by Ben Pastor
Minucius Marcellus, Duco said, had been killed in the hot pool.
In the six hours since the murder, the hot pool—an oversized marble tub below ground—had been drained after the victim's removal. Pink puddles on the floor reflected the twilight in the spot where the bloody corpse had been laid before being carried out. Water had been tracked everywhere; on the wall closest to the pool, the bloody imprint of a left hand probably only pointed to the fact that one of those who had fished out the corpse had then rested against it.
It was perhaps significant, perhaps not, that no one had sought refuge from the disorder in the Old Baths. Aelius stepped out of the hot room, walked the small building in all directions, had the terrified serfs (North Africans who had been huddling in the basement) show him the two-feet-wide service passageways in the main walls, and the access stairway to the furnace room below street level. What he was looking for was only vaguely sketched in his mind, like the scribbled Greek verse whose author he could not recall.
When he walked out, the nip in the air took his breath away. His Guardsmen, riding two abreast, calmly returned to the square from the crooked street and regrouped. At once Aelius informed himself about their well-being, hearing that but for the trooper stunned by a brick and a few bruises, there were no casualties. At the point where the same crooked street met the square, Curius Decimus sat straight in the saddle, accompanied by two officers—twins, so similar that side by side they gave one the odd impression of seeing double.
"That was a nifty action," Decimus said, in a tone that sounded like the opposite of a compliment. "The bastards ran as far as my house, trying to escape through the city gate. I had my house serfs cudgel them back toward your men, and the police are making arrests."
Aelius patted his horse's neck. From the saddlebag, he took out his round cap, and put it on. Decimus made a polite gesture with his upturned right hand. "Commander, let me present to you Gaius Dexter and Lucius Sinister, colonels of the Palace Guard; gentlemen, Commander Aelius Spartianus, lately heading a thousand-strong mounted regiment at Nicomedia. The Ioviani Palatini, was it not?"
"It still is." Aelius answered the twins' salute. "I am only on temporary special assignment as a historian."
Hands folded on his right thigh, with the reins loose in his grasp, Decimus surveyed the signs of rioting in the square. "The good people of Mediolanum amaze me at times. But you may be sure the shop owners who suffered damage during the disturbance will be more severe in asking for prosecution than any of us." He spoke to all, looