“Perhaps. Yet I saw you weep when Fulvia testified.”
“A woman can feel pity for a widow without feeling sorry that her husband is dead.”
“I see. And how, exactly, did Clodius die?”
I held my breath. I had no means to compel her to speak, if she chose not to. Her father reached up and clutched one of her hands with a gesture of restraint, but she seemed not to notice. Her face was adamant.
“I killed him,” she said.
“But how? Why?”
“Why?” Her voice rose. “Because a more impious man never blighted the earth. You must have learned of his crimes when you were pestering everyone on this mountain. He cut down the sacred grove of Jupiter, merely to add some rooms to his house. Imagine, evicting a god to make room for himself! And what he did to the Vestals was unspeakable, driving them from their ancient house, defrauding them, treating them like common business rivals to be cheated and driven into the dirt. Did he think he could commit such crimes and go unpunished?”
“Publius Clodius had been committing many crimes of many sorts for years, without being punished,” I said.
“All the more reason that the time had come,” said Tedia sternly.
“He was alive when you came upon him at the inn …”
“Very much alive.”
“But near death, surely.”
“How can you say that? Were you there to judge? I shall tell you how it was—”
“Daughter!” Sextus Tedius scowled and shook his head.
“Father, I have nothing to be ashamed of, and nothing to fear. It began as my father told you—we were on our way to Rome, we came upon Milo in the aftermath of the skirmish, he lied and told us there were bandits about. I was afraid and wanted to turn back, but my father insisted that we press on, and so we did. The goddess Vesta was guiding us that day, I have no doubt of that. We arrived at the inn in Bovillae and saw the carnage there. I thought I would faint from fright, I felt such a tremor and a coldness inside me. Now I know it was only the goddess stirring in me, preparing me for the task at hand.
“There were bodies scattered in the road, blood everywhere. It was strange, to come to a place one has seen so many times and passed without a thought—such a common, familiar, ordinary place—and to witness such horror and devastation. Everything seemed unreal, as if I were delirious with fever. I helped my father from the litter and we walked among the bodies. There was no one to be helped; they were all dead.
“Then we heard a voice from inside the tavern, a thin, weak cry for help. Clodius appeared at the door. His clothes were torn. He was wounded. He clutched a blood-soaked rag to his shoulder. He spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Help me,’ he said.”
“All the others had died defending him, you see,” said Sextus Tedius. “His men were loyal, no one can deny that.”
“He staggered out of the tavern,” Tedia continued. “He tripped and dropped to his knees, then rolled onto his back, groaning and keeping his shoulder from touching the ground. He seemed comfortable that way, lying on his back. We leaned over him. His voice was hoarse and strained, hardly more than a whisper. ‘Take me home,’ he said. ‘Not back to the villa—they’ll look for me there. Take me to Rome in your litter. Hide me from them!’ ‘From the bandits?’ said my father. And Clodius laughed! A hissing, hateful laugh—what perfect white teeth he had! ‘The only bandits on this road are Milo’s gladiators,’ he said. ‘They chased me here and tried to kill me, but something scared them off. Quickly, hide me in your litter!’ So we helped him to his feet and then into the litter. I could see that my father was uncertain what to do next. I drew him aside, where the slaves couldn’t hear.”
Tedius grunted. “I’d have sent him back to his villa, whether he wanted to go there or not, but Milo was in the way. I had no intention of trying to slip by Milo, making myself a spy in the service of that jackal Clodius. Nor did I wish to hand Clodius over to that liar Milo. Perhaps if we’d left him there, he’d simply have bled to death, or Milo’s men would have come back and finished him off. But there he was in our litter, getting blood on the pillows …”
“I made the decision,” said Tedia. Her voice was like cold iron. “It came to me all at once. I happened to look up at the inn, and saw her in the window of the upper story. Her face seemed to hover there, like a portrait in a frame. I saw the face of Vesta and I knew what to do.”
I shook my head. “The face you saw was the poor, terrified widow of the innkeeper.”
