“Please explain,” I said.
“Certain rebellious elements among the tribes, hearing of the strife in Rome, concluded that I would be detained in Ravenna indefinitely, unable to rejoin my troops. They seized the opportunity to instigate a revolt, which has spread rapidly. The first blow was struck at Cenabum—you can see it on the map there. The man I personally appointed to run the Roman trading post was murdered and his property plundered. A young Avernian named Vercingetorix seems to think the time is right to make himself king of the Gauls. He’s already managed to unite a great many tribes under him. Worst of all, he’s cut me off from the main body of my troops. It poses something of a puzzle, how I shall reach my men.” Caesar studied the map and suddenly seemed very distant from us. “So you see, a simple murder on the Appian Way has already had profound consequences far beyond the death of a single man. Publius Clodius in death has caused even more havoc than he caused in life, and Milo has wielded his greatest influence on the course of the world as a killer instead of a consul.” Caesar looked away from the map. “But you haven’t yet told me the story of your misfortune, Gordianus.”
“There’s not much to tell. We were waylaid in the vicinity of the Monument of Basilius by men whose faces we never properly saw, bound inside sacks and transported to a place which turned out to be somewhere near Ariminum. We weren’t too badly treated. When we made our escape, one of our keepers was killed and the other escaped. Unfortunately, I doubt that we could find the place again.”
“Was there a request for ransom?”
“Apparently not, though someone did send my wife an anonymous note saying that we would not be harmed and would eventually be released.”
“How curious. Do you think this episode was connected with your investigations for Pompey?”
“Perhaps.”
Caesar laughed. “You’re a reticent fellow, Gordianus. I respect a man who’s able to say no more than he should—that’s rare. It’s obvious you were never trained as an orator! I should like to think I might call on you myself some day, if I ever need a man of your talents and discretion.”
“That would be an honor, Caesar.”
He smiled for a moment, then gazed at the map again with an abstracted look. The recounting of my misadventures had distracted him for a moment, but now his attention had returned to the consuming problems of Gaul.
“Shall we leave you now, Caesar?” said Meto.
“I do need to return to my work now, yes. I’m glad to learn that you shall remain beside me, Meto, especially in the days to come. It was good to see you again, Gordianus, and you, too, Eco. I wish you both a safe and uneventful journey back to Rome. And Gordianus …”
“Yes, Caesar?”
“When you report to Gnaeus Pompey, say that you spoke to me and tell him, if you would, that I send him my warmest regards. He was my son-in-law, you know, and still would be if ill fortune had not intervened. He should have had a son from Julia, and I a grandson. But the Fates deemed otherwise and robbed us both.”
“I’ll do as you ask, Caesar.”
The secretary called for the guard, who came to escort us out. The man paused. “Shall I show the others in now, Caesar?”
“What others?”
“Cicero and his man. They’re waiting in the courtyard. He insists that he has business of the greatest importance.”
Caesar pressed his fingers together and studied the map of Gaul. “No, not yet. I shall finish dictating this chapter first. Perhaps, after I take my midday meal, I shall have time to receive Marcus Tullius Cicero.”
The guard escorted us down a hallway and back to the courtyard. At our approach, Cicero rose to his feet. Before he could say a word, the guard cut him off with a shake of his head. Cicero crossed his arms and sat down again. He did not look at us as we passed by, but instead pretended to find some grim fascination in the fountain in the center of the courtyard. I tried very hard not to smile.
26
We ate with Meto in a large tent filled with soldiers. Under normal circumstances, I would have judged the food barely passable and the company just tolerable. After long days of captivity, however, and the deprivation of any variety in my tablemates, the simple meal and the loud, vulgar conversation made me feel that I was at a feast fit for King Numa.
In the midst of the talk someone mentioned Marc Antony.
Meto saw my reaction, noticed the same reaction from Eco, and raised an eyebrow. “Do you know him, Papa? Ah, but that’s right, I introduced you to Marc Antony last year. Here in Ravenna, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“He’s looking very sleek,” said one of the men. “All that lolling about down in Rome agrees with him.”
