A murder on the Appian way rsr-5

by Steven Saylor

  "Tell me."

  "One would have to go back to his grandfather, at least…" Of course, I thought; the career of any Roman of high birth could never be described beginning merely with his own birth. "The old fellow was quite a power back when I was growing up — one of my tutors in rhetoric, as a matter of fact, and one of the best. Magnificent speeches! Words that rumbled like thunder! But he would never publish them; he said that only a fool would do that, because it just gave your enemies a way to point out your inconsistencies." Cicero, who had made a career of publishing and disseminating his speeches, laughed ruefully.

  Caelius smiled. "Wasn't there some scandal involving Antony's grandfather and a Vestal Virgin?"

  "Caelius, must you always have a scandal?"

  "Yes! And if there's not one, I'll invent it!"

  "Well, you happen to be right. There was a trial for despoiling a Vestal somewhere in the distant past, but he was acquitted of that and went on to a truly distinguished career. Ended up serving as consul, then censor, and was finally elected to the college of augurs for life. But his rise really began with his military service. He was one of the first to mount a campaign against the pirates in Cilicia. Did so well, he was awarded a triumphal procession in Rome. The Senate allowed him to decorate the Rostra with the beaks of the ships he had captured, and even voted to erect a statue of him."

  "A statue?" said Eco. "I don't recall ever seeing it."

  "That's because it was pulled down shortly after he was executed during the civil war. I remember seeing his head on a spike in the Forum; it gave me nightmares for months afterwards. Quite a shock, seeing an old tutor in that condition. Even the canniest politician was liable to make a fatal misstep back in those days."

  "Rather like these days," murmured Caelius.

  Eco, I noticed, put down a piece of chicken he had been about to eat.

  "Anyway," Cicero continued, "Antony's grandfather had an extraordinary career, even if it did end so ingloriously. Antony never knew him, of course; the old man was killed a few years before Antony was born.

  "Now Antony's father was another matter altogether. Good-looking, well liked, generous to his friends, but a terrible bungler. Like his father before him, he was sent to quell the pirates. Raised a massive war chest, gathered a formidable navy, then squandered it all in losing skirmishes from Spain to Crete. When he negotiated a humiliating peace with the pirates, that was the last straw. The Senate rejected the treaty in outrage. Antony's father died in Crete, some say of shame. Antony was only about-what, Caelius? Eleven or twelve years old?"

  Caelius nodded. "And we all know one outcome of his father's failure. The Senate looked around for someone else to put an end to the pirate problem. Pompey got the commission and-came down on the pirates like a tidal wave. His own tide has been rising ever since."

  "But you're taking us astray," said Cicero. "Gordianus doesn't want to hear about Pompey. He wants to know about Marc Antony. Well, he's no Pompey, but Caesar seems to think he's competent. As you see, if Marc Antony has any military acumen, then it must have come from his grandfather. But there's also a strong element of his father in him. Antony's charming, affable, boisterous, and entirely too reckless. Of course, some of that may be due to the unfortunate influence of his stepfather."

  "His stepfather?" I said.

  Cicero looked rueful. "Well, it's hardly Antony's fault that his mother made that disastrous second marriage and tied her fortunes to such a loser. I suppose Julia thought she was marrying up, since Lentulus had been a consul, was a patrician like herself-" "Lentulus? You mean Antony's stepfather was — " "Yes, 'Legs' Lentulus," said Cicero with loathing in his voice, "so called for pulling up his toga to bare his legs like a schoolboy in for a strapping when his fellow senators put him on trial for embezzling public money. A man so flagrantly corrupt that he was finally expelled from the Senate — and so persistent that he managed to worm his way back in again. Superstitious as well; some charlatan fortune-teller convinced him that he was destined to become dictator because of a few lines of doggerel in the Sibylline Books. That's how Lentulus got involved with Catilina and his traitorous clique. We all know how that ended."