Tedia looked at me disparagingly. “How do you know what I saw? Were you there?”
I saw no point in contradicting her. “How did you kill him?”
She removed her hands from her father’s shoulders and reached up to undo the blue ribbon that secured the linen mantle at the back of her head. She wound the ends of the ribbon around her strong, supple hands and pulled it taut. “I killed him with this. I only wish the goddess could have watched, but I had to do it inside the litter, out of sight. The slaves were there; they had no business seeing. I climbed into the litter and moved behind him. Father climbed in after me and we let the curtains drop. I slipped the ribbon over his neck. Father held him from the front.”
“We could never have managed it if he hadn’t already been weakened by his wounds,” said Tedius matter-of-factly. “Look at us—an old, crippled man and a woman. But we managed it.”
“I saw the body,” I said. “The wound at his shoulder was deep. He probably would have died anyway.”
“Don’t be so sure,” said Tedius. “I’ve seen plenty of battles, and plenty of soldiers who looked to be in worse condition than Clodius did, who nonetheless recovered. There was a surprising amount of life still left in that jackal. I know; I watched the last of it leave him. Unmolested, he might very well have survived the trip back to Rome. He would still be alive today.”
“You claim credit for his death, then. You seem to be proud of it.”
“I’m proud of my daughter, yes! You have a son, don’t you, Gordianus? I remember, he was with you when you last came here. Well, I’m like every other man—I would like to have had a son, to watch him grow to manhood, to see him prove his courage in battle and show his convictions in the Forum. But I had no son. I only had a daughter. But that daughter has always been faithful to me and never disappointed me, and when her mother died, she willingly took her place. No man could ask for a better daughter. And now look what she’s done! She accomplished what no man was able to do either by battle or by using the law: she put an end to Publius Clodius. An enemy of the state, a menace to decency, a blight on the Republic, a disgrace to his ancestors. And it was my daughter who finally put an end to him! The gods and goddesses manifest their wills in mysterious ways, Gordianus. They’d had enough of Publius Clodius, and snuffed him out. Who am I, an old, lame senator, to question their choice of a vessel?”
I studied the two of them, so grimly self-satisfied, models of stern Roman virtue. “Why didn’t you push his body from the litter and leave him by the road, then? Why did you send him on to Rome?”
“The litter was polluted by his blood and offal,” said Tedia. “I could never enter it again.”
“It was his last request of us, to send him home,” her father said. “It’s as I said to you before: once a man is dead, what use is there in despising him? No, I wouldn’t leave him lying in the road, like a dead dog. I sent his body on to Rome, and told the bearers to deliver it with great respect into the care of his widow.”
“His ring,” I said, remembering. “His body arrived without his ring. Did you take it from him?”
Tedia lowered her eyes. “That was a mistake. I thought it would be pleasing to the goddess.”
“You were the woman who went to the House of the Vestals and offered Clodius’s ring for a prayer of thanksgiving?”
“Yes.”
I suddenly understood the strange look I had seen on Philemon’s face in the Salacious Tavern. I had asked why he had not appealed to Tedius’s daughter fo
r help when he was herded in bondage up the Appian Way, past the place where Tedius was resting below the House of the Vestals. What I had taken for offense was merely puzzlement. Philemon had never seen Tedia, for Tedia had been up at the House of the Vestals.
“You hid your face from the Virgo Maxima,” I said. “You disguised your voice.”
“Yes. Otherwise the Vestals would have known me.”
“Weren’t you proud of what you’d done?”
“I felt no need to boast or show my face. I was a mere vessel for the goddess, and it was to the goddess alone that I wished to offer the ring. But the Virgo Maxima refused to take it. She said that such an offering would be impious.”
I shook my head. “Everyone thinks it was Milo’s wife who—”
Tedia laughed. I could tell she was not accustomed to laughing. “Fausta Cornelia? That blasphemous cow? It’s hard to imagine her making a prayer for anything, except perhaps for the gods to bring her a new lover every day. What a great joke, that anyone should have mistaken her for me.”