“I should think that Rome is considered a hazardous posting these days!” said another.
“He keeps himself fit doing daily drills—”
“At the widow Fulvia’s house!”
There was a round of suggestive grunts and laughter.
I turned to Meto. “Do I take it that Antony is here in Ravenna?”
“Yes. He’s been in the camp for several days, conferring with Caesar about the situation in Rome. He’s heading back tomorrow, I think. What’s that look on your face, Papa?”
“Oh, nothing.” When this did not satisfy him, I indicated that we should move outside where we could talk more discreetly.
“Well, Papa?” he said, as the three of us strolled between the tents.
“It’s probably nothing at all, but when I told you yesterday about our investigations on the Appian Way, I forgot to mention Marc Antony.”
“Antony? What possible connection—”
“He threatened Clodius’s life last year on the Field of Mars—chased him to a warehouse on the river, where Clodius hid in a cupboard under a stairway.”
Meto laughed. “Oh, that story!”
“You know it?”
“Of course. Antony loves to tell it, especially when he’s a little drunk. He claims he had no intention of killing Clodius. He just wanted to turn him into a eunuch.”
“What did they fight about?”
“Who knows? Papa, their relationship went back a very long way. They’d been in love with the same woman, Fulvia. They may have been in love with each other at some time or other, for all I know. They probably met on the Field of Mars, exchanged a few friendly insults, Clodius said something that tugged a bit too hard on Antony’s balls, and Antony whipped out his sword. But no one was hurt in the end.”
Eco groaned. “Meto, the puns!”
Meto smiled and shrugged. “I can keep it up all day. But what has this to do with—”
I had told Meto the day before about my commission from Pompey, but had not mentioned Fulvia. My meeting with her had come to seem incidental. “Fulvia asked me to find out if Antony was involved in her husband’s death.”
“But he’s one of the people working to bring Milo to trial.”
“That proves nothing.”
“Did you find any evidence to implicate him?”
I considered this carefully. “No one who witnessed the event or the aftermath had anything at all to say about Antony.”
“Well, there you have it.”
“Perhaps.”
“Really, Papa, Antony is a good soldier and a friend of mine. I can’t stand by and hear him called a murderer.”
“No one has called him a murderer, Meto.”
“But you seem to think he might be.”
What had Cicero said about me? Always the one to bide his time, sift every shred of evidence, seek for further revelations, postpone the final judgment. “If Fulvia were here with us now, I couldn’t in good conscience say that I had proved otherwise.”
“Then let’s go and ask him.”
“What?”
“We’ll ask him.”
“As simple as that?”
“Why not? Antony isn’t exactly simple, but he’s as clear and plain to read as Caesar’s Latin. Come with me.”
&nb
sp; “Come with you where?”
“To Antony’s quarters. They’re on the far side of the villa. This way.”
Eco and I followed after him. “But Meto, this is mad! What do you expect me to do? Say, ‘Hello, do you remember me, Meto’s father, and by the way, did you help murder Publius Clodius?’”
“I imagine you can be more subtle than that, Papa.’”
“And if he should decide to whip out his sword and give chase, like he did with Clodius on the Field of Mars?”
“You heard the fellows in the tent—Antony’s gotten a bit plump, attending all those dinner parties in Rome. Maybe you can outrun him. Here, we enter through this door.”
As with Caesar, we had to apply to a guard before reaching the man himself. My hope was that Antony would be too busy to see us, but at the sound of Meto’s voice a head poked through the curtains to his office, wearing a broad grin. “Meto! Have you eaten yet?”
“I’ve swallowed my ration of swill for the day, if that’s what you mean.”
“Join me anyway. I managed to salvage a few edible things out of the pot. Who are your friends? Ah—it’s your brother, isn’t it, and your father, the famous Finder.”