  Indeed we did. It had happened in the year that Cicero was consul. The so-called conspiracy of Catilina had been ruthlessly put down; under Cicero's authority, Lentulus and a number of others had been executed without a formal trial The Best People had lauded Cicero for his decisiveness in saving the Republic; many among the populists had condemned him as a murderous tyrant. A backlash had followed, culminating in the vengeful legislation masterminded by Clodius to send Cicero into exile. The Senate had eventually rescinded the exile; Cicero was a powerful player on the stage in Rome again; and Clodius was dead…

  "It's ten years since Catilina," I said quietly.

  "Yes, and for ten years Marc Antony has carried a grudge against me," said Cicero. "He's never come to terms with the hard fact that his stepfather had to die. Antony was only twenty at the time. Passionate young men can't always be reached by reason. They can carry resentments for a long time." Cicero sighed, whether from emotion or dyspepsia I couldn't tell. "I've heard that he even claims that I refused to hand over the body to his mother after Lentulus was strangled, and Julia had to come begging to my wife to intercede. Nonsense! An obscene lie! I saw to it that the bodies of all the conspirators were given proper burial." Cicero winced and pressed his hand to his belly. He surveyed what remained of the meal before him as if to identify the guilty dish which had set off his indigestion.

  Antony's grandfather, his father, his stepfather — they had all risen to glory and had all ended in ruin. The world is like a spinning disc, driving men and women to the edge and then hurling them this way and that into the void beyond its whirling rim. Most are never seen again, but some manage to grab hold of the edge and claw their way back to the centre, not once but again and again. Cicero was one of those. So was Caelius.

  "You've explained his lineage," I said. "What about Antony himself?"

  "He fell in with a bad crowd — Clodius and his gang of aristocratic young incorrigibles," said Cicero. "The usual formula for dissipation: high living, radical politics, mad schemes for the future. And no money to finance any of it. Antony's father left an estate so encumbered with debts that Antony refused his inheritance. Technically he started his career as a bankrupt. It was young Gaius Curio who covered his debts. He and Antony were like peas in a pod. Companions in debauchery. Inseparable. So close that their relationship gave rise to all sorts of… nasty rumours. Well, when Curio's father got the bill for Antony's debts, he went through the roof. Came seeking my advice. I told him to grit his teeth, hand over the silver, and forbid his son ever to see Antony again. The next time Antony came calling on Curio the watchmen turned him away. So what did Antony do? Scaled a wall and let himself down through a hole in the roof, directly into Curio's bedroom, like a determined suitor!"

  Cicero and Caelius shared a laugh, interrupted by another wince from Cicero as he gingerly clutched his belly. "Anyway, Antony solved his money problems when he married a woman named Fadia, the daughter of a rich freedman. A freedman! The scandal of marrying that far below one's station would have ruined an aristocrat when I was young, but I suppose the incorrigibles in Antony's circle applauded him for flouting convention and landing a big dowry. At least the marriage seems to have taken Antony's mind off Curio; I'm told that Antony fathered several children before Fadia died. Meanwhile, he spent some time in Greece studying oratory, put in some military service in Judaea and Syria, helped put down a revolt against King Ptolemy in Egypt, and eventually hitched himself to Caesar and headed for Gaul. Oh, and a couple of years ago he found time to get married again — this time to his cousin Antonia.

  "And now Marc Antony has become one of Julius Caesar's most trusted lieutenants. I suppose he's good at his job if Caesar deems him worthy of grooming for office and sends him back to Rome to stand for quaestor."

  While the slaves brought w
ater and wine to refill the cups and cleared away the dishes, I mulled over all that Cicero had told me. Sempronia said that Antony had chased after Clodius with a sword on the Field of Mars, trying to kill him. But according to Cicero, Antony had been a member of Clodius's intimate circle.

  "So Antony and Clodius were good friends," I ventured.

  "They were," said Caelius, whose age and quicksilver alliances made him more privy to the intimate affairs of the radical generation than Cicero, "until their little misunderstanding over Fulvia."

  "Misunderstanding?"

  "Apparently Antony misunderstood that Fulvia was Clodius's wife and thought she was free for the taking." Caelius flicked his tongue to catch a drop of wine at the corner of his mouth.

