A murder on the Appian way rsr-5

by Steven Saylor

  He had always had enough money to indulge his tastes, as well, but he now seemed to have prospered well beyond merely keeping up appearances. It takes real wealth to have a fountain decorated with gold-dusted mosaics, or to hang a painting signed by Iaia of Cyzicus on the study wall, or to display on a table to itself) covered by a thick piece of perfectly transparent glass (which must itself have

  carried a handsome price), a scrap of an original scroll of a dialogue with corrections in Plato's own hand. Roman law forbids advocates from collecting fees for their services; every case is pro'bono. Yet successful advocates manage to become rich nonetheless. Instead of mere bags of silver they are rewarded with generous gifts of property or exclusive opportunities to invest. Cicero was one of the best advocates in Rome, and he had always known how to cultivate the Best People. His house was full of beautiful, rare, expensive things. I could only imagine the treasures that had been destroyed or looted when the Clodian mob burned his old house.

  At Cicero's direction a slave pulled a circle of chairs closer to the flaming brazier. Before we had settled ourselves, another slave brought silver cups and a ewer of heated wine. Instead of hovering nearby, Tiro joined us. He was a citizen now, Cicero's confederate, not his slave. Still, I noticed he held a wax tablet and a stylus on his lap, for taking notes.

  Cicero sipped daintily from his cup. Tiro did likewise. The wine was well watered; Cicero was not a man for strong indulgences. The same could hardly be said of Marcus Caelius, or at least of the Caelius I had known before Cicero reformed him. He saw me watching him and made a show of following his mentor's example, pursing his lips and barely touching them to the rim. The expression gave him such a simpering look that I decided he was deliberately mocking Cicero.

  Milo made no pretence at delicacy. He drained his cup in a single swallow and held it out to the slave for more.

  "Gordianus, was that surprise I read on your face when you recognized Milo?" Cicero cocked his head. "You weren't expecting to find him here, were you?"

  "Frankly, I thought he must be halfway to Massilia by now."

  "Ha! Turn tail and run like a rabbit? You truly don't know my friend Milo if you could think him such a coward."

  "I'm not sure it's a question of cowardice; more of expedience. Anyway, the rumour of his flight to Massilia is widespread."

  Milo scowled but said nothing.

  "You see, I told you," said Caelius, finally speaking. "Gordianus and his son hear everything. Between them their four ears catch every whisper in Rome."

  Cicero nodded. "Yes, go on, Gordianus. What else are people saying?"

  "Some say Milo slipped back into the city last night and barricaded himself in his house, and that he was there when the mob came to burn it."

  "So they think he's not a coward, just a madman! No, Milo spent the night here, under my roof, safe and sound. What else do they say?"

  "That he plans to incite a revolution. He started by assassinating Clodius, and now he's gathering an army to march on Rome. His confederates inside the walls have stockpiled weapons and incendiary materials all over the city — "

  "Well, you can see for yourself how absurd that rumour is! Milo is here, in my house, not out rabble-rousing. And does my house stink of sulphur and pitch? Of course not. A revolution, indeed! There's not a man in Rome more dedicated to the preservation of the Republic than Titus Annius Milo, not even myself! When I think of the abuse he's suffered, and the terrible risks he's taken…"

  The weight of such sacrifices seemed to bear heavily on Milo, who finished his second cup of wine and looked at me glumly.

  I looked around the room, at the many scrolls in their pigeonhole cases, at Iaia's painting of a scene from the Odyssey, at the priceless scrap of Plato under glass. "You take an awful risk yourself) Cicero. If the mob had known that Milo was here…"

  "Yes, I know what you're thinking. This house has already been torched once. But that was because Clodius managed to drive me out of the city first. It would never have happened if I had been here to stop it. And it will never happen again so long as I'm present to defend to my last breath what belongs to me. It may come to that for you as well, Gordianus, before this crisis passes. You have a fine house yourself now. You have a family to protect. Think of those things, and then think of that howling mob we saw yesterday, running wild like a pack of dogs down in the Forum. Do you know how Sextus Cloelius built the fire in the Senate House? He smashed the consuls' chairs and the sacred tribunal and used the wood to build a funeral pyre for the monster. He ripped up scrolls for kindling. Unspeakable desecration! Like their dead leader, these useless freedmen and beggars have no respect at all for the majesty of the state, and no respect for simple decency. They're a menace to any man who stands in their way."