“Where is the ring now?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I should like to return it to the family. You admit that taking it was a mistake. The goddess has no use for it. To keep it as a trophy surely would be hubris, a curse on your own house.”
Tedia considered this and seemed about to speak, but her father shook his head. “The ring is the only real evidence against us. All that we’ve told you is only a story from our own lips. Your witness at the tavern—that girl in the window, I suppose—may have seen that Clodius was still alive, but she couldn’t have seen into the litter. No one saw the actual moment of his death except my daughter and me. The Vestals know that a woman brought them Clodius’s ring, but they never saw the woman’s face. Only the fact that we possess the ring offers any proof of what we did. Why should we give it up to you, Gordianus? What will you tell the family of Clodius, that you recovered the ring from the true killers of their beloved, a woman and a lame old man? Shall we have to suffer their revenge?”
“What should I tell them, that I happened to find it by the side of the road? Think, Tedia, of the tears you shed when you heard the testimony of Fulvia. Do you really want to keep the ring?”
She took a breath and began to move, but her father clutched her arm.
“Only if you make an oath, Gordianus,” said Tedius.
“No promises!”
“There will be, if you want the ring. You’ll make an oath never to repeat what you heard here today, and in return we shall give it to you. Think, Gordianus, what purpose will it serve to incite the Clodians against my daughter and me? The mob has finally been assuaged by Milo’s conviction; you’ll simply make fools of them and set them rioting again. Think how irritated Pompey will be, to discover that his court failed to find the whole truth and that the conviction of Milo is flawed! Rome has been ripped apart by what happened here on the Appian Way. But now the people have been pacified and the wicked on both sides have been punished—Clodius is dead, Milo is exiled. What purpose could there possibly be in delivering a last revelation, except to massage your own vanity, to show off your perseverance and cleverness? Make the oath I require; return the ring to the one who loved Clodius best, and leave the rest to the gods.”
I walked to the window. Below, the town of Aricia, where Clodius had given his final address, had darkened to a jumble of deep blue shadows. I thought for a long time. What did I owe to Milo, who had committed such a grievous offense against me, and would have killed me outright if Cicero had not restrained him? What did I owe to Cicero, who acquiesced to my abduction? Or to the friends and heirs of Clodius, who instigated the riots that resulted in the sacking of my house and the death of Belbo? What did I owe to Rome itself—for who could say any longer what Rome was, or would become in the next few years? All was in flux, all was chaos and confusion. I found myself confronted by what I most craved, the truth, but I also found myself utterly alone; even Eco was not there to share the discovery or advise me. That was just as well; I doubted that he would have approved of the decision I made. I turned back to Sextus Tedius.
“You have my word; I swear by the shade of my father that I’ll keep your secret. Bring me the ring.”
Tedia left the room. While she was gone, a slave entered with a burning taper and lit the lamps, dispelling the growing darkness. Tedia returned and dropped the ring into my open palm, looking glad to be rid of it.
It was heavy, made of solid gold. I saw the name P. CLODIUS PULCHER engraved on it, but was at a loss to see any other ornament. Surely there should be some reference to the glories of his illustrious ancestors? Then I held it to the light and noticed the honeycomb pattern scored into the glittering surface of the ring itself, inside and out, little interlocking polygons like the perfectly fitted stones which paved the Appian Way. The ring was the very image of the great road, cast in a circle without beginning or end, an homage to the place where its wearer had fallen to his enemies and breathed his last with a blue ribbon wound tight around his throat.
That night we slept in an inn in Aricia. The tavern below was loud and smoky, and the bedding had ticks in it, but I slept better there than I should have in Bovillae, with all its phantoms, living and dead.
I was up before dawn, and woke the boys. All three of us had to shake Davus to get him up. We were on the road before the first hour, and made swift progress. We reached the city before midday. I had three last calls to pay, and then I could turn my back for good on all that had happened on the Appian Way.