  "You mean — "

  "Oh, the affair probably meant nothing to Antony. Between his boyhood lover Curio, his two wives, and all the whores of his youth, what was a little fling with Fulvia? But Clodius was furious when he found out. He and Fulvia were still newlyweds, more or less. And Clodius always tended to fly off the handle at the least provocation, didn't he? This was, oh, about six years ago. After that, there was a chill between Antony and Clodius. And then a whole sea between them, when Antony went off to Greece and Judaea. And then several mountain ranges, when Antony headed up to Gaul. He and Clodius never saw eye to eye again. They were never close enough."

  "Except on the Field of Mars?" I suggested.

  Caelius threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, that! How could I forget? Cicero, you must remember my telling you about it. Last year, during one of the cancelled elections, Antony and Clodius ran into each other, quite by accident, I imagine. They had words. Antony pulls out his sword — brave slayer of a thousand Gauls — and Clodius lets out a shriek and takes off like a scared rabbit. I suppose that made Antony the dog; what could he do but give chase? Of course, if he'd caught Clodius it might have been more the case of the dog and the ferret with the mutt getting his nose bitten and howling all the way back to Gaul."

  "What started the fight? The old business about Fulvia? But you say that was six years ago…"

  Caelius shrugged. "Who knows? Clodius and Antony are both famous for long memories and short tempers."

  "How did we ever get started on the subject of Marc Antony, anyway?" said Cicero.

  "Fulvia must have been feeling nostalgic when Gordianus visited her this morning," said Caelius. "Did she discuss all her former lovers with you?"

  "No," I said. "And neither did Clodia." The grin froze on Caelius's face. Cicero gave him an unsympathetic glance. I pulled myself upright on the couch. "An excellent meal, Marcus Cicero. Perfect for the middle of the day — not too light, not too heavy. I might say the same for the conversation. Now I think that my son and I must be on our way."

  "Why did you bring up Marc Antony?" asked Eco on the short walk back to my house.

  "Antony was the reason Fulvia wanted to see. me. He's offered to help prosecute Milo. She's not sure whether to trust him. She has a suspicion that he was involved somehow in Clodius's death. Or it may be her mother who suspects Antony, and Fulvia wants to prove him innocent."

  "Did she tell you that she and Antony used to be lovers?"

  "No. And just because Cicero and Caelius say so, that doesn't mean it's true."

  "But she did tell you about the chase across the Field of Mars last year?" "Yes."

  Eco nodded. After a moment he laughed. "That was amazing, the way you handled them." "Who?"

  "Cicero and Caelius."

  "Was it? I'm sure they thought it was they who were handling me. I probably told them more than I should have. And now, for a few scraps of information about Antony, they'll act as if I owe them the world."

  "But the way you talk to them sometimes — practically insulting them to their faces!"

  "Yes, well, it's a strange thing, but people like Cicero and Caelius like to be insulted." "Do they?"

  "That's been my experience. I needle them, they needle me back. They know they have nothing to fear from me; nothing I might say can really hurt them. They enjoy my needling, the way one sometimes enjoys having a mosquito bite — the itch gives them something to scratch. Not like a bee sting; not like the bloody sores I've seen Cicero inflict on his enemies with a barbed word or two."

  Davus let us in. From the look on his race I knew that something was up. Before Davus could speak, a voice rumbled behind him. "The master of the house, home at last!"

  He was a big man, probably a gladiator or a soldier, despite the richly embroidered fabric of his grey tunic and dark green cape. His nose had been broken, maybe more than once, and each of his hands was the size of a baby's head. His own head was as bald as a baby's, and almost as ugly. He had the look of a man who could walk through a dangerous place without being bothered.

  "A visitor," said Davus, unnecessarily.

  "So I see. And who sent you… citizen?" I said, noting the iron ring on his finger. He was probably someone's freedman.

  "The Great One," he said bluntly. His voice was like gravel in a sluice.

  "You mean — "

  "That's all I ever call him. It's how he likes to be addressed."

  "I'm sure. And what does the Great One — "

  "The honour of your presence, at your earliest convenience."

  "Now?"

  "Unless you can make it earlier." "Davus — " "Yes, Master?"

