A murder on the Appian way rsr-5

by Steven Saylor

  The doors behind us opened with a clank. Baby Face emerged, smiling grimly. "The Great One will see you now."

  I must have been rather nervous as Baby Face ushered us through the foyer, into the atrium and up a curving flight of stairs, because afterwards, when Bethesda asked me, I couldn't remember a thing about the furnishings and fixtures, though I could vividly recall that my mouth was as dry as vellum and my heart seemed to have swollen to twice its normal size.

  We were led to a room of many windows at the southwest corner of the house. Curtains and shutters had been pulled back to allow an expansive view of the city. The column of smoke off to the south which we had glimpsed from the doorstep was at the centre of this view, and was joined by two more pillars of smoke, closer and off to the left, probably made by fires on the Esquiline Hill or down in the Subura. Pompey stood at the windows, his back to us. He was only a silhouette at first, a crown of unkempt curls above powerful shoulders and a robust, well-padded torso. As my eyes adapted to the light I saw that he wore a long, voluminous woollen robe of emerald green. His hands were joined together behind his back, his fingers tapping nervously against each other. He heard us enter and slowly turned around. Baby Face moved inconspicuously into a corner. I glimpsed the shadow of another guard on the balcony outside the windows.

  Pompey was the same age as Cicero, which meant that he was a few years younger than me. I could have wished for as few wrinkles, though not for as many chins. It occurred to me that Pompey might be the sort of man who turns to food in a crisis. Commanding armies on the march kept him busy and fit. Holed up in his Pincian villa, he had taken on the weight of the world.

  But there were no puns in my mind at that moment. This was not Fulvia or Clodia, mysterious and grimly determined but made vulnerable by their sex. Nor was it Cicero or Caelius, a known quantity with whom I could exchange careless banter. This was Pompey.

  When he was young, poets had swooned for his beauty. With his luxuriant, wind-tossed locks of hair, his smooth brow and chiselled nose, people had called the boy general another Alexander even before his military prowess proved them right. Young Pompey's typical expression had been a placid, dreamy half smile, as if the contemplation of his own future greatness kept him perpetually cheerful but also a bit aloof. If his face had a flaw, it was a tendency to roundness and a fullness in his lips and cheeks that appeared either ripely sensual or pleasantly plump, depending on the angle and the light.

  As he grew older his face seemed to flatten a bit and to grow even rounder. The chiselled nose became fleshy. The wild locks were shorn in deference to maturity. The smile became less sensual, more complacent. As his prestige and power grew, it was as if Pompey had less need of physical beauty, and so put aside the comely garment of his youth.

  All this I had seen from a distance as Pompey built his career, orating in the courts of law, campaigning for office on the Held of Mars, cutting a great swathe through the Forum attended by his vast retinue of military and political lieutenants, each of those lieutenants in turn attended by his own coterie of followers seeking favours at second hand from the Great One. But what cannot be seen from a distance are a man's eyes, as I now saw Pompey's eyes staring into mine with a disconcerting intensity. For some reason I recalled a famous quote from his youth. When he was sent to drive the dictator Sulla's enemies out of Sicily, the people of the liberated city of Messana had complained that Pompey had no jurisdiction over them because of ancient agreements between themselves and Rome. Pompey had replied, "Stop quoting laws to us. We carry swords."

  "Gordianus the Finder," he said, "and your adopted son Eco." He smiled to himself and nodded, as if pleased that he could remember such insignificant details without a slave to remind him. "We haven't met before, have we?"

  "No, Great One."

  "I didn't think so."

  The silence that followed was uncomfortable for me, but apparently not for Pompey, who paced slowly before us, his hands still clasped behind his back. "You've had a busy day," he finally said.

  "Pardon, Great One?"

  "Clodia comes by to carry you off in her litter. You pay a call on Fulvia. I suppose Sempronia was there, as well. No sooner are you home than Cicero's freedman comes calling, and you and your son are off to confer with Cicero and Caelius. Milo wasn't there today, was he?"

  I started to answer, then realized that Pompey was looking not at me but at Baby Face, who shook his head and answered, "No, Great One. Milo hasn't left his house all day."

  Pompey nodded and returned his gaze to me. "But you've met with Milo before, under Cicero's roof"

  It was not a question, but it seemed to require a response — an admission, rather than an answer. "Yes."