“Famous?” I said, as we stepped through the curtains.
“Or infamous. Whatever. Come in. Sit. Manius, find something else to do.” Antony gestured to a secretary, who promptly scooped up his tablet and stylus and left the room. “Wine? Well, that goes without saying. I know how you take yours, Meto: neat. Meto’s like me, has a terrible allergy to water. Do you take yours watered, Gordianus? And you, Eco?”
“More water than wine for me,” I said. “I’ve been away from wine for a while. I’m having to get used to it again. Besides,” I added under my breath, “I may have to do some running soon.”
“And the same for me,” said Eco, raising an eyebrow.
Physically, Antony had the potential to be intimidating. He had a wrestler’s build, with a muscular neck and shoulders and a broad barrel chest—rather like a younger, taller version of Milo, I thought. He was only a few years older than Meto, probably thirty or thirty-one. In profile, his jutting brows and chin and his dented boxer’s nose gave him a rather brutish appearance, but when he looked at me straight on this impression was melted away by the gentleness of his eyes and mouth and the fullness of his cheeks. Antony was handsome in a homely sort of way, to use one of Bethesda’s phrases. He had a sort of look that many women find irresistible and that many men trust instinctively, as Meto certainly seemed to do.
“When did you arrive, Gordianus?” Antony looked at me with an expression that hardly seemed that of a guileful killer, or a kidnapper, for that matter.
“Just yesterday.”
“Oh?” He nodded, then frowned. “Don’t tell me you came with Cicero?”
“We arrived together, yes. But I only joined him on the last leg of the journey, quite by chance.”
“That’s good to hear. Then you’re not a part of his little mission to Caesar?”
“Most definitely not.”
“Papa and Eco are here on their own business,” said Meto.
“Really? What’s that?” said Antony.
“They’re here to investigate you.”
“Meto!” This was really too much.
Antony narrowed his eyes. “Me? This isn’t related to that old business about King Ptolemy’s daughter back in Egypt, is it? I swear, I never touched the child!” Antony and Meto both laughed at what was apparently an old joke.
“No,” said Meto, “it’s something to do with—”
“With a nasty rumor that someone started down in Rome,” I said. “My son seems determined to make light of the situation, but it’s deadly serious.” Meto had controlled the conversation long enough. Since he insisted on forcing the matter, I decided to make the best of it. “I’ll begin by telling you what I told Caesar earlier today: at the request of Gnaeus Pompey, Eco and I did a little snooping into the circumstances of the death of Publius Clodius. Outrageous as it may seem, we encountered a rumor—and I tell you this, Marc Antony, because you’re my son’s friend and I think you should know that such a thing was said about you—we encountered a rumor that you were somehow involved.”
“Ridiculous!” said Antony, who did not look amused.
I shrugged. “An outrageous rumor, as I said. I’m sure that no one of good sense would credit it for an instant.”
“But who would say such a thing about me?” Antony was suddenly on his feet, pacing across the small space. “What utter nonsense, that I could have any hand at all in what happened to Clodius! There’s no bottom to people’s vileness, is there? No lie so vicious that someone won’t stoop to utter it. Cicero! You heard this from Cicero, didn’t you, on the ride up?”
“No.”
“Tell me the truth, Gordianus. Oh, it sounds just like him, telling a lie so crazy that people begin to think there must be something to it! I’ll tell you, this is the last time, and I mean the very last time, that the old coot is going to take a piss on my head. I’ll snatch him in the middle of his sniveling petition to Caesar and throw him down a well. I’ll twist his throat until his head snaps off! He’ll never spread another lie about me again!” At that moment, Antony looked quite capable of carrying out such threats.
“Marc Antony, I swear to you, the rumor didn’t come from Cicero.”
“Then where did you hear it? Who’s saying these thing about me?” Antony’s anger was palpable and seemed to heat the whole room like a brazier. But I sensed that none of his fury was directed at me. It was because I was Meto’s father, I realized, and therefore to be trusted and respected. Antony was not a simple man, Meto had said, but clear and plain. He had cause to be angry, but was disciplined enough to hold his anger in check while he sought for the party that had truly offended against him.
