A murder on the Appian way rsr-5

by Steven Saylor

  So I thought, wending my way up the Palatine Hill. It was that hour of day when a man can still see only dimly, though dawn is near at hand; but in my befuddled state, I didn't even realize that I was still in the dark, or that a light would soon be breaking.

  Part Four

  Ring

  XXXIV

  "It can be fixed, of course," said the artisan. "But…" "But it will cost me," I said.

  "That goes without saying. The materials, the labour — the highly trained labour, I remind you — these things involve considerable expense."

  "Then why the hesitation?"

  He shook his head. "I can't guarantee that the work will keep. In fact, to be honest with you, I don't think that the breaks in the statue can be repaired in a… fully satisfactory… manner."

  "Satisfactory?"

  "In a way that would be both artistically pleasing and structurally sound. You see, if you look here, at the point where the break began, you can see the traces of a tiny fissure that was there to start with-"

  "You're saying that the statue had a flaw all along?"

  "Oh, yes. Here, where the metal's so thin. See how the lip of the break shears in a different pattern? That shows there was already a thin spot with a hairline crack. You would never have noticed it from the outside, of course. It looked perfectly sound. But it was obviously cast with a flaw. Granted, no statue should be pushed from its pedestal, but given such an unfortunate event, this was the weakest point, and this is where the breakage inevitably occurred. Then it ran up along this thin spot, where the folds of the goddess's robes are thinnest, then across the top of her hips…"

  After all the bloodshed I had seen in my life, it seemed foolish to be squeamish about a statue. But there was something gruesome about the scarred, chipped metal that showed along the rupture that had torn her in half, and something distasteful about examining her so intimately from the inside out. On the surface, she was so serenely perfect, gleaming, seemingly indestructible. On the hollow inner surface, she was all a mass of protruding plugs and rough spots and blisters. And all the time she had towered on her lofty pedestal overlooking my garden, radiating wisdom, there had been a terrible flaw inside her. A murderous mob had knocked her from her pedestal, and the flaw had torn her apart. Now the artisan was telling me that there was no satisfactory way to put her back together again.

  "But I can't just leave her lying here in the garden like this, staring up at me every time I pass." "wisdom in two pieces, with weeds growing up around her!

  "The statue could always be melted down. Of course you wouldn't recover more than a small fraction of the value…"

  I shook my head. "Out of the question." The statue, like the house, was a legacy of my old patrician patron, Lucius Claudius. Cicero himself had envied her. Melt her down? Never! But what was to be done? I had slept for only a few hours after returning from the tavern, but the moment I awoke, to the exclusion of all other problems, my mind had settled on the Minerva. Nothing would really seem right until she was back on her pedestal.

  The artisan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. There was said to be no man in Rome who knew more about casting bronze. He was a small bearded fellow, a Greek, the property of a foundry owner for whom I had once solved a problem involving a missing slave and a statue that seemed too heavy.

  "You might be able to make a bust out of her," the Greek suggested.

  "What!"

  "If you made a clean cut, straight across below her breasts…"

  It was clear that the fellow might be a skilled artisan, but he was no artist. Nor did he seem to have any religious respect for the statue at all. I suppose it was a hazard of his work, dealing so much with the malleability and tensile strength of various alloys, that he should lose touch with the mystery inside the metal.

  "I simply want her put back into one piece again. Can it be done or not?"

  "Oh, it can be done." The Greek turned aside for a moment I knew he was rolling his eyes at my Roman wilfulness. "But you'll be able to see the patch if you look for it, and it won't hold forever. A sharp knock, an earthquake — "

  "Let's do it."

  "As I said, it will be expensive." "Are you authorized to bid for your master?" I am.

  "Then let's bargain."

  The lowest figure the man would settle for was still too much for the household coffers to bear. But I would get the money somehow. I dismissed him and stepped from the garden into my study. What was next for the day? I felt surprisingly energetic for having whiled away so many drunken hours the night before, and peculiarly sanguine, considering the storm clouds that had burst in my own home. When such a bright mood comes to a man of my years, I think it is best to enjoy it without question.

  Pompey's guards had already left, while I slept. Eco and Menenia were busy transporting their household back to the Esquiline; it was remarkable how many objects had gravitated from their house to mine during their stay. I would miss seeing the twins' toys — little painted ships and carved chariots and Egyptian board games with brightly coloured pebbles — but I would not miss tripping over them. Bethesda felt obliged to oversee the move. She had apparently said whatever she had to say to Diana the night before. Diana herself stayed out of sight. Davus had apparently decided that there was an urgent need for a lookout on the roof) and had stationed himself there, conveniently out of the way.

  I clapped my hands. One of the slaves who was helping Eco stopped and looked into the room. "Do you know where my daughter is?" I said.

  "In her room I think… Master." He looked uncomfortable.

  They all knew about Diana by now, of course.

  "Go and tell her I wish to see her."