  "It's been quite a while since I saw Titus Annius Milo. How is he looking these days?"

  "Looking, Great One?"

  "He's always been so proud of his powerful physique, naming himself after Milo, the legendary wrestler of Croton, and all that. Is he holding up?"

  "He appears fit enough."

  "And his state of mind?"

  "I'm not privy to that, Great One."

  "No? But you're a reader of signs, are you not? Surely you read something from his face, his voice."

  "Milo is anxious, angry, uncertain. But you hardly need me to tell you that."

  "No, I do not." His smile seemed without irony, merely a gesture of appreciation for not wasting his time. "What did Clodia want with you this morning?" When I hesitated, Pompey frowned. "Don't tell me it's none of my business. It is. Everything that happens in Rome nowadays is my business. What did Clodia want with you?"

  "To take me to Fulvia. Only that."

  "And what did Fulvia want?"

  "Great One, surely words spoken in confidence by a grieving widow — "

  "Finder, you make me impatient."

  I considered how to answer. "A certain man has approached her. She's uncertain whether to trust him."

  "Surely suitors haven't started knocking on her door already!"

  "Not a suitor, exactly," I said, though in feet Antony had once been Fulvia's lover, if Caelius was to be believed.

  Pompey looked profoundly uninterested. "Well, I won't press you for details; Fulvia's personal affairs are of no immediate importance to me. Did you agree to help her?"

  "I haven't yet decided."

  "Perhaps I could help. Who knows? I might possess whatever information you're seeking."

  It seemed unlikely. Marc Antony was Caesar's man, not Pompey's. "Are you offering to help me, Great One?"

  "Perhaps. I'm a reasonable man. If I can give something of value to you, then I imagine you'll be more willing to give me what I want."

  "And what is it that you want from me, Great One?"

  "I'll come to that in a moment. Do you have any questions for me?"

  I thought carefully and saw no danger in asking. "What can you tell me about Marc Antony?"

  "Caesar's lieutenant? I know that his father made a mess of clearing out the pirates before the Senate finally gave me the job. And that his stepfather got himself executed for treason at Cicero's behest. And I recall that young Antony went off soldiering in my old stamping grounds out east for a few years before he signed up with Caesar. What else is there to know?"

  "Perhaps nothing."

  "By Hercules, he's not the one courting Fulvia, is he? I don't see how. He's already married to his cousin Antonia, and that's not the sort of marriage it's easy to step out of. But if he is a suitor, Fulvia would do well to avoid him; that's my advice. Clodius may have been an extortionist and a rabble-rouser, but at least he knew how to bring home the silver; look at that house they ended up in. Young Antony's another matter. Like Caesar and the rest of that circle, always more and more in debt, always selling themselves for the next loan to see them through. They'll come to a bad end, the lot of them. I only hope they don't bankrupt the Republic along with them."

  He fell silent and raised an eyebrow in mild surprise — at himself) I realized
, for saying- more than he meant to.

  "And what did Cicero make of your visit to Fulvia?" said Pompey, pressing on.

  I cleared my throat. "He was curious — like yourself Great One."

  "He wasn't somehow behind your visit to Fulvia, was he? No? I thought perhaps he'd set you up to be his spy. That would be so very like Cicero. Covert networks, unsigned letters, messages sent in some secret code invented by Tiro, paid informers, one lurker keeping watch on the next. Like a spider casting webs in all directions. He'd have turned out differently if he'd had any talent as a military man. More action, fewer words. Are you Cicero's spy, Finder?" He disconcerted me again with his gaze.

  "No, Great One."

  "Perhaps you are and you simply don't know it."

  The suggestion surprised me, then made me uneasy. "I think I know all of Cicero's tricks by now."

  Pompey raised an eyebrow. "Really? Even I wouldn't make that claim! What do you make of Caelius's behaviour? Why is he standing up for Milo? What's in it for him?"

  "Caelius has cast his lot with Cicero; Cicero has cast his lot with Milo."

  "So by extension, Caelius is Milo's man?"

  "I'm not sure that Caelius is anybody's man." "You speak the truth there, Finder. And what do you make of Milo himself?"

  "As I said before, Great One — "

  "Yes, I know: 'anxious, angry, uncertain'. But what do you make of him?"

