“Milo is anxious, angry, uncertain. But you hardly need me to tell you that.”
“No, I do not.” His smile seemed without irony, merely a gesture of appreciation for not wasting his time. “What did Clodia want with you this morning?” When I hesitated, Pompey frowned. “Don’t tell me it’s none of my business. It is. Everything that happens in Rome nowadays is my business. What did Clodia want with you?”
“To take me to Fulvia. Only that.”
“And what did Fulvia want?”
“Great One, surely words spoken in confidence by a grieving widow—”
“Finder, you make me impatient.”
I considered how to answer. “A certain man has approached her. She’s uncertain whether to trust him.”
“Surely suitors haven’t started knocking on her door already!”
“Not a suitor, exactly,” I said, though in fact Antony had once been Fulvia’s lover, if Caelius was to be believed.
Pompey looked profoundly uninterested. “Well, I won’t press you for details; Fulvia’s personal affairs are of no immediate importance to me. Did you agree to help her?”
“I haven’t yet decided.”
“Perhaps I could help. Who knows? I might possess whatever information you’re seeking.”
It seemed unlikely. Marc Antony was Caesar’s man, not Pompey’s. “Are you offering to help me, Great One?”
“Perhaps. I’m a reasonable man. If I can give something of value to you, then I imagine you’ll be more willing to give me what I want.”
“And what is it that you want from me, Great One?”
“I’ll come to that in a moment. Do you have any questions for me?”
I thought carefully and saw no danger in asking. “What can you tell me about Marc Antony?”
“Caesar’s lieutenant? I know that his father made a mess of clearing out the pirates before the Senate finally gave me the job. And that his stepfather got himself executed for treason at Cicero’s behest. And I recall that young Antony went off soldiering in my old stamping grounds out east for a few years before he signed up with Caesar. What else is there to know?”
“Perhaps nothing.”
“By Hercules, he’s not the one courting Fulvia, is he? I don’t see how. He’s already married to his cousin Antonia, and that’s not the sort of marriage it’s easy to step out of. But if he is a suitor, Fulvia would do well to avoid him; that’s my advice. Clodius may have been an extortionist and a rabble-rouser, but at least he knew how to bring home the silver; look at that house they ended up in. Young Antony’s another matter. Like Caesar and the rest of that circle, always more and more in debt, always selling themselves for the next loan to see them through. They’ll come to a bad end, the lot of them. I only hope they don’t bankrupt the Republic along with them.”
He fell silent and raised an eyebrow in mild surprise—at himself, I realized, for saying more than he meant to.
“And what did Cicero make of your visit to Fulvia?” said Pompey, pressing on.
I cleared my throat. “He was curious—like yourself, Great One.”
“He wasn’t somehow behind your visit to Fulvia, was he? No? I thought perhaps he’d set you up to be his spy. That would be so very like Cicero. Covert networks, unsigned letters, messages sent in some secret code invented by Tiro, paid informers, one lurker keeping watch on the next. Like a spider casting webs in all directions. He’d have turned out differently if he’d had any talent as a military man. More action, fewer words. Are you Cicero’s spy, Finder?” He disconcerted me again with his gaze.
“No, Great One.”
“Perhaps you are and you simply don’t know it.”
The suggestion surprised me, then made me uneasy. “I think I know all of Cicero’s tricks by now.”
Pompey raised an eyebrow. “Really? Even I wouldn’t make that claim! What do you make of Caelius’s behavior? Why is he standing up for Milo? What’s in it for him?”
“Caelius has cast his lot with Cicero; Cicero has cast his lot with Milo.”
“So by extension, Caelius is Milo’s man?”
“I’m not sure that Caelius is anybody’s man.”
“You speak the truth there, Finder. And what do you make of Milo himself?”
“As I said before, Great One—”
“Yes, I know: ‘anxious, angry, uncertain.’ But what do you make of him?”
“I met him for the first time only recently—since the death of Clodius.”
“Really? No previous connection?”
“None.”
“But you do have some old connection with Clodius.”
