And how did it come about that Clodius got in?" I demanded. "The mind boggles at the thought of him pretending to be a woman. Whom did he claim to be married to?"
"I'm sure I don't know," Clodia said. "He didn't tell me he was coming."
"I see. And just how was he found out?"
"Oh, that occurred during a:" She paused. "No, I'm afraid I am forbidden to tell you."
"Don't be absurd. When did you ever care about laws or rules, whether of human or divine origin? The cloak of piety doesn't fit you well, Clodia."
"Who speaks of piety?" she said. "This is a matter of law. Are you not sworn to uphold the laws of the Senate and People of Rome?"
"That is a debatable point," I said. On a sudden inspiration, I embroidered upon a recent conversation. "As a matter of fact, I recently was present at a debate involving some of the highest figures of government, where there was some question whether the cult of Bona Dea is of Roman origin at all. It may be that it is lawful to demand testimony concerning the rites." I had promoted our idle dinner chitchat to the status of senatorial debate, but she didn't have to know that. A look very much like fear flitted across Clodia's beautiful face.
"If that proves to be the case," Fulvia said, "then Clodius can scarcely face a charge of truly serious sacrilege."
I turned to her. "I see that you are a perspicacious as you are lovely." You meddling little slut, I thought. It hadn't occurred to me. But when I turned back to Clodia, she still looked upset. Quickly, she composed herself.
"I believe dear Fulvia is correct. The Censors may frown upon offenses against foreign gods, but the courts surely could not exact stiff penalties in such cases. That is reserved for the gods of the state. I must consult with Cicero on this."
"I hadn't thought that Cicero was kindly disposed toward Clodius," I said.
"Oh, but Cicero and I have become great friends lately," she said, her smile back in place. This was bad news. At first I was not inclined to believe her, but then I remembered Cicero's recent rather hasty insistence that Clodia could not be involved in the scandal. "Why would he say such a thing unless he, too, had fallen to her wiles? I was disappointed in Cicero, but I knew that I was in no position to judge. I had certainly been under Clodia's spell in the past.
"Can you go so far as to tell me who it was that discovered your brother?"
"It was a slave woman from the household of Lucullus. I think I can say that without risking divine wrath."
"Slaves attend the rites?" This was news to me.
"The musicians. I believe it was a harpist who betrayed him."
This seemed to me an odd choice of words.
"I wish I could have seen him," Fulvia said. She brought her legs from beneath the coverlet and sprawled belly-down on the bed. The Coan gown revealed her dorsal contours to be as shapely as her front. "Achilles was discovered in women's clothing, you know, and Hercules had to wear women's garments when he was enslaved to Omphale. She got to wear his lion's skin and carry his club. I've always found that exciting."
"You're very young for such recondite tastes," I observed.
"Some of us start earlier than others," she said. How very true, I thought. Her voice caused an uneasiness in the testicles. Clodia sat beside her and took her hand.
"Will that be all, Decius? Fulvia and I have things to discuss."
"And I would not think of interfering. I shall take my leave and let you ladies get back to: whatever it was. My condolences, Clodia, for your recent loss."
"Thank you, Decius. Poor Nero. So many of us die untimely." And with that cryptic but ominous pronouncement in my ears, I left.
As I walked from Celer's house I passed someone going the other way. It was a woman swathed in veils, and something about her seemed oddly familiar. I restrained myself from looking at her, but when she was past me I turned in time to see her step through the door of Celer's house.
A short way down the street I found a wineshop with an open front. The barkeep dipped me a cup from one of the big jars recessed into the counter, and I carried it to a table near the front. There I could sit and ponder what I had learned while keeping an eye on Clodia's door.
It was always inadvisable to draw hasty conclusions when dealing with Clodia, but I thought I knew a few things now: Clodia had not known of Nero's death, and therefore was unlikely to have ordered it. She had been visibly upset when I suggested that there might be a legal way to subpoena testimony about Clodius's doings at the rites. Fulvia had queered my plan when she pointed out that in that case he could scarcely be charged with serious sacrilege. I had been annoyed at the time, but the randy little twit had unknowingly supplied me with further food for thought, because Clodia had still been upset at the thought of herself or someone else being forced to testify. The charge of sacrilege was not the one she feared her brother having to answer to. What else had he been up to that night? Dalliance with Caesar's wife, who must be above suspicion? That was laughable. As serious offenses went in Rome, adultery ranked right along with failing to wear one's toga to the games.