  "I met him for the first time only recently — since the death of Clodius."

  "Really? No previous connection?" "None."

  "But you do have some old connection with Clodius." "No. I did a bit of work for Clodius's sister a few years ago — " He nodded. "When she helped prosecute Caelius for murder. I spoke in Caelius's defence, you may recall." "Yes. I'm afraid I missed your speech."

  "It wasn't a very good one. Just as well; a good speech would have been wasted. No one would have remembered it, not after the speech Cicero made that day for Caelius — or against Clodia, should I say? So, Finder, were you ever in Clodius's camp?"

  "I was not and I am not."

  "And you're not in Milo's camp, either?"

  "No."

  He appraised me for a long moment, then turned to Eco. "What about you? Like father, like son?"

  Eco cleared his throat. "I helped my father when he worked for Clodia, but I never met her brother. I went with my father to Cicero's house today, but I have yet to meet Milo face to face."

  "And your loyalties?"

  "I'm my father's man."

  Pompey smiled. "A loyal son makes the best partisan of all, eh, Finder? But what about your other son, the one who's off in Gaul? Has he not pulled the rest of the Gordiani into Caesar's orbit along with him?"

  "My son Meto is a loyal soldier, but my family has no special allegiance to Caesar."

  Pompey regarded me curiously. "How is it that you manage to navigate such an independent course, Finder, without being smashed on the rocks?"

  "It seems to me, Great One, that if I let another man navigate for me, I would have been smashed on the rocks long before now." "Do you always steer your own course, Finder? But how? Do you have some special knowledge of the stars? Or do you sail blindly into the future?"

  "As blindly as every other man, I suppose. Perhaps it's the stars that are steering us."

  "Ah, yes, I know that feeling. You believe you have a destiny, then?"

  "A very small one, perhaps."

  "Better than none at all, I suppose." The Great One shook his head, as if the idea of having no destiny, or only a small one, was too difficult for him to imagine. "Destiny is a strange thing. Look at Clodius, ending as a bloody corpse on the great road his ancestor built; it's almost too appropriate, like a Greek tragedy. Look at Milo. I suppose the appropriate end for him would be to get caught in a trap of some sort and eaten alive by his enemies."

  "I don't follow you, Great One."

  "You know, like the legendary Milo of Croton."

  "Is there a story attached to his death? Famous athletes have never been my particular interest."

  "No? But you can't really understand our Milo unless you know about his namesake. What a man calls himself tells you what he thinks of himself, and sometimes where he's headed. Surely I needn't point that out to a man who calls himself 'Finder'."

  "I understand… 'Great One'."

  Pompey didn't even blink. "I shall tell you about Milo of Croton, then," he said. "Come, it's warmer on the balcony. We can sit in the sun. I'll have some heated wine brought. Alban or Falernian? I prefer Alban myself- a drier aftertaste…"

  So we sat on the south-west balcony of Pompey's Pincian villa, sipping ten-year-old wine and looking out over the city. The fire on the Aventine Hill had apparently been extinguished. The great column of smoke had been cut off at the base and seemed to float above the rooftops like something from a nightmare. A new pillar of smoke, thicker and jet black, had appeared in the vicinity of the Colline Gate, far away to our left.

  Pompey swirled the wine in his cup. "When our Milo was young, he was quite an athlete. Or so he says; after the third cup of wine he starts bragging about his athletic glory days the way a soldier brags about old battles. He won many competitions, especially as a wrestler. I don't know what sort of competition a boy has growing up in a village like Lanuvium, but Milo was always the strongest, the fastest, the most determined. Powerful as an ox. Stubborn as an ox, too — that's our Milo.

  "He's still as vain as a Greek about his physique, you know. Not exactly the Greek ideal — too short and stocky — but he's certainly kept himself fit. I've seen him naked at the baths. Belly like a brick wall, shoulders like catapult stones. He could crack a nut between those buttocks!" Pompey let out a coarse laugh that was quietly echoed by the guard at the end of the balcony, who could hardly help overhearing. I realized that Eco and I had been admitted to a certain intimacy with the Great One. He was sharing with us the sort of manly talk a commander shares at ease with his subordinates.

  "So when Titus Annius was casting about for a name to give himself, he settled on Milo. Do you remember the old schoolboy exercise about Milo of Croton?"