  Cicero sat back and took a deep breath. "The important thing is, the Clodians were foolish enough to burn down the Senate House. They had the advantage up to that point — people were clucking their tongues about poor, pitiful Clodius. That was a masterstroke, parading his corpse in public like that, stripped naked with all the wounds showing. As an advocate, I have to admire their panache.

  If I could drag a stinking corpse into court and shove it under the jurymen's noses, believe me, I wouldn't think twice! Shock and sympathy are two-thirds of the battle. But they overplayed their advantage."

  Caelius swirled his wine cup. "They took the heat off Milo and lit a fire under their own feet."

  Cicero raised his cup to Caelius. "Precisely! Oh, Caelius, the turn of phrase is exquisite! A metaphor that's also literally true. 'They took the heat off Milo and lit a fire under their own feet.' Bravo!"

  Even Milo smiled, begrudgingly, and raised his cup. He too was an orator, after all, with an appreciation for rhetoric.

  "You say that Milo spent the night here?" I said.

  Cicero nodded. "Yes. While the Clodians paraded Clodius's naked corpse all over the Palatine, Milo waited outside the city. Not afraid to come back, mind you, but cautious, sensible, testing the wind, like a general checking the lay of the land before he proceeds. When I saw that the Clodian fools were setting fires, I sent a messenger to inform him. If he wished to come back to the city, he should do so stealthily, I said, and stay away from his own house. I offered him my hospitality, but the decision to return was his. I rendered no advice either way. Milo saw the path before him and took it. Titus Annius Milo, I have never known a braver man than you." Cicero gazed at the subject of his words with an intensity that would have made a more modest man blush, but Milo's only reaction was to stiffen his jaw and raise his head higher. His features did not appear to me remotely heroic, as we are accustomed to seeing heroes portrayed in marble or bronze, but he did know how to strike a defiant pose.

  "I could never have abandoned Rome in her hour of need," he said, with a rhetorical quaver in his voice. "I came back to save her!"

  "Excellent!" said Caelius. "Tiro, copy that down, will you? We must remember to use that."

  I thought he was being rude or facetious, but Milo took no offence. Instead he leaned towards Caelius with a quizzical expression. "Or do you think it should be, 'I never abandoned Rome, not even for a day-'"

  "No, no, it was perfect the way you said it the first time. Tiro, did you get it?" Tiro scribbled and nodded.

  I realized that the discussion was taking place at more than one level, and for more than one purpose. "You're in the middle of writing a speech, aren't you?" I said.

  "Not yet," said Gicero. "We're still working out the basic ideas. You can be of enormous help to us, Gordianus." "I'm not sure I want to be."

  "I think you do," he said, giving me a look that must have been familiar to Caelius and to all the others who had been his proteges and pupils. The look said, Do not disappoint me. "Look at us here, locked away in my study, unable to take a step out of doors without a troop of gladiators to protect us. We're blind and deaf We have a fierce, brave heart — Milo here. An eloquent tongue — Caelius. A hand to write — Tiro. A
nd I dare say, a cool head — myself. But we have no eyes, no ears. It's a delicate business, gauging the mood of the people in the street. One must look. One must listen. Miscalculations, at moments of crisis like this, can be…"

  He did not utter the word disastrous. To speak of disaster would invite an ill omen. Besides, everyone in the room understood precisely what he meant. From bitter experience Cicero knew only too well what the outcome could be when the mob turned against a man.

  "I only want your opinion on a few things, Gordianus. The race for consul, for instance. It looks as though the elections may finally be held. How would you gauge the-mood of the people towards Milo's candidacy?"

  I stared at him, dumbfounded.

  "Well? Are his chances better now than before, or worse? It's a simple enough question."

  "Yes, but I can hardly believe that you expect a serious answer."

  Milo nervously tapped his empty cup against the arm of his chair. "He means to say that it's hopeless."

  "Is that what you mean, Gordianus?" Cicero peered at me earnestly.

