A Murder on the Appian Way

by Steven Saylor

  We returned to Pompey’s villa the way we had come. After a midday meal we mounted our horses to pay a call on Senator Sextus Tedius, the man who had found Clodius and sent his body back to Rome in his litter.

  “Well, Davus,” I said, “it looks as though you shall get in some riding today after all.”

  “This morning’s walk worked out all the stiffness, Master.” Davus smiled, but when his bottom made contact with his horse I heard a stifled groan.

  To reach the villa of Senator Tedius, we passed through Aricia, where Clodius had addressed the local magistrates on the day of his death. Though the town is larger and more hospitable than Bovillae, being the traditional first night’s stop for many southbound travelers from Rome, a man could still pass through and hardly know he had been there.

  Pompey’s foreman had given us directions to our destination, which turned out to be a much more rustic and humble dwelling than those of Clodius or the Great One. Sextus Tedius was clearly a man of wealth, as the extent of the property surrounding his house testified, but his dwelling was altogether lacking in ostentation. It looked large enough to serve the purpose of a country villa, with room for guests and gatherings, but no statuary lined the road, no mosaics decorated the porch, no elaborate lamps hung above the door. Judging from his house, I suspected that Tedius’s money was very old, his taste in literature and art austere, and his politics staunchly conservative.

  Pompey’s foreman, when he had given me directions, had informed me that the senator had long been a supporter and admirer of the Great One. Considering the personality, suggested by his house, and the fact that he was partial to Pompey, I decided that a candid and formal approach would be best. When the doorkeeper inquired after my business, I handed him my letter of commission from Pompey and told him I wished to speak to his master.

  After a short interval the slave summoned Eco and me to the senator’s private study, where the shutters had been thrown open to admit a view of the town of Aricia below. The view was sunlit, but the air was bracing. Our host sat in an old-fashioned backless chair, holding himself very upright for a man of his years. The only concession to comfort was a blanket thrown across his lap to keep his legs warm. His hair was white, tinged with just enough yellow to suggest that he had once been blond. His face and hands were darkened and leathery, suggesting that he had spent much of his life outdoors, and the lines around his mouth were deeply etched; even so, it occurred to me that he might still be a handsome man if he would only relax the severity of his countenance.

  “You’re one of Pompey’s men?” he said.

  “My name is Gordianus. I come on the Great One’s behalf.”

  “In this house, we call my good neighbor the general by the name he was born with,” said Tedius, not harshly but firmly. “A man’s greatness, or his smallness for that matter, is best left for posterity to determine. While he lives, a man’s acts speak for themselves.” He looked at me shrewdly and allowed something like a smile to bend his lips. “But the man who sent you knows my sentiments well enough; Gnaeus Pompey and I have often discussed such matters over a cup of wine in this very room. He knows that I am a Republican through and through, and that I believe in the great institution of the Senate, not in great men. If I did not believe that he was ultimately loyal to the Senate himself, I should be very disturbed by the way he elevates himself above the rest of us by the use of that name, Magnus. Tell me, have you just come from Rome?”

  “We set out before daylight yesterday morning.”

  “Then you left before the Senate was to meet at Pompey’s Theater. I hoped to attend myself, but my leg won’t allow it.” He frowned at his left leg, as if to communicate his disappointment with it. “I understand that a proposal to rebuild the Senate House was to be put forth, with the contract going to Sulla’s boy, Faustus.”

  “I believe that is correct,” I said, remembering what Pompey had told me.

  “And I hear there was also to be a proposal to issue the Ultimate Decree, empowering Pompey to raise troops to quell the disorder in the city.”

  “Perhaps. As I said, I left before dawn.”

  “You have no news for me, then? Yet you say that Pompey sent you.”

  “I come on behalf of Pompey, yes, but not as a messenger. I come to seek information, not to convey it.”

  Tedius raised an eyebrow. “I see.”

  “The Great One—Gnaeus Pompey—has commissioned me privately to discover everything I can about the death of Publius Clodius.”

  “Surely Rome has talked of nothing else for days.”