“No. I did a bit of work for Clodius’s sister a few years ago—”
He nodded. “When she helped prosecute Caelius for murder.”
“Yes.”
“What a speech Cicero made that day for Caelius—or against Clodia, should I say? So, Finder, were you ever in Clodius’s camp?”
“I was not and I am not.”
“And you’re not in Milo’s camp, either?”
“No.”
He appraised me for a long moment, then turned to Eco. “What about you? Like father, like son?”
Eco cleared his throat. “I helped my father when he worked for Clodia, but I never met her brother. I went with my father to Cicero’s house today, but I have yet to meet Milo face to face.”
“And your loyalties?”
“I’m my father’s man.”
Pompey smiled. “A loyal son makes the best partisan of all, eh, Finder? But what about your other son, the one who’s off in Gaul? Has he not pulled the rest of the Gordiani into Caesar’s orbit along with him?”
“My son Meto is a loyal soldier, but my family has no special allegiance to Caesar.”
Pompey regarded me curiously. “How is it that you manage to navigate such an independent course, Finder, without being smashed on the rocks?”
“It seems to me, Great One, that if I let another man navigate for me, I would have been smashed on the rocks long before now.”
“Do you always steer your own course, Finder? But how? Do you have some special knowledge of the stars? Or do you sail blindly into the future?”
“As blindly as every other man, I suppose. Perhaps it’s the stars that are steering us.”
“Ah, yes, I know that feeling. You believe you have a destiny, then?”
“A very small one, perhaps.”
“Better than none at all, I suppose.” The Great One shook his head, as if the idea of having no destiny, or only a small one, was too difficult for him to imagine. “Destiny is a strange thing. Look at Clodius, ending as a bloody corpse on the great road his ancestor built; it’s almost too approrpriate, like a Greek tragedy. Look at Milo. I suppose the appropriate end for him would be to get caught in a trap of some sort and eaten alive by his enemies.”
“I don’t follow you, Great One.”
“You know, like the legendary Milo of Croton.”
“Is there a story attached to his death? Famous athletes have never been my particular interest.”
“No? But you can’t really understand our Milo unless you know about his namesake. What a man calls himself tells you what he thinks of himself, and sometimes where he’s headed. Surely I needn’t point that out to a man who calls himself ‘Finder.’”
“I understand … ‘Great One.’”
Pompey didn’t even blink. “I shall tell you about Milo of Croton, then,” he said. “Come, it’s warmer on the balcony. We can sit in the sun. I’ll have some heated wine brought. Alban or Falernian? I prefer Alban myself—a drier aftertaste …”
So we sat on the southwest balcony of Pompey’s Pincian villa, sipping ten-year-old wine and looking out over the city. The fire on the Aventine Hill had apparently been extinguished. The great column of smoke had been cut off at the base and seemed to float above the rooftops like something from a nightmare. A new pillar of smoke, thicker and jet black, had appeared in the vicinity of the Colline Gat
e, far away to our left.
Pompey swirled the wine in his cup. “When our Milo was young, he was quite an athlete. Or so he says; after the third cup of wine he starts bragging about his athletic glory days the way a soldier brags about old battles. He won many competitions, especially as a wrestler. I don’t know what sort of competition a boy has growing up in a village like Lanuvium, but Milo was always the strongest, the fastest, the most determined. Powerful as an ox. Stubborn as an ox, too—that’s our Milo.
“He’s still as vain as a Greek about his physique, you know. Not exactly the Greek ideal—too short and stocky—but he’s certainly kept himself fit. I’ve seen him naked at the baths. Belly like a brick wall, shoulders like catapult stones. He could crack a nut between those buttocks!” Pompey let out a coarse laugh that was quietly echoed by the guard at the end of the balcony, who could hardly help overhearing. I realized that Eco and I had been admitted to a certain intimacy with the Great One. He was sharing with us the sort of manly talk a commander shares at ease with his subordinates.
“So when Titus Annius was casting about for a name to give himself, he settled on Milo. Do you remember the old schoolboy exercise about Milo of Croton?”