  "Yes, Master!"

  My heart sank when she stepped into the room. She looked much too haggard for a girl of seventeen who was carrying a child. I felt many things — anger, apprehension, regret — but nothing as strong as the impulse to put my arms around her and simply stand that way for a moment, pressing her to me. It was Diana who broke the embrace and stepped away, averting her eyes.

  "Was it awful, after I left last night?" I said.

  "Mother, you mean?" She managed a little smile. "Not as awful as I expected. She blustered and shrieked at first But once she calmed down, she acted more disappointed than angry. I don't understand her. She was born a slave herself Now she acts as if I was born to marry a patrician, and I've spoiled it."

  "It is precisely because your mother was born a slave that she wants you to marry well."

  "I suppose. Today she's simply ignoring me."

  I sighed. "I know how that feels, all too well. But Diana, how is your health? I know less than I should of what's to be expected with such things. Your mother would know — "

  "That was her first concern, after her tantrum last night. She asked me a lot of questions. Everything seems to be as it should be, though I do feel wretched much of the time. That's been the worst tiling about all this — worrying and wanting to talk to her about it, and wanting to talk to you, Papa, and being afraid to. At least that's over."

  I fiddled with a stylus. "Perhaps you're not fit for this pregnancy. Again, I'm woefully ignorant of specifics, but I'm sure your mother knows of ways to — "

  "No, Papa. I don't want to end it."

  "What is it that you do want, Diana?"

  "Papa, don't you understand? I'm in love with Davus." She shuddered and blinked. Her lips trembled.

  "Diana, please don't cry any more. Your eyes are red enough as it is. But whatever idea you may have in your mind concerning Davus, dismiss it."

  "But Davus and I — "

  "Impossible, Diana!"

  "But why not? Mother was a slave. You married her, didn't you? And that was because she was pregnant with me, wasn't it? Meto was a slave when he was a little boy, and Eco was hardly better, a street urchin, but you adopted them. Why should it be any different — "

  "Diana, no!"

  The tears came at full flood. "Oh, you're no better than she is! W
hat hypocrites you both are. Well, I'm not a Vestal Virgin! You can't bury me alive just because I love a man! I'm not ashamed that I'm carrying his child!"

  "Why don't you yell a bit louder, so they can hear you at Cicero's house? Now I suppose you'll go running from the room."

  "No. Why should I? It doesn't matter where I am. I'm miserable! You're a man, you can't know how miserable I am. I'd want to die, if it wasn't for the baby…"

  So much for my sanguine mood. "Diana, we’ll talk more about this when I get back." "Where are you going?"

  "The day is still young. I have an errand to run, down the Appian Way. If nothing else, it will give me an excuse to spend another night away from this house."

  Diana retreated back to her room. I stepped into the garden, avoided Minerva's accusing stare and climbed the ladder to the roof. I came upon Davus near the front of the house, sitting with his arms around his knees. When he heard me he gave such a start I thought he might fall to the street below.

  "By Hercules, Belbo, be careful!"

  "Davus," he mumbled, hurriedly righting himself and standing. "What?"

  "Davus, Master. Not Belbo."

  "Oh. Of course. What was I thinking? Belbo had the common sense to be careful on a rooftop. And he never took advantage of a member of my family."

  "Oh, Master!" Davus dropped to his knees. Those in the room below must have flinched at the concussion. He bowed his head and clasped his hands. "Have mercy on me! Don't torture me, Master — kill me outright if you must. Torture is worse for big, strong fellows like me. Every slave knows that. Little weaklings are tortured for a while and then they die. But with a man like me, it could go on for days and days. I'm not afraid to die, Master, but I beg you — "

  "And how would you prefer to be executed, Davus?"

  He turned pale and swallowed. "Cut off my head, Master."

  "That is not the part of you which has offended me."

  He shuddered and looked up at me with wide eyes. "Don't geld me, Master! I couldn't stand to be a eunuch! Oh, have pity on me!"

  "Stop, Davus! Stop, stop, stop. Whatever am I going to do with you? Do you seriously imagine that I might have you killed?"

  "What else can I hope for, Master? It's the best punishment I can expect."

  "Then what are you doing here?" "Master?"

  "Why are you still here, waiting for your fate? Why haven't you jumped off the roof and run away? You wouldn't have much chance of escaping, but it's better than death. Stow away on a boat leaving Ostia. Go into exile, like Milo. Why didn't you run away last night?"

  "Because…"

  "Yes?"

  "Because of…"

  "What, Davus? What's kept you here to face your punishment?"

  "Master, must you make me say it? It's because of her. Diana. I can't leave as long as she's here. Where else would I go? What would be the point? I should die without her."

  "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 He, 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 half-heartedly. 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 laboured in the fields. There was a great deal of traffic in both directions — sheep and cattle being led to market, messengers on horseback, the Utters 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 Utters 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-spi
rited 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 accommodation 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 stain 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 — "