“Oh, Davus!” I shook my head. Minerva lay in pieces in my household, and Venus reigned supreme.
We set out on the Appian Way at the sixth hour of the day, when the sun was straight overhead. Pompey’s stableman agreed to lend me horses, after I reminded him who I was and told him I still had business to do for his master. This was a small, harmless lie, since my business with Pompey was done. Or so I thought at the time.
The stableman, with a broad grin, brought out three horses. I was startled to see that they were the very same horses we had ridden before. All three mounts, it turned out, had returned to the stable together and riderless on the day we were attacked. I felt at once reassured and a little apprehensive to be setting out from Rome astride the same beast as before. I was not sure what to make of the omen, but I was determined to go ahead.
The objective of the trip was simple: I wanted to collect Mopsus and Androcles, the two stableboys I had acquired from Fulvia. I left Eco behind and took only Davus with me. The third horse was for the boys to share on the ride back. I expected that we would spend the night at the inn in Bovillae.
Davus was as quiet as a mute until we passed the Monument of Basilius. He wore a deep frown and grew increasingly agitated. “Master—Master, are you sure … ?”
“Sure of what, Davus?”
“Are you sure that you want me with you? Why not one of the other bodyguards?”
“Are you afraid of the horse, Davus? You can’t claim to have no experience of riding now. This is your second trip on the same horse! This beast threw you, true, but when a man’s been thrown, the only thing to do is to get back on.”
“It’s not the horse, Master. I like this horse, actually. I think she trusts me.”
“Let’s hope you give her no cause to regret that.”
Davus frowned.
“Besides,” I went on, “I could hardly leave you at home in my absence, given the circumstances, could I?”
“You mean … because of your daughter—”
“No, because of my wife. I shouldn’t care to return home and find that Bethesda had killed you while I was gone.”
Davus swallowed hard. “Still, Master, I don’t understand why you’re taking me with you, just the two of us.”
“I don’t quite understand that myself. Reason has fled; I give myself over to impulse. We shall see where the road takes us.”
“But Master, we already know that.”
“Do we?”
“It leads yonder to Mount Alba.”
I laughed out loud. “What a remarkable wit you have, Davus!”
Davus laughed, too, but only halfheartedly. Was that because he feared me, or because he did not quite grasp the joke?
It was springtime on the Appian Way. The weather was mild and there was birdsong on the air. The grass was green along the road and spangled with flowers. Slaves and oxen labored in the fields. There was a great deal of traffic in both directions—sheep and cattle being led to market, messengers on horseback, the litters and carriages of the rich. The whole world seemed to be awakening from a cold dream of winter.
I was hungry by the time we passed through Bovillae, but I decided to press on to Clodius’s villa. As we passed the altar of Jupiter, I caught a glimpse of Felix sitting against an oak tree, dozing in the dappled shade. We passed the road leading up to the new House of the Vestals, and farther on, on the opposite side of the way, the shrine of the Good Goddess. There appeared to be a gathering of women inside, to judge from the litters and carriages and idle attendants outside. As we passed I heard chanting from within, and recognized Felicia’s whimsical singsong. Perhaps nothing much had changed in her world, despite the bloody scene that had unfolded before her eyes and all the commotion it had caused.
We approached Clodius’s villa this time by the road leading up to it, and were seen and challenged long before we reached the top. When a group of very rough-looking slaves barred our way, I produced the scrip from Fulvia transferring ownership of the two stableboys. Fortunately, one of the slaves could read, if barely. He slowly mouthed each word, then handed the square of parchment back to me.
“Good riddance, I say! Those two are nothing but trouble. Always getting above themselves. Taking them back to the city, are you?”
“That’s my intention.”
He shook his head. “There’ll be no end of trouble for them to get into there. Well, come on. They’ll be in the stable, I imagine.”
The boys remembered us at once. They seemed especially delighted to see Davus (or the elephant, as Mopsus called him). When I told them they no longer belonged to their mistress, but to me, they were puzzled at first, but together they mounted the third horse readily enough. As we set out, they seemed suddenly to realize that they were leaving for good. Mopsus turned about and hooked his thumbnail under his front teeth to make a clicking sound at the older slaves they were leaving behind. “Goodbye, you no-good drunkards!” His little brother copied him, and the insults degenerated into references to various bodily functions. The slaves standing in the road watching the departure feigned outrage and pretended to look about for stones to throw. Some of them laughed out loud.
How had I described to Bethesda the new acquisitions for the household? “Two high-spirited boys, and very clever. They’ll put new life in the house.” That was before I realized that new life was already on the way, thanks to Diana and Davus. And I had assumed that the woman who tamed Pompey’s bodyguards would have no trouble controlling two boys; now I began to wonder.
Davus seemed finally to relax a bit. I realized that he felt safer with Mopsus and Androcles along; surely I would not try to murder him in front of two laughing boys.
It was late in the afternoon when we returned to Bovillae. I wanted nothing more than some of the hostess’s excellent cooking and a reasonably clean place to sleep. We would make an early bed and be up and ready to leave before dawn.