When I showed a blank expression, Eco, whose spotty education had nonetheless been more formal than mine, ventured to answer. “ ‘Compose a recitation on the following theme and show how it might instruct us through life: Milo of Croton, having accustomed himself to carrying a calf every day for exercise, kept on carrying it until it was grown to a bull.’”
Pompey and Eco shared a nostalgic laugh. “The moral of the theme: as a boy grows into a man, so grow his burdens,” said Pompey, “and if you’re a fellow like Milo of Croton, you won’t shrug them off, but just keep smiling through clenched teeth as you lug them forward, grunting and groaning. I’m sure that our Milo had to write on the same theme. The lesson seems to have stuck with him.”
He took a sip of wine, frowned and called for the steward. “Is this really the best Alban we have? It’s gone off. It won’t do. Bring the Falernian. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Feats of strength. Milo of Croton could hold a ripe pomegranate in his fist, they say, so firmly that no one could wrest his fingers apart, and yet so carefully that the pomegranate wouldn’t bleed. He could stand on a discus covered with grease and maintain such perfect balance that no one could push him off. He could tie a cord around his head, hold his breath, and make the veins on his forehead bulge out until the cord broke—now that’s something I should like to see!
“But Milo of Croton wasn’t always graceful. Once at the games at Olympia when he was on his way to accept the laurel leaf crown for wrestling, he slipped and fell flat on his back. As he was scrambling to get up, some of the wags in the crowd started saying he shouldn’t be crowned, having displayed such clumsiness. Milo said, ‘That wasn’t the third fall! I fell only once. Let’s see one of you throw me two more times!” That shut them up in a hurry.
“He won twelve crowns altogether, six at Olympia and six at Delphi. When Croton went to war with the Sybarites, for a helmet Milo wore all his laurel leaf crowns at once—enough to cushion a blow—and dressed like his hero Hercules in a lion’s skin, carrying a club. He led the people of Croton to victory. And when, in gratitude, they decided to erect a statue of him, Milo himself carried his own statue through the square and placed it on the pedestal.
“When Pythagoras the philosopher was living in Croton, he and Milo became great friends. Opposites attract: the thinker and the strongman. Lucky for Pythagoras, since Milo saved his life. There was an earthquake, and in the dining hall at the philosophers’ school a pillar gave way. Milo held up the collapsing ceiling while Pythagoras and his students cleared out, then slipped out from under it and managed to save himself as well.
“Do you begin to see, Finder, how these legendary feats might bear some allegorical relation to the way in which our Milo conducts himself and sees his destiny? The legendary hero whose clenched fist cannot be opened against his will; who will not be shoved aside, no matter how slippery his footing; who carries a great burden, but does not complain; who can hold his breath until the veins in his forehead pop out; who is best friends with a famous wise man; who is willing to throw himself into the lurch to save his friends; who goes into battle wearing the mantle, or in this case, the name of his boyhood hero; who would gladly put his own statue upon a pedestal; who cannot be thrown down by anyone … but who might, all on his own and in full sight of the watching world, fall flat on his back.”
I considered this as I sipped freshly poured Falernian from my cup. A late afternoon breeze had begun to stir the sky high above Rome, slanting the pillars of smoke and tattering their upper reaches.
“But what of the death of Milo of Croton, Great One?”
“How does the adage go? ‘To possess great strength counts for nothing unless a man knows how to use it.’ That was the undoing of Milo of Croton. He set out on a journey one day, on foot, and lost his way in a deep forest. Far from the road he came to cleared place where some woodsmen had been working, but the day was late and the woodsmen were gone. He saw a huge log. There was a long crack along the whole length of the log, with several iron wedges driven into the gap. Apparently the woodsmen had intended to split the log in two, but the job was too big for them and they left it for another day. Milo thought, I shall split the log myself. Think how surprised they’ll be to find that one man has done the job for them, using only his bare hands! How clever they’ll think me! How grateful they’ll be! Another famous feat of strength for Milo of Croton! So he pushed his fingers into the narrow breach until his palms were flat against the two sides. He pushed them apart with all his might. The iron wedges loosened and fell out—and instantly the crack snapped shut. Milo’s hands were trapped. His arms were bent. The log was too heavy for him to shift. He couldn’t move.