  “Yes, but talk and truth can be far apart. Pompey would know the truth.”

  “Does he intend to administer justice himself?” Tedius still seemed intent on drawing information from me.

  “I think he wishes to see clearly. No general can proceed through a landscape obscured by mist. Is it true that you and your daughter found Clodius lying in the Appian Way?”

  “Who does not already know this? I sent his body on to Rome in my litter.”

  “Let me understand the sequence of events clearly. When did you depart from this house?”

  The senator gazed at me for a long moment, his face as unreadable as a leather mask. I think he was unused to being questioned by anyone, let alone a man so far beneath his rank, but at last he spoke. “My daughter and I and our retinue left this house at about the ninth hour of the day. I had planned to be in Rome by nightfall.”

  “When did you first realize that something was amiss on the Appian Way?”

  “As we approached the shrine of the Good Goddess. My daughter is a pious woman; on the way to Rome she customarily makes an offering at the shrine. But we came upon a large entourage in great disarray, with agitated slaves and bodyguards shouting and running about. Clearly, there was something amiss, as you put it. I first realized that Milo must be in the vicinity when I saw that wife of his, Fausta Cornelia. She was in a carriage by the side of the road with her cloak pulled tight about her. Her face was as white as the moon—not due to cosmetics, either—and a cadre of slaves was fussing over her, fanning her and cooing at her. While I was watching, she seemed suddenly to have had enough of them and began flailing at them. The simpering slaves scattered like pigeons.”

  “And Milo?”

  “I came upon him surrounded by some of his men, all standing about with drawn swords. Some of the swords had blood on them. I saw there were also a few bodies lying about. I told my daughter to sit back, draw the curtains on her side of the litter, and not to show herself. Milo’s men raised their swords as my party approached, but when I announced myself he called them to order.”

  “Are you a friend of Milo’s?”

  Senator Tedius made an expression between a wince and a sneer. “The man has his uses, I suppose. I would hardly call him a friend. What sort of man countenances such embarrassing conduct from his wife? I don’t care if she is the dictator’s daughter. And I don’t care for fellows who give themselves names which are more heroic than they are—calling himself another Milo of Croton, indeed! I asked him what the trouble was. He said he had been set upon by bandits.”

  “Bandits?”

  “I suppose he wasn’t prepared to say what had really happened, and that was the first lie that popped into his head. Bandits had attacked him, he said, and some of his men had chased the brigands in the direction of Bovillae. He suggested that I turn back, for my own safety. ‘How many bandits?’ I asked. ‘Oh, a great many, and all heavily armed,’ he said. But I suspected he was exaggerating, and when he repeated his warning I told him not to be ridiculous, that I had business in the city the next morning and I intended to press on. ‘Then wait here with me,’ he said, ‘until my men return, and we’re sure the danger’s over.’ That seemed reasonable; but then I saw Fausta Cornelia approaching, with her entourage of slaves all fluttering around her like pigeons. I did not intend to spend even a moment in the company of that harlot. I told Milo that I felt perfectly safe under the protect
ion of my own bodyguards. I proceeded on my way.”

  “Down the hill toward Bovillae?”

  “Yes. I remember, my daughter—”

  “Yes?”

  “The detail has nothing to do with the incident.”

  “Please, give me any detail that you remember.”

  Sextus Tedius tilted his head back and parted his lips. He studied me for a long moment through narrowed eyes. I could not read his expression at all. “Very well,” he finally said. “My daughter suddenly realized that she had failed to make an offering to the Good Goddess. Tedia is very pious, as I told you. It seemed to her a bad omen to begin our journey without stopping at the shrine, especially when we had been warned of danger. She wanted to turn back, but I was determined to press on. I was curious, I suppose; I could tell that Milo was lying about something. But Tedia was apprehensive. When we passed the House of the Vestals—their new residence—she pleaded with me to take refuge there until we were sure there was no danger. My daughter is as pious toward Vesta as she is toward the Good Goddess. I told her I had no intention to hide myself among virgins, but that if she insisted I would leave her with the Vestals and return for her presently, once I saw that all was well in Bovillae. But Tedia refused to be left behind. She said that it was not her own safety which concerned her, but mine. Tedia is my only child; she is very loyal to me. Since I was determined to press on, she remained with me in the litter.