  I cleared my throat. "Clodius is dead. Someone killed him, with great violence — I saw the body myself." "Saw it? Where?" snapped Milo.

  While I hesitated, pondering whether to tell them about my visit to Clodius's house, Cicero spared me the decision by interrupting.

  "Gordianus saw the body from his rooftop, just as I saw it from mine. I told you, Milo, how they paraded the corpse all over the Palatine."

  "Yes, I saw it from my rooftop," I said. It was not, after all, a He. "And if any Roman didn't see it, he's certainly heard about it."

  "And what exactly are people saying about the matter?" said Cicero.

  "What do you mean?"

  "How do they think Clodius died? Who do they think was responsible?"

  If Cicero wished to feign obtuseness, I would oblige him. "The word on everyone's lips is that Milo killed him. Or Milo's men." "Where?"

  "On the Appian Way. Somewhere near Bovillae." Cicero nodded moughtfully. "How?"

  I paused. "Judging by the wounds, I would say that daggers were used." I thought of the puncture wound at the shoulder. "Perhaps a spear, as well. And he may have been strangled."

  "You must have had a clearer view of the body than I did!" said Cicero.

  "Perhaps my eyes are trained for such details."

  "But you've heard no actual details of the… fatal incident… and how it came about?"

  "No."

  Caelius nodded vigorously. "And neither have most people, I'll wager. How could they have heard details? Who could possibly supply them?"

  Milo worked his stubbly jaw back and forth and drummed his fingers against his cup. "Still, rumours spring up like weeds in a crack. If a story has a hole in it, people will fill it up with anything that fits."

  "Have you heard rumours, Gordianus?" said Cicero. "About a battle, an ambush, an accident?"

  "I've heard all sorts of rumours. An ambush, a battle, a single assassin, a traitor among Clodius's men…"

  "I think that's hopeful," said Caelius, sitting back and raising an eyebrow. He held out his wine cup and a slave hurried to fill it. "People haven't yet made up their minds. There's still a chance for us to tell them our side of the story. But we'll have to do it quickly. Gossip sets like mortar in people's heads. Once it's hardened you have to chisel it out. Best to pour your own gossip into their ears first."

  "And of course there's the fire," said Cicero. "Surely that's cracked open some hard heads. People who were hostile to Milo before will surely listen to reason now. Only the most lunatic radicals could take the side of that mob of pyromaniacs against Milo." He sighed, exasperated. "I don't understand why the death of Clodius should stir such a controversy, anyway, except among the small core of his most rabid followers. Any sensible man can see that Rome is better off without the scoundrel. It's so obvious! If we go before the people and say 'Yes, Milo killed Clodius,' aren't we simply saying that Milo is a hero? We're essentially proclaiming him the saviour of the Republic!"

  Cicero looked to me for a reaction. I answered carefully. "I can't speak for most people, but I think there are plenty of Romans who are simply tired of all the chaos and disorder — "

  "Exactly," said Cicero, "and it was Clodius who was behind all that disorder, fomenting unrest among the rabble, shaking up the natural order of things. Get rid of Clodius and you're halfway to getting rid of chaos. Tiro, take that down: 'Get rid of Clodius — ' "

  "You may be going too far," said Caelius, shaking his head. "It begins to sound like gloating. Even people who are glad to see the last of Clodius may have serious concerns about the circumstances' of his death. You can't make Milo out to be a champion of law and order if at the same time you proudly assert that he broke the law by killing a man."

  "Ah, but it takes on a different light if you show that Milo was the victim of an ambush and merely defending himself," said Cicero, waving a finger.

  "Was it an ambush?" I said, looking from face to face. "Was Milo the intended victim?"

  Tiro, busy scribbling on his tablet, didn't look up. The others looked at me curiously.

  Cicero brightened. "Well, what do you think, Gordianus? Is it credible that Clodius might have set an ambush for Milo down on the Appian Way?"

  I shrugged. "Their hatred for one another was well known."

  Caelius looked at me sceptically. I felt like a witness under cross-examination. "But then isn't it just as likely that it was Milo who set a trap for Clodius? What would you say to that idea, Gordianus?"

  "But surely it can't have been both ways. It must have been one or the other."