This opened whole new vistas to delight my vindictive spirit. I wanted nothing more than a chance to prosecute Clodius for something really serious. Up to now, I had been engaged on a rather frivolous investigation, the principal aim of which had been to keep Celer's wife out of it. Now this bare-bones project was gaining some real flesh. And if I was right about the woman who had just gone into Clodia's house, the sacrilege and the recent murders and the attempt on my own life were intimately connected.
She reemerged just as I finished my wine, a bit of timing I deem propitious. As she walked toward the wineshop I turned away, then got up when she was past. It is never terribly difficult to follow someone through the streets of Rome in the daytime. The ways are narrow and the crowds prevent any fast movement. They also allow you to keep close without being detected.
Not far from the Forum Boarium, she went into a charming little public garden. Besides its plantings, it featured the usual image of Priapus and one of those quaint, miniature tombs we erect on ground where lightning has struck. She sat on a bench bearing a plaque that gave the name of the rich man who had donated the garden to the city, and another rich man who had undertaken its upkeep. I passed by that same garden not long ago. Now the plaque is gone and there is another, bearing the name and lineage of the First Citizen. He would claim that he founded Rome if he thought he could get away with it.
The woman started as I sat down beside her. "Well, Purpurea, we meet again!"
She got over her startlement quickly. "And not by accident, I'll bet."
"Yes, actually, I was wondering what you were doing in the house of Metellus Celer, which is also the house of his beloved wife, Clodia Pulcher."
"You were following me!" she said, indignant. "Absolutely. Now tell me what you were doing with Clodia, or I'll cause all sorts of trouble for you."
"I'm just a poor, honest herb-woman. You've no call to be harassing me!" She shifted the basket in her lap. Something rustled inside it.
"I haven't the slightest interest in your honesty or lack of it," I told her. "But people are getting murdered all over the city, and I was almost one of them. I suspect you of involvement. Your best course is to implicate somebody else, so speak up."
"Murder! I am involved in no such thing. The lady Clodia sent for me to procure certain herbs and have her fortune told. Her and young lady Fulvia, that is, and isn't that one a hot little piece?"
"She is indeed," I agreed, "and no doubt Rome suffer grievously because of her in years to come, let
's return to Clodia. Would whatever is rustling in that basket have anything to do with telling her fortune?"
"Oh, aye." She reached into the basket and hauled out a fat, torpid black snake at least three feet long. "Old Dis here is the best fortune-telling snake in Rome. He's not very lively this time of year, though."
"And the herbs?" I asked.
"Just the usual."
"The usual?"
"You know, aphrodisiacs. You ought to let me mix some up for you. Give you a cock like Priapus there."
"I don't suffer from the deficiency," I said, nettled.
"They all say that, except the ones old enough to be honest about it. I think her husband needs a bit of encouragement now and then."
"Are you sure that is all you delivered to her? No poisons, by any chance?"
"Now, sir, you've tried that one before," she chided. "Do you really think I'm going to admit to a capital offense?"
"I suppose not," I said, rising. Then I let fly an arrow at random, the sort that sometimes strikes an unexpected target. I do not know why I asked her, except that her craft was an ancient one, involving many arcane rituals. "Citizens are being murdered, Purpurea. Someone is stabbing them in the throat and then, after they are dead, smashing them on the forehead with a hammer. What do you know of that?" To my astonishment her face drained of color and her jaw dropped.
"You mean they're in the city?"
I was taken much aback. "Who? Who do you mean by 'they'?"
She jumped up, clutching her basket. "Nobody I want to be involved with. Take my advice and don't you fall afoul of them, either. Good day to you, sir." She shouldered past me and headed for the street.
"Stop!" I said. "I want to:" By that time, I was addressing her back, She was not just walking away. She was running. I began to chase her, but I quickly gave it up. The toga is a wretched garment for performing anything strenuous, and I did not dare throw it off. Someone would steal it for certain.
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