  "Tell your mistress that I have yet another errand. This one will take me outside the city walls, I imagine." "Do you want me to go with you?"

  I looked to the man I'd decided to call Baby Face, who smiled and said, "I brought a whole troop of bodyguards with me." "Where are they?"

  "I told them to wait across the street, down the Ramp a ways. I figured there was no need to bother your neighbours with a lot of traffic."

  ''You're more discreet than some of my callers today." "Thank you."

  "Eco, will you come with me?"

  "Of course, Papa." Eco had never met the Great One either. I noticed that my stomach was suddenly churning. I couldn't blame Cicero's cook.

  So I set out for the third time that day, thinking again of the old Etruscan proverb. But this was not a downpour. This was a deluge.

  XII

  The law forbids any man with an army under his command to enter the city walls. Technically, Pompey was such a commander, though his army was off in Spain; he had seen fit to delegate its operation to lieutenants while he stayed close to Rome to keep watch on the electoral crisis. He resided at his villa on the Pincian Hill not far outside the walls. As Pompey was unable to come to Rome, Rome went to Pompey, as the mob had done when they ran to his villa to offer him the consular axes, or as Milo had done when unsuccessfully seeking an audience, or as Eco and I found ourselves doing that afternoon.

  Baby Face and his troop of gladiators closed ranks around us like an armoured tortoise for the walk down the Ramp, across the Forum and through the Fontinalis Gate. We crossed the traditional boundary of the city as we stepped through the gate, but the Flaminian Way was just as crowded with buildings outside the wall as within. Gradually the buildings became smaller and fewer until we came to an open area. The disused public voting stalls were off to our left. Up ahead to the right was a high, guarded gate that opened at our approach.

  The paved path led up through terraced gardens, sometimes sloping, sometimes in steps, switching right and left as it ascended. The grounds on either side were mantled with winter greys and browns, the dreariness of the naked trees and bushes relieved here and there by statues in marble or bronze. A regal swan that might have been Jupiter courting Leda graced a small circular pool. We passed a low wall where a slave boy sat pulling a thorn from his foot, painted in such lifelike colours I might have mistaken him for flesh and blood except that he was naked under the cold sun. I saw no gods or goddesses in the garden, until we came upon the requisite Priapus, guardian and motivator of growing things, occupying a stone alcove set into a high hedge, grinning lasciviously and displayi
ng an erection almost as large as the rest of him. The crown of his marble phallus had been rubbed shiny-smooth by passing hands.

  We came at last to the villa, where more gladiators stood guard before a pair of tall wooden doors with bronze fittings. Baby Face told us to wait while he went inside.

  Eco tugged at my sleeve. When I turned there was.no need to ask what he wanted to show me. The view was spectacular. Tangled branches and treetops hid the path we had just ascended, as well as the Flaminian Way and the voting stalls immediately below us, but above and beyond the treetops the whole Field of Mars lay open before us. The ancient marching grounds and equestrian training courses had all but vanished in the course of my lifetime, filled up by cheap tenements and jumbled warehouses. Dominating everything else was the great complex built by Pompey in his consulship two years back, a sprawling mass of meeting halls, galleries, fountains, gardens and the city's first permanent theatre. Farther on, like a great arm curving around the Field of Mars, was the Tiber, its course marked by a low, thick blanket of river mist that allowed only glimpses of the gardens and villas on its other bank. Clodia's garden villa, where the stylish young men of Rome used to swim nude for her amusement, was somewhere on that distant bank. The whole scene was like a painting done in muted winter hues of rust-red and grey-green, bone white and iron blue.

  Eco tugged at my elbow again and nodded towards the south. The mass of the villa blocked the view of most of the city proper except for a narrow glimpse of the temples on the Capitoline Hill and a jumbled cityscape beyond. Far away, perhaps on the Aventine Hill, a plume of smoke rose like a vast marble pillar into the still air. Whatever chaos reigned at the base of that pillar, it was too far away for us to see or hear. Did a man begin to feel remote and uncaring, looking down on Rome from such a high place? Or did he become even more acutely aware of buildings burning out of control and chaos in the streets, surveying Rome from such a godlike vantage point?