“It was a fish vendor, wasn’t it, Papa?” said Eco suddenly.
“What?”
“It was a fish vendor who told us about the rumor, as I recall.” My elder son was not so clear and plain as Antony.
“Ah, was it?” I said.
“By Hercules, you mean they’re spreading such a lie even in the marketplaces?” Antony looked ready to smash something, but refilled his wine cup instead.
“Yes, I remember now,” I said. “But it was only one person who mentioned the idea to me—no, actually it was two people—and it may be that they were simply confused, because at the same time they brought up a story from last year, about an altercation between yourself and Publius Clodius …”
“What, that bit of silliness on the Field of Mars?”
“These people seemed to think you meant Clodius actual harm.”
“If I’d caught him, you know what I would have done? I’d have used the flat of my sword to spank him! That would have been humiliation enough.”
“What was his offense?” said Meto.
“The usual one, not knowing when to keep his mouth shut. Nothing political. Something personal dredged up from the past.” Antony hesitated. “Since you’ve been so candid with me, Gordianus, I’ll tell you. Clodius made a rude suggestion involving my friendship with Gaius Curio. Curio was off in Asia, serving as quaestor, and his father had just died. Well, it’s no secret how the elder Curio did everything he could to come between Gaius and me when we were young—following Cicero’s advice, I might add! So there we were, out on the Field of Mars, and Clodius said something like, ‘Now that his old man’s dead and out of the way, I suppose you and Gaius Curio can finally get married. Which one of you will be the bride?’ Normally I might have laughed it off, but he caught me on a day when I was in no mood for his needling, so I pulled out my sword. I suppose I looked angrier than I was—it’s a problem I have—and Clodius simply panicked. He shrieked and ran!” Antony laughed at the memory. “And I chased after him! I couldn’t help myself!” Antony clutched himself, laughing. “If I’d caught him, I swear, I’d have pulled off his toga and spanked his bare bottom—sent him ba
ck to the Field of Mars stark naked with his red cheeks glowing. That would have shut him up! Can you imagine? The mob would have deserted him. He’d have had to retire from public life. But he’d still be alive today!”
The laughter caught in Antony’s throat. He sighed and made a face that was hard to read. He poured himself more wine, drained his cup and looked at me steadily. “Gordianus, I swear to you by the shade of my father, I had nothing to do with Clodius’s death. So I hope that you’ll go back and find whoever these rumormongers were, and set them straight.”
I tried to return his gaze with one as steady. It’s not often that I find myself the less honest of two parties in a conversation. “I intend to do that, Marc Antony.”
“Good! Such a rumor should be nipped in the bud, before some scoundrel like Cicero puts it to his own use. Oh, Mercury and Minerva!” He slapped his forehead.
“What’s wrong?” said Meto.
“What if this awful rumor should reach all the way to Fulvia? Since Clodius died, I’ve worked so hard to be strong for her, to give her someone to lean on, someone she can trust absolutely. I couldn’t stand it, if anything should poison that. But what am I saying? Fulvia would never believe such a rumor, not for a moment. She knows me better than that.”
I shrugged and made a sympathetic smile.
That night we learned from Tiro that after waiting in Caesar’s courtyard all day, Cicero had once more failed to gain an audience with the general. He would have to seek an audience again the next day, and so would not be heading back to Rome again until at least the day after that, at the earliest. To Eco and me, eager to return to our families, this seemed an eternity.
“But Papa, Antony’s leaving for Rome early tomorrow morning,” said Meto. “Why don’t you travel with him?”
“We could hardly presume—”
“It would be no imposition, Papa. Come, I’ll ask him myself if you want.”
“Stay where you are, Meto! You’ve already put me on the spot with Antony once today.”
A Murder on the Appian Way Page 34