“Darkness fell. There was a howling in the woods. Wild beasts crept out of the forest into the clearing. They could smell his fear, sense his helplessness. They only nipped at him at first, but when they saw that he couldn’t defend himself, they clambered onto him, fangs flashing. They tore him apart. They devoured him alive.
“The next morning, the horrified woodsmen found what was left of Milo of Croton.” Pompey sipped his wine. “Need I belabor certain obvious parallels to the peril in which our Milo finds himself?”
“No, Great One. You seem to know a great deal about both Milos.”
“My father used to tell me stories about Milo of Croton when I was a boy. As for Titus Annius Milo, he and I have been allies now and then.”
“But not any longer?”
“Clodius and I were allies once, too,” he said, deflecting the question, “just as Caesar and I were once allies, and still are, for all I know.”
“I don’t understand, Great One.”
“Some things only the Fates seem to fathom. No matter. What about you, Finder? Who are your allies? Whom do you serve? You seem to be a man who moves through every camp but belongs to none.”
“It would seem that way, Great One.”
“That makes you a rather unusual fellow, Finder. A valuable man to know.”
“I’m not sure how, Great One.”
“I want you to do a bit of work for me.”
I felt several things at once—excitement, wariness, a sinking sensation. “Perhaps, Great One. If I can.”
“I want you to take a trip down the Appian Way, to the place where Clodius was killed. Take along your son, if you like. Have a look at the site. Talk to the local people. See what you can find out. If you’re as good as your name, perhaps you’ll discover a few things that others have overlooked.”
“Why me, Great One? Surely there are other men you could send.”
“There’s no one who could move as freely as you seem to move between Fulvia’s house and Cicero’s. As I said, you’re an unusual fellow.”
“The Fates seem to have landed me in a curious spot.”
“You�
�re not the only one. We must all submit to the Fates.” He drained his wine slowly, never taking his eyes off me. “Finder, let me explain something to you. As a general, I have been very nearly infallible. I’ve moved from triumph to triumph without a misstep, with hardly even a moment’s hesitation. I have the instinct for it, you see. A peculiar genius, all my own. I could do it with my eyes shut. But politics—politics is another matter. I approach the Forum the same way I approach a battlefield. I marshal my forces, I lay out a plan—but things never seem to go exactly as I want. I’ll think I’m headed straight for the prize, and suddenly I find that I don’t know where in Hades I am, or how I got there. I lose all sense of direction.
“Julia always said I had bad advisors. Probably right. On a battlefield, your troops are here, the enemy is there, and a man either gives you the right information or else he’ll be dead the next day. But in this hazy murk, a dagger can be aimed at your heart and you never know it, and so-called advisors have a habit of telling you what they think you want to hear, never mind the facts. I wouldn’t care to tell you how many times I’ve charged down a path using a map that led me straight into a brick wall. That mustn’t happen now—not now! No false advice, no fawning lies, no blind spots. I must know the lay of the land, the disposition of the enemy, the precise movements of all the forces around me. First of all, and above all else, I want to know exactly what happened on the Appian Way. Do you understand?”
“I think so, Great One.”
“Can I trust you, Finder?”
I looked at him for a long moment, wondering if I could trust Pompey.
“No need to answer,” he finally said. “My general’s instinct senses no deceit in you. So: will you do what I ask?”
Fulvia had already asked me to investigate the circumstances of her husband’s death. Now Pompey was doing the same. I felt Eco’s eyes on me. I took a deep breath.
“I’ll go down the Appian Way. I’ll find out whatever I can about Clodius’s death.”
Pompey nodded. “Good. I’m sure we can agree on terms; I’ve never asked a man to march for me without proper payment. As for lodging, you can stay at my villa while you’re down there. It’s not far from Clodius’s place. Probably just a stone’s throw from the spot where he was killed.”
A Murder on the Appian Way Page 17