  "Must it?" said Cicero. "What if there was no ambush at all? What if the two parties happened to meet on the Appian Way entirely by accident? Does that strike you as credible?"

  "Perhaps. But people pass on the road all the time without someone ending up dead."

  Caelius laughed. "He has a point!"

  Cicero pressed his fingertips together. "But accidents happen. A man can't always control his slaves, especially gladiators who've been trained to protect him and to react at the first hint of danger. Tiro, make a note: Milo needs to free certain of his slaves, who might otherwise be compelled to give testimony under torture. Slaves can be tortured, but not freedmen. If worse comes to worst…" "If it comes to a trial, you mean," I said.

  Milo grunted. Cicero tapped his fingertips against each other. "It's my conviction that Milo will yet be elected consul. He deserves no less for his service to the state! Still, we must be prepared for less happy possibilities."

  "A trial for murder, you mean. What would Milo have to fear from the testimony of his slaves?"

  Cicero considered the question. "Gordianus makes a good point. If Milo waits and frees the slaves at the wrong time, it could look bad. The earlier the better, I think."

  "You can always say they were manumitted out of gratitude, as a reward," Caelius suggested. "They saved his life, after all."

  "Did they?" I said..

  "Well, that's what we'll say," said Caelius, looking at me as if I were a simpleton.

  I shook my head in disgust. "You're only talking about appearances, aren't you, and nothing more? About this or that hypothetical version of what might or might not have happened, and whether people will believe it. You might as well be writing a comedy for the stage."

  "Better a comedy than a tragedy," quipped Caelius.

  Cicero looked at me thoughtfully. "We are advocates, Gordianus. This is what we do."

  I shook my head.

  Cicero saw that I was not satisfied. "How shall I put this?" he said. "Your nature is different from mine. Truth has a different meaning to you; you seem to think it matters in and of itself. But the truth you crave is an illusion! Chasing after Truth is a fit pastime for Greek philosophers who have nothing better to do, but we are Romans, Gordianus. We have a world to run."

  He studied me for a long moment, and saw that I still resisted. "Gordianus! The next few
days and months are absolutely critical to the survival of everything decent and honourable that remains in this city. You saw what they did yesterday — the madness, the destruction, the wanton desecration. Can you picture yourself in that mob? Surely not! Can you imagine what Rome would be like if people of that ilk were allowed to rule? A nightmare! Surely you can see where your own interests lie."

  I studied each of their faces in turn — Gicero radiant with purpose, Tiro busy with his stylus, Caelius looking sombre but ready to grin, and Milo thrusting out his jaw like a stubborn boy spoiling for a fight.

  "But what really happened on the Appian Way?" I said.

  I received only blank stares in reply, before Cicero smoothly moved on to some other subject and then quickly, graciously, firmly made it clear that my visit was at an end.

  I left Cicero's house without a satisfactory answer to my question — and indeed, with no clear idea of why he had summoned me. Cicero himself didn't appear to know exactly what he wanted from me, but seemed merely to be feeling me out. I had a vague sense of opposing forces marshalling their powers, and wondered exactly where I stood in the scheme of things.

  VII

  The siege at the house of the interrex Marcus Lepidus continued the next day, and the next, and the next, with the partisans of Scipio and Hypsaeus continuing to demand immediate consular elections.

  Temples and business interests in the Forum closed their doors. Every day, great crowds came to gawk at the charred ruins of the Senate House. Some wept, some cheered; fights and shouting matches were common. Some of the visitors laid flowers on the steps, as if it were a sepulchre, in honour of the man who had been cremated there. Others scattered the flowers and trampled on them

  Affairs of state came to a standstill.

  Life continued, however. Bethesda sent her slave girls down to the markets to buy the things she needed for dinner. It took them longer than usual, as they had to search harder, but they returned with full baskets. Belbo went to fetch a pair of shoes that I had sent out to be repaired, and reported that work went on more or less as usual in the street of the shoemakers. People went about the day-to-day business of gaining a livelihood and feeding themselves, but with a sense of dreadful suspense. Rome had the distracted air of a man on a dark, unfamiliar path, doggedly pushing on, fretfully looking over his shoulder, waiting for something terrible to happen.