A Point of Law s-10

by John Maddox Roberts

  Curio thanked him, and, as he left, I saw him whisper something to Hermes. The young man nodded.

  “I’m sorry that Fulvia got so overwrought,” Curio said. “But I was a frightening sight, and she’s an excitable woman.” He looked at the heap of bloody clothes on the floor and shook his head. “My best toga and tunic. They look like someone mopped the floor of a slaughterhouse with them.”

  “I imagine Fulvia has plenty of men’s clothes you can wear. Clodius liked to affect workingmen’s garb, but I know that he had decent clothes that he wore to banquets and Senate meetings.”

  “I suppose so.” Curio seemed unhurt except for the head wound.

  “So who do you think they were?” I asked. “Such assaults seem to be all the fashion lately.”

  “Do you mean, do I think they were the same ones who killed Fulvia’s brother? I doubt it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because those men would have done a better job of it. They made sure Fulvius was very thoroughly dead, then they dragged his corpse all the way to the basilica steps. There was a certain amount of planning, determination, and skill involved there. No, I imagine it was somebody with a personal grudge. I’ve made enemies like the rest of us.”

  Fulvia came in, now decently gowned, her hair dressed, and the facial evidence of her recent fury reduced by cosmetics to a slight puffiness around the eyes. It spoke well for the efficiency of her slaves that they had wrought such change in so short a time.

  “Why, Caius,” she said to Curio, “you look much better than I had expected.”

  “Please don’t sound so disappointed, my dear. I told you before you stormed out that it was not all that serious.”

  “But you men always talk like that! Clodius used to come home bleeding like the loser at a munera and tell me that the barber nicked him. I’ve seen men with their guts hanging out insisting they were merely scratched. I thought I’d probably find you dead when I got back here!”

  “You got yourself freshly made up and dressed in your finest first, though, didn’t you?” he noted.

  “Don’t try my patience!” she was beginning to get wrought up again.

  Curio stood and took her in his arms. “Now, now, let’s not get excited. It’s all just the little hazards of life in Rome these days. Things will quiet down after the election.” He looked at me and made a significant gesture of the eyebrows, indicating the door.

  “Well, all seems under control here,” I said. “I’ll just take my leave of you. Curio, congratulations again on your survival. Fulvia, thank you for a wonderful entertainment this morning. It will be long remembered.”

  I beat a hasty retreat, Hermes following close on my heels. As we left the house, he touched my arm.

  “Before he left, Asklepiodes said you’re to meet him at the altar of Hercules.”

  “I saw him speak in your ear. Let’s go learn what he’s discovered.”

  The altar of Hercules was on the western side of the Forum Boarium, near the Sublician Bridge. There we found the physician lounging at his ease, still in his litter, with his bearers squatting all around it. The gladiators had apparently been dismissed. The old cattle market, besides selling livestock and meat, was the business place for some of Rome’s best food vendors, and Asklepiodes had availed himself of their wares while he waited for me.

  “Ah, Decius, good. I did not think you would tarry long. Have a seat and help me finish this excellent lunch. You too, Hermes. I bought enough for five men.”

  I climbed into the litter and relaxed on the cushions. Hermes remained standing outside. Between Asklepiodes and me lay a platter of flat bread two feet wide, heaped with street-vendor delicacies, the best to be had. I took a skewer of tender quail grilled over charcoal and Hermes picked up a river fish caught that morning and steamed in a wrapping of pickled vine leaves.

  “You are being even more generous than usual today, old friend,” I told him. “I will not forget it. Now, what were you able to deduce from Curio’s wounds? Did they tell you something significant about his attackers?”

  “There was only one wound,” he said, “and it told me a great deal indeed. Your friend Curio was not attacked. The wound was self-inflicted.”

  Hermes pounded me on the back, as I choked on delicious quail meat. Asklepiodes looked upon the effect of his pronouncement with deep satisfaction. There were times when I would have liked to strangle him. He handed me a cup of excellent Falernian, and I forgave him.