  “As we came down into Bovillae, we passed a dead body lying by the road. The corpse was very bloody, with many wounds. I forbade Tedia to look at it, but still she became frightened and urged me to turn back. I paid no heed; I called to the litter bearers to hurry on. As we approached the inn, I saw that a battle had taken place. The front door and the window shutters were all broken and ajar, and there were more dead men lying about. I must admit that I began to feel a bit of trepidation, and I whispered a prayer to Mercury. Milo had spoken of bandits, and now it appeared that these bandits had come down to Bovillae, ransacked the inn and murdered the customers! Where were Milo’s men, who supposedly had pursued these bandits? Had they all been killed, or had they fled into the woods? And where were the bandits? I told the bearers to stop. Tedia assisted me from the litter. We went among the fallen men, hoping to find one of them alive. And the first one we came to—was Publius Clodius!”

  “You recognized him at once?” The senator had not been expecting to find Clodius, I reasoned, and the face of a dead man, its features robbed of animation, is not always easy to recognize.

  “How could I not know him?” said Tedius. “If you had suffered through as many of the man’s ranting speeches in the Senate as I have—” He shook his head. “Yet another fellow who gave himself a new name, changing his proud patrician Claudius to the plebeian Clodius just to curry favor with the masses! And actually enrolling himself among the plebeians, giving up his patrician status! His ancestors must have cursed him from Hades. How fitting that he should die on the road named for one of those whose name he mocked.” The senator’s jaw pulled into a frown. He turned his gaze to the window and seemed lost in thought.

  “But you didn’t leave him there, in the road,” I prompted.

  Tedius sighed. “Publius Clodius was a menace to the state. His death was a blessing to Rome, and an even greater blessing to this mountain, which he had done so much to despoil and defile. But he was a fellow senator, after all, a colleague. And a Claudian by blood, no matter what spelling or legal fiction he affected. And once a man is dead, what use is there in despising him? No, it would not do to leave him in the road, like a dead dog. I sent his body on to Rome in my litter, instructing the bearers to deliver it with the greatest respect into the care of his wife.”

  “But Clodius’s Alban villa was nearby. Why did you not have his body taken there?”

  “It seemed more fitting to send him to the city.”

  “And you and your daughter turned back?”

  “I certainly had no intention of sitting in a litter beside a bloody corpse for three hours!” Tedius snapped. “Besides, Tedia was by that time quite distraught, and I had begun to fear for our safety. Don’t you see, I believed that Clodius and his fellows had been attacked by the same bandits of whom Milo had spoken. It seems silly now, that I hadn’t yet figured it out—that it was Milo and Clodius who’d had the battle. But there you have it: I took Milo at his word that he’d encountered bandits on the Appian Way, and it appeared to me that the same bandits had also attacked Clodius and his men at the inn in Bovillae, either before meeting Milo or after. Clearly, the road was not safe for myself or my daughter. Tedia and I and my bodyguards returned home on foot.”

  “You walked all the way?”

  “There were no horses to be had. The stable in Bovillae was locked, and all the stable slaves had fled. And me with my bad left leg! That day seems to have ruined it for good.” He sighed and smoothed his hands over the blanket which covered his legs. “We made slow progress, as you might imagine. After a while we were overtaken by a troop of armed men coming up from the direction of Bovillae, led by Milo’s famous gladiators Eudamus and Birria. In the midst of them were five or six men with bound hands.”

  The same prisoners of whom Felix and Felicia had spoken, I thought. “Who were these bound men?”

  Tedius raised an eyebrow. “That remains a bit of a puzzle, doesn’t it? At the time I thought they must be the fictitious bandits of whom Milo had spoken, captured at last by his gladiators. I even gave Eudamus and Birria a salute as they passed.”

  “Did you speak to them?”