  When I showed a blank expression, Eco, whose spotty education had nonetheless been more formal than mine, ventured to answer.

  " 'Compose a recitation on the following theme and show how it might instruct us through life: Milo of Croton, having accustomed himself to carrying a calf every day for exercise, kept on carrying it until it was grown to a bull.' "

  Pompey and Eco shared a nostalgic laugh. "The moral of the theme: as a boy grows into a man, so grow his burdens," said Pompey, "and if you're a fellow like Milo of Croton, you won't shrug them off, but just keep smiling through clenched teeth as you lug them forwards, grunting and groaning. I'm sure that our Milo had to write on the same theme. The lesson seems to have stuck with him."

  He took a sip of wine, frowned and called for the steward. "Is this really the best Alban we have? It's gone off. It won't do. Bring the Falernian. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Feats of strength. Milo of Croton could hold a ripe pomegranate in his fist, they say, so firmly that no one could wrest his fingers apart, and yet so carefully that the pomegranate wouldn't bleed. He could stand on a discus covered with grease and maintain such perfect balance that no one could push him off. He could tie a cord around his head, hold his breath, and make the veins on his forehead bulge out until the cord broke — now that's something I should like to see!

  "But Milo of Croton wasn't always graceful. Once at the games at Olympia when he was on his way to accept the laurel leaf crown for wrestling, he slipped and fell flat on his back. As he was scrambling to get up, some of the wags in the crowd started saying he shouldn't be crowned, having displayed such clumsiness. Milo said, 'That wasn't the third fall! I fell only once. Let's see one of you throw me two more times!" That shut them up in a hurry.

  "He won twelve crowns altogether, six at Olympia and six at Delphi. When Croton went to war with the Sybarites, for a helmet M
ilo wore all his laurel leaf crowns at once — enough to cushion a blow — and dressed like his hero Hercules in a lion's skin, carrying a dub. He led the people of Croton to victory. And when, in gratitude, they decided to erect a statue of him, Milo himself carried his own statue through the square and placed it on the pedestal.

  "When Pythagoras the philosopher was living in Croton, he and Milo became great friends. Opposites attract: the thinker and the strongman. Lucky for Pythagoras, since Milo saved his life. There was an earthquake, and in the dining hall at the philosophers' school a pillar gave way. Milo held up the collapsing ceiling while Pythagoras and his students cleared out, then slipped out from under it and managed to save himself as well.

  "Do you begin to see, Finder, how these legendary feats might bear some allegorical relation to the way in which our Milo conducts himself and sees his destiny? The legendary hero whose clenched fist cannot be opened against his will; who will not be shoved aside, no matter how slippery his footing; who carries a great burden, but does not complain; who can hold his breath until the veins in his forehead pop out; who is best friends with a famous wise man; who is willing to throw himself into the lurch to save his friends; who goes into battle wearing the mantle, or in this case, the name of his boyhood hero; who would gladly put his own statue upon a pedestal; who cannot be thrown down by anyone… but who might, all on his own and in full sight of the watching world, fall flat on his back."

  I considered this as I sipped freshly poured Falernian from my cup. A late afternoon breeze had begun to stir the sky high above Rome, slanting the pillars of smoke and tattering their upper reaches.

  "But what of the death of Milo of Croton, Great One?"

  "How does the adage go? To possess great strength counts for nothing unless a man knows how to use it.' That was the undoing of Milo of Croton. He set out on a journey one day, on foot, and lost his way in a deep forest. Far from the road he came to a cleared place where some woodsmen had been working, but the day was late and the woodsmen were gone. He saw a huge log. There was a long crack along the whole length of the log, with several iron wedges driven into the gap. Apparently the woodsmen had intended to split the log in two, but the job was too big for them and they left it for another day. Milo thought, I shall split the log myself. Think how surprised they'll be to find that one man has done the job for them, using only his bare hands! How clever they'll think me! How grateful they'll be! Another famous feat of strength for Milo of Croton! So he pushed his fingers into the narrow breach until his palms were flat against the two- sides. He pushed them apart with all his might. The iron wedges loosened and fell out — and instantly the crack snapped shut. Milo's hands were trapped. His arms were bent. The log was too heavy for him to shift. He couldn't move.