  “Explain,” I said, when I could speak again.

  “When I arrived-and this was only a short time before your own advent upon the scene-Curio lay on that bed, his hands clasped to his bloody head, writhing about like a condemned man being flogged with chains. He and that Syrian quack were astonished and alarmed when I showed up. When I went to examine the wounded man, the Syrian tried to restrain me forcibly. Luckily, my medical specialty being what it is, I know a great deal more about force than he.”

  I nodded, remembering his many demonstrations of homicidal technique, some of which had left marks on me for weeks.

  “I called for a basin and cloth, something oddly missing from the room, and cleaned Curio’s head. His attitude changed swiftly. He began to make light of the wound and say that Fulvia’s physician was being entirely too excitable, that he was no more than stunned by the blow to his head. Are you aware of something called the ‘coward’s blow?’ ”

  “I think I’ve heard it mentioned among the sporting crowd. Something to do with throwing a fight, isn’t it?”

  “It comes from the early days of pugilism. In the earliest times, boxers were amateurs-aristocratic athletes like the other contenders in the Olympics and the rest of the Greek games. But, in time, there arose a class of professional pugilists, and people began to bet heavily on the outcome of the fights, even as they do today. Various ruses were developed to rig the outcome, and one of these was the coward’s blow.

  “Any scalp wound bleeds freely. The skin is stretched thin as vellum over the skull and is plentifully supplied with blood vessels. There is a spot”-he tapped a place on his own pate, about five inches above his right eyebrow-“which, when nicked, guarantees an especially generous effusion of blood. By prearrangement, one boxer would aim a punch at his opponent’s head. The other would duck in the usual fashion but not quite enough. The tip of one of the caestus spikes would open a cut on that spot, and the blood would flow as from an upended bucket. The prearranged loser would drop as if slain, and the wagers would be paid. As an added bonus, once the place has been spiked a few times, all that is needed to reopen it is a tap, so the ruse can be repeated endlessly, always before a new audience.”

  “And this is the wound you found on Curio?” I asked.

  “It was done with a dagger, and at the precise angle that would be made by a right-handed man cutting himself, but it was the coward’s blow-a trifling laceration done by a man who knew exactly where to cut for the most dramatic effect.”

  I nodded. “I saw the boxer’s marks on his face when I first met him, and just now he said that he was a lifelong enthusiast of the sport. He would know how that cut is delivered. He made a quick recovery when you found him out though. He acted as if he had never thought the wound was serious and he carried it off well.”

  “Do you think the lady Fulvia was party to the ruse?” Asklepiodes asked.

  I was pondering that one myself. “No, I think not. I would certainly never put such a subterfuge past her, but her outburst in the Forum this morning was genuine. It could not have been faked unless she’s an actress of surpassing merit. I believe Curio left her house this morning before daylight, waited until the janitor shut the door, took out his dagger and cut himself, waited until he was well-soaked with blood, then raised a huge noise, as if he were being murdered. The janitor reopened the door, and Curio staggered back inside. He’d probably made arrangements with the Syrian beforehand to keep the true nature of his wound secret.”

  “That would hav
e been prudent,” Asklepiodes agreed.

  “He probably didn’t expect Fulvia to erupt like Aetna though, or he would have had his supporters in the Forum ready to further his plans, whatever they may be. And, of course, he had no way to anticipate another physician coming to examine him. He had to make the best of it and play the scene to the best effect he could.”

  “Just what is his plan?” Hermes wondered aloud. He took from the platter a pastry of mashed figs cooked with honey and nuts.

  “I intend to find out,” I told him. “But that isn’t the question uppermost in my mind at the moment.”

  “Oh?” Asklepiodes said. “What question troubles you more?” “How did Curio know that Fulvius was killed elsewhere and carried to the basilica steps? That is a detail I’ve mentioned to very few people, and Caius Scribonius Curio isn’t one of them.” I took a slice of fish pie. The way things were going, who knew when I would next have a chance to eat? It is always best to be prepared.