At first I thought that our hostess had lost weight and changed her hair somehow, then I realized it was a different woman behind the counter. She had the same eyes but was thinner and prettier, or would have been except for her drawn expression. I told her we needed accommodations for the night.
“You’re early for that,” she said, smiling wanly. “The first of the day. So you can have first pick.”
“Is there much choice?”
“Not really. It’s all one room, but some folks prefer to be against the wall instead of out in the middle, or closer to the stairs or the window. Come up, and I’ll show you. Then you can bring up your things to mark your places.”
I followed her up the stairs. The upper floor of the inn was much as I expected—a single room with a few small windows and some pallets for sleeping. “This will do,” I said. “Davus, take the boys and see that the horses are properly tended to at the stable up the way.”
“Yes, Master.” He clomped heavily down the stairs. Mopsus and Androcles slipped past him and flew down the steps as if they were all in a race.
The woman moved to the head of the stairs and smiled wistfully after them. “I have a little boy myself,” she said. “Only a baby. Well, if you’re satisfied, then I’ll be—”
“This must have been the window where you stood and watched,” I said, walking to the open shutters and gazing out.
“What do you mean?”
“After the battle was over, and you dared to come out from under the bedding. Your sister told me that you went to the window to have a look, and saw that everyone had already left, except for Sextus Tedius, who must have just arrived.” I peered out the window, imagining the scene: dead bodies and pools of blood scattered about, the litter and its attendants, Sextus Tedius and his daughter discovering Clodius’s body.
“Who are you?” There was a tremor in her voice.
“My name is Gordianus. I came this way on a mission from the widow Fulvia, in Februarius. I spoke to your sister. She told me what she had learned from you, about the battle between Milo and Clodius. You are
the innkeeper’s widow, aren’t you?”
She relaxed a little. “Yes. My sister told me about you. And about your handsome young bodyguard—that must have been him with you just now.”
I smiled. “Yes, I remember she took a liking to Davus. It seems she’s not the only one …”
“What’s that?”
“Never mind. Tell me, did you really go all the way to Rhegium to stay with an aunt?”
The woman looked at me cautiously. “No. That’s just what we decided to tell people.”
“Then your sister wasn’t completely candid when I asked if I could talk to you.”
“I was out of my head for a long time. My sister wanted to protect me. If she told you that you couldn’t see me, that was the truth.”
“I wanted very much to ask you about what you saw that day.”
“So did others. My sister kept them all away. She wasn’t afraid to testify to the court herself. Someone would have to come forward, she said. But she protected me.”
“And now the trial is over, and here you are again. Back from Rhegium, so to speak.”
“Yes. Back from Rhegium.” She gave me a weak smile. “It feels good to be here, to be working again. I always loved it before. Working with Marcus …”
“What you saw that day—”
She shook her head. “I still can’t talk about it.”
“Not at all?”
She gripped the stair railing and drew several quick breaths. “I never talk about it. I only told my sister about it once, right after it happened. After that, neither of us could bear to talk about it again.”
“I understand.” Her sister’s judgment had been correct; the woman would have been useless to the court as a witness. She was shaking now. It was hard to imagine her giving testimony in the heated atmosphere that had stifled even Cicero’s tongue.
She looked down the stairway. “Even now, every time I go down these stairs, I think I’ll find him, as I found him that day …”
“Your husband?”
“Yes! All bloody and still …”
“Do you need my help, to walk down the stairs?”
“Perhaps. But not yet. I don’t want to move.”
“Shall I go find your sister, or her husband?”
“No! They must be sick of me by now, but not half as sick of me as I am of them,” she said with sudden vehemence. “The way they moved in and took over this place—all for the sake of my little boy, they say, keeping it in trust for him. But they act as if it’s their tavern now. As if Marcus never existed. They won’t even say his name, for fear of upsetting me. Oh, if only everything could be as it was before! Curse Milo and Clodius both! Curse the gods.”
I thought she would weep, but her eyes remained dry. She steadied herself and breathed deeply. “What was it you wanted to know?”
I wrinkled my brow. “Can you speak about that day, or not?”
“Why don’t you ask me and find out?”
I looked out the window. Up the road, Davus and the boys had finished stabling the horses and were playing some sort of game with a leather ball, all three of them laughing like children. What sort of father would Davus make?
I looked back to the widow. What was left to ask her? It seemed that all the missing details had been supplied. The events of that day had been discovered, one by one, and put in order. The incident on the Appian Way had been fully documented and justice had been dispensed. Her testimony had not been needed after all. Still …
“What did you see when you looked out this window, after the battle?”
She lowered her eyes. “Bodies. Blood. The senator and his daughter, and their retinue. The senator’s litter.”
“Eudamus and Birria? Milo’s men?”
“No. They were all gone. I don’t know where.”
“They were off chasing a fellow called Philemon and some friends of his who had the bad fortune to stumble upon the scene.”
“Oh? I never heard about that.”
“Your sister didn’t tell you? Philemon testified, on the same day she did.”
The widow shook her head. “She was afraid of upsetting me, I suppose. Go on. What else do you want to know?” She had a grim, determined look on her face.
“You looked out this window. You saw Tedius and his daughter, the litter, the retinue. And Clodius?”
“Yes. They were leaning over him.”
“And you knew it was Clodius?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
She shrugged. “By his face.”
“You could see his face? He must have been lying on his back, then.”
“Yes, he was. On his back, looking up at them.”
The skin prickled at the base of my skull. “What did you say?”
“Clodius was on his back, looking up at the senator and his daughter.”
“You mean his eyes were open and staring in death?”
“No. I mean what I say. He was looking at them, and they were looking at him.” She frowned, trying to remember. “They talked a bit, back and forth. Then Tedius and his daughter helped Clodius stand up and get into the litter.”
I looked down at the road, picturing the scene, then turned to the widow. It was possible, of course, that grief had made her mad. “Are you saying that Clodius was alive?”
“Yes. Only barely, I suppose.”
“But your sister made it seem that Clodius was dead when Tedius found him. That was the way she told it, to me and to the court. She said that you saw the senator and his daughter put Clodius into their litter, but she said nothing to indicate that Clodius was still alive.” I tried to remember exactly what she had said …
“He was alive,” the widow said. “Probably she misunderstood me. I was raving when I told her what had happened, what I’d seen. I hardly knew what I was saying. Perhaps the way I told it to her, it was unclear.”
“Perhaps. You and your sister seem to have been unclear with each other on a number of points. But Sextus Tedius told the story the same way. He made no mention of Clodius being alive when he found him.”
“But Clodius was alive. He was stiff and limping and bloody, and they had to help him into the litter—but he was alive, I assure you, unless dead men can walk and talk. He was still alive! And my husband was dead, lying at the foot of these stairs. Why are you doing this to me?” Suddenly she turned and ran down the stairs, weeping at last.
I looked out the window, staring hard at the empty road, as if by concentration alone I could conjure up the lemures of the dead to reenact their final moments of life. Oh, what a grand and terrible power that would be!
35
It was twilight when we arrived at the house of Sextus Tedius. I was very hungry and very tired of riding. I told the boys to watch the horses and sent Davus ahead of me to rap on the door.
The doorkeeper took a long time to answer, and even longer to confer with his master and return. At last I was invited inside.
Sextus Tedius received me in the same room as before. The windows were opened to show the town of Aricia below, a pool of pale blue shadows surmounted by rooftops glinting with the last of the day’s sunlight. Tedius sat upright in his old-fashioned backless chair. Despite the warmth of the day, a blanket was thrown over his legs. It was the left leg that was crippled, I remembered. He ran a dark, leathery hand through his white hair and appraised me shrewdly.
“I remember you,” he said. “Pompey’s man. The one who came around asking all the questions.”
“Not all the questions I should have asked, apparently.”
“Have you come here again, ‘on behalf of the Great One,’ as I believe you put it before?”
“In a way, yes. Pompey hired me to find out everything I could about the incident on the Appian Way. I thought I had done that, but I appear to have been mistaken.”
“Speak plainly.”
“I intend to. I hope you’ll do the same, Sextus Tedius.” He raised an eyebrow at this, but said nothing. “Is your d
aughter here?” I asked.
“I can’t imagine that my daughter’s whereabouts could be of any concern to you.”
“Nonetheless, I should like very much to speak to both of you together.”
He lowered his white brows and studied me for a long moment. “You know something, don’t you?”
“I know more now than I did an hour ago. I should like to know everything.”
“Ah, to know everything! What a curse that would be for a mortal. Tedia!” He raised his voice. “Tedia, come into the room and join us.”
His daughter emerged from the hallway. She was dressed as I had seen her before, without jewelry or makeup and wearing a white linen mantle over her head, tied with a blue ribbon at the back. She stood rigidly upright with a grim look on her face.
“Tedia always eavesdrops on my conversations,” said Sextus Tedius. “It makes it much easier for me to remember all the details afterward.”
“My father and I have no secrets from one another.” She stood behind him and laid her hands on his shoulders.
“I saw your father testify at the trial, repeating the same story he told to me. I thought you were determined to keep him away from the trial, Tedia.”
“In the end it seemed better to make an appearance,” she said. “Clodius was sent back to Rome in our litter, after all. To have refused to explain how that occurred could have excited … comment.”
“I see. And the story you told, Tedius, was entirely credible, after all. You merely left out certain details, such as the fact that Clodius was alive when you came upon him.”
“How do you know that?” said Tedia. She began to knead her father’s shoulder, in the same way that I had seen her nervously wring her hands at our first meeting. “If one of our slaves has talked—”
“Your slaves are loyal. There was another witness.”
“Not at the trial.”
“No, the witness was away from Rome that day—down in Rhegium, I was told.”
Sextus Tedius winced almost imperceptibly. His daughter had squeezed his shoulder too hard. “Clodius deserved to die,” she said.
A Murder on the Appian Way Page 43