  “Are such creatures able to speak? To be candid, I was too out of breath to converse, and my leg had begun to ache. I had stopped for a rest, at a spot just below the House of the Vestals. After a while, Tedia and I pressed on. By the time we got back to the shrine of the Good Goddess, Eudamus and Birria had apparently rejoined Milo, and his entourage had moved on.”

  Milo and the gladiators had gone on to Clodius’s villa on the mountainside, I thought, where they proceeded to kill Halicor and strangle the foreman and to search for young Publius while the hapless boy watched. And Fausta …

  “Tell me, Senator, did you not pass Milo’s wife on the road, heading back toward Bovillae, on her way to the House of the Vestals?”

  “Fausta? No, I didn’t see her again that day. And what business would that impious woman have had at the House of the Vestals? I doubt that she herself can remember a time when she was a virgin!”

  I saw no reason to mention the Virgo Maxima’s visitor, Eco’s “mystery woman.” Had Fausta gone to the House of the Vestals before Tedius passed it on his way home? No, that was impossible, since it was the triumphant Eudamus and Birria who would have brought Clodius’s ring to Fausta as a trophy, and the gladiators had passed Tedius while he took a rest below the House of the Vestals; if Fausta had then gone back to the house to make her offering, she would certainly have passed Sextus Tedius. And what was I to make of the maddening detail of the unknown prisoners? After all the different accounts I had heard of the day’s events, and all the details I had collected, it seemed to me that not all the parts of the puzzle fit together, and that a vital piece must still be missing.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a woman’s voice calling from the hall. “Papa, are you warm enough?” A moment later she appeared in the doorway. At the sight of Eco and me she stiffened and lowered her eyes. “Papa, I didn’t realize …”

  “Two visitors from the city, daughter,” explained Sextus Tedius. “They come from Pompey. It’s nothing that concerns you.”

  Tedia was a tall, strong-looking woman of middle years, as plain and unadorned as the house in which she lived. She wore no jewelry or makeup. Over her head she wore a white linen mantle tied at the back with a blue ribbon. Why had she never married? She was hardly beautiful, but among her class, marriages are made for money and politics. Perhaps her father had never made the right alliances; or perhaps, because she was an only child and her father a widower,
it had been decided that she should stay with him as his caretaker. The role of the dutiful daughter evidently suited her; Tedius had made much of her piety and her devotion to him.

  “I came to make sure you were comfortable, Father,” she said, keeping her eyes averted.

  “I require nothing, daughter. Run along, then.”

  She left the room.

  “Any other questions?” said Tedius. “My leg’s begun to ache and I wish to be alone now.”

  I thought for a moment. “Only one more question. Did you happen to see Marc Antony that day?”

  Tedius raised an eyebrow. “Young Antony? I’m not sure that I would know him if I saw him. Wouldn’t he have been up in Gaul, with Caesar? Ah no, he’s back in Rome, isn’t he, campaigning for something—a quaestorship? Comes from a good family, but far too radical for my tastes. He wasn’t with Clodius that day, was he? Antony used to be part of that circle of degenerates, before he found his military career. At any rate, no, I didn’t see or hear of him that day. Now, I trust that you’ll report back to the general that I gave you my full cooperation. Give Gnaeus Pompey my regards when you deliver your reconnaissance.”

  A slave showed us out. In the vestibule, Tedia suddenly joined us. She looked as stern as her father, but kept rubbing her hands together nervously.

  “You had no right to come here and pester my father.”

  “Your father agreed to see us. I came on behalf of—”

  “I know who sent you. I overheard everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “My father and I have no secrets from one another.”

  “Is your father aware of that fact?”

  My needling stiffened her resolve. She stopped wringing her hands and made them into fists at her sides. Drawn up to her full height, she was a formidable woman. “If Pompey intends to call my father to Rome to be a witness against Milo, it’s out of the question. His health is far more delicate than he lets the world know. His leg—”

  “There’s no talk of a trial and witnesses—not yet, anyway. Are you saying your father would refuse to appear at a trial?”