  11

  Did Fulvia really strip naked right atop the rostra in front of the whole public?” Julia wanted to know.

  “Only half naked. I think stripping to the waist as a display of grief is a Greek custom.”

  “When did Fulvia turn into a Greek? She only did it because she thinks she has plenty to show off.”

  “Now that you mention it, the condition wasn’t at all unbecoming, though pity wasn’t the reaction she evoked.” Julia and I had encountered one another at our house, where I had gone to get my bath gear. She had just come from Callista’s to change clothes for an afternoon ceremony at the Temple of Vesta. Then it would be back to Callista’s to work on that code.

  “You were eager enough to escort her home, I hear.” She looked radiant and deceptively benevolent in Vestal white.

  “And a good thing I did. Listen to what I learned there.” As usual, Julia couldn’t stay angry when she was hearing really scabrous gossip and shady intrigue. She seemed thoroughly edified by my recitation.

  “What an indiscreet pair,” she said, shaking her head. “And what does Curio intend by this ludicrous charade?”

  “Not so ludicrous,” I told her. “He has the whole City believing he was almost assassinated, and I’d believe it, too, if I hadn’t seen the evidence and heard what Asklepiodes had to say. With the elections just the day after tomorrow, the sympathy vote could just push him over the top in a tightly contested election.”

  “Sad to say, that is the most innocent explanation you can think of.”

  “Unfortunately. And I am now sure that he had some knowledge of Fulvius’s murder. But was it prior or post, and was he personally involved?”

  “Would Fulvia marry her brother’s murderer? That would be rich even for her.”

  “Not everybody knows what everybody else is doing in this tangle of deceptions,” I sighed. “So far we have Fulvius, the Marcelli, Octavia, Curio, Tribune Manilius, and even Fulvia herself, and every one of them may be playing a different game. Some of them may not be involved at all, although I wouldn’t put any money on that proposition.”

  She looked at the satchel of towels, oil flasks, and scrapers on the table. “Which bath are you going to? The Licinia?”

  “No, the one near the old Senate house. The other senators will be gathering there, and I want to sample the climate. Have you made any further progress on the code?”

  “Two more characters. Some whole words are turning up, though it’s too soon to try to make any sense out of the documents. It’s the most enthralling work I’ve ever done. I’d still be there if I didn’t absolutely have to go to the temple this afternoon. Callista thinks we can have it broken by nightfall.”

  “Wonderful. Send word to me as soon as you have them translated. I’m afraid I have no idea where I’ll be.”

  “Wherever it is, go easy on the wine. You need all your wits about you just now.” She swept out like a white cloud.

  “Big chance of that,” Hermes said, when she was gone.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’m thinking of reforming.” Hermes wisely said nothing.

  It was still only early afternoon, which seemed unbelievable so eventful had the day been. Men were just beginning to gather at the baths. The one I favored was just off the Forum. Although it was less luxurious than the newer balnea, it was favored by men of power in Rome, the senators and the untitled but wealthy equites.

  For a change, I soaked in the hot bath and just listened to them talk for a while. Naturally, almost all the talk was about Fulvia’s performance that morning, and the “attack” on Curio. Naturally, Fulvia got the bulk of the attention. Some claimed to be shocked and scandalized; some were merely amused. All agreed that she had made a fabulous sight, and those few who hadn’t been there were much aggrieved at having missed the show.

  “What’s this about Curio being a champion of the plebs?” asked a crusty old senator. “I thought he was one of us!” Us being the aristocrats, the optimates, the men who sometimes styled themselves boni, the best.

  “That’s what I thought,” said another. Apparently, Curio’s defection to Caesar’s camp was so recent that many senators hadn’t gotten the news yet.

  “Oh, yes,” an eques affirmed. “It seems he’s as two-faced as Janus. He’ll spend his year pushing Caesar’s interests if he gets elected.”

  “And now it looks as if he’s marrying Clodius Pulcher’s widow,” said a young senator, who wore a dreamy expression. “It’s going to be a little hard on his dignity when he gets up to interpose his veto, knowing that we’ve all seen his wife naked.”