36
Mopsus and Androcles grew increasingly excited as we made our way through the Forum and up the Ramp to the Palatine. Both were wide-eyed at the sight of so many buildings and people. Davus put on a slightly snobbish air—the city slave condescending to the country slaves. I remembered his own consternation at finding himself in the countryside for the first time in his life, but said nothing.
All three of them grew quiet as we neared the house. Davus’s face grew long. The boys drew closer together. We had hardly stepped into the vestibule before Bethesda appeared.
“So these are the new slaves,” she said, ignoring Davus.
“Yes, this is Mopsus, and this is his brother, Androcles. Boys, this is your new mistress.”
The boys lowered their eyes and sneaked glances at her. Androcles whispered in his older brother’s ear, “She’s beautiful!”
Bethesda’s lips almost formed a smile. She was resplendent in a saffron-colored stola and a simple silver necklace, with hair done up very high on her head in such a way that the strands of gray looked like white veins snaking through shimmering black marble. I was almost as awed by her as the boys were.
“You both look agile and energetic,” she said, making the words sound more like a judgment than a compliment. “I suppose we shall find ways to keep you busy. You might be good at carrying messages, I imagine, except that you must be ignorant of the city. You shall have to do a great deal of exploring in the next few days, to acquaint yourselves with the seven hills. Right now, you must be hungry after your trip. Davus will show you where the kitchen is—won’t you, Davus?”
“Yes, Mistress.” Davus was the most awed by her of anyone. It was remarkable how small a space such a large fellow could seem to occupy, and how quickly he could make his exit from a room.
Bethesda and I were left alone.
“Husband, I did a great deal of thinking yesterday.”
“So did I.”
“You and I must have a serious talk.”
“Can it wait? I have a few more errands to finish today, and then—”
“I suppose. But by the end of the day, I want a resolution to this matter of Diana and your … and Davus.”
“I agree. Shall we talk this evening, then?”
“Yes.” Our eyes met, and it hardly seemed necessary to talk at all. We were agreed about what to do. I had lived with her long enough to be able to read that much from her eyes.
&nb
sp; I ate a quick meal of olives, cheese and fresh bread, then headed out again. I took Davus with me, though a protector hardly seemed necessary. The streets seemed almost preternaturally calm after the furor of recent days.
The Great One had moved into the city and was in residence at his house in the Carinae district, as I had hoped. He agreed to see me almost at once.
The house in the Carinae was a sprawling old villa surrounded by newer, taller buildings. It had been owned by Pompey’s family for generations. There was a musty smell everywhere in the house, and in the room where Pompey gave audiences there were no fabulous views, only a glimpse of an inner courtyard with a modest fountain. The room was full of old trophies from various military campaigns, some brought back by Pompey from the East, some acquired by his father—exotic weapons and bits of armor, statuettes of obscure gods, shadow puppets from the Parthian borderlands and antique theater masks from Greece. Lurking discreetly in the corners and shadows, as always, were the soldiers responsible for his safety.
Pompey sat beside a little table stacked high with scrolls. At my approach, he put aside the document he was reading. “Finder! I was surprised when the doorkeeper announced you. I didn’t expect to see you again.”
“And I didn’t expect to be able to see you so soon.”
“You happen to have come at the one hour of the day when I do not already have some prior obligation. Do we have unfinished business?”
“I came to ask a favor, Great One.”
“Good. I always like it when I’m asked for favors, whether I grant them or not. It gives me a chance to live up to my name. What is it you want, Finder?”
“I understand that a part of the penalty against Milo will be the confiscation of his estate.”
“Not quite his entire estate; I think we may allow him to take along a few personal slaves and such to begin his new life in Massilia. First, everything’s to be liquidated to pay off his creditors, which number into legions. After that, we shall see how much is left for the treasury. The estate shall be picked quite clean before the scavenging is finished.”
A Murder on the Appian Way Page 44