  “He doesn’t seem to be a man easily embarrassed,” said the eques.

  “Who tried to kill him?” I threw the question out at random, my eyes half shut, as if I were almost asleep. I didn’t want to take part in the conversation, but I was curious to hear opinion taken from the common store. Sometimes this sort of thing can be more revealing than the informed opinion of insiders.

  “Same bunch who killed that fellow, what’s-his-name, Fulvius,” the young senator opined.

  “I’ll wager it’s Pompey’s doing,” said the eques. Pompey was not at all popular with men of his class, who tended to favor Caesar.

  “Why?” asked the old senator. “Aren’t Pompey and Caesar still pretending to be friends? Since that dog Clodius was killed, Caesar’s had no flunky to run the city for him. Young Curio’s father was a good man. He was one of us! This boy won’t be near the rabble-rouser Clodius was. Why should Pompey want him dead?”

  “Besides,” the young senator put in, “if there’s one thing Pompey knows how to accomplish well, it’s killing people. He wouldn’t send incompetents to have a man done away with. He’d send a few of his old centurions, men who know how to do their master’s bidding and keep their mouths shut about it afterward.”

  “Whoever it was,” said a voice I recognized, “they certainly got that wild woman excited.” Sallustius Crispus lowered himself into the bath. I hadn’t seen him come in. “She might have gotten another riot going except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?” asked the eques.

  “Didn’t anybody notice?” Sallustius said, grinning. “She never said just who she wanted killed-because she didn’t know.”

  “Sounded to me like she wanted the heads of the whole Senate hung up on the Rostra,” the young senator said.

  “A rhetorical excess, I’m sure.” Sallustius caught sight of me then, or pretended to. “Why, Decius Caecilius, I seem to run into you wherever I go.”

  “He’s standing for praetor,” somebody said. “There’s no getting away from a candidate.”

  “He’d wear his toga candida in the bath, if he could get away with it,” said another, amid general laughter. That was fine with me. The last thing I wanted at that moment was to be taken too seriously. Gradually the talk turned to other things. As I expected, Sallustius was there when I resumed my clothing.

  “All right, Sallustius, you’ve been dying to say something. What is it?”


  “Our friend Curio, of course, is saying nothing about the men who attacked him, save that they were inept. His friends and supporters, however, are not so reticent.”

  “Oh? What are they saying?”

  “That it was not Curio’s enemies who attacked him, that it was Caesar’s enemies.”

  “I see. Supporting Caesar has exposed him to attack from the vile and underhanded optimates, eh?”

  “Oh, yes. Very much so. And what a brave man he is to have survived the attack. How becomingly modest to act as if it were a trifling brawl, instead of the Homeric combat his friends are describing this very day. I saw him just a little while ago in the Forum, his head wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage.”

  I had to smile. Curio’s little charade seemed to be working splendidly. Had I not so inopportunely sent Asklepiodes to tend to him, he probably would have had himself carried to the Forum on a litter, looking ready to expire but proclaiming himself to be prepared to take office and serve the People of Rome despite his near-mortal injuries.

  We walked out of the dressing room and out into the pillared arcade that fronted the balnea. Beyond the steps, between the walls of two temples, we could see a small part of the Forum, including the old sundial from Syracuse. People continued to climb the steps in search of a bath, many of them senators. I was obliged to nod and greet most of them in passing but managed to handle our conversation in the meantime.

  “So this raises not only his own standing, but Caesar’s as well?”

  “As if he needed it. You escorted Fulvia home, did you not? How did you find Curio?”

  “Just as she described him: poor man was at death’s door, bleeding like he’d been beheaded. I was in the act of sticking a denarius under his tongue when he revived and begged to return to his public duties.” I was probably enjoying this too much. I have a tendency to do that. Sallustius certainly took it wrong.

  “I see. Then you have finally got off the fence and declared for Caesar? Good choice. You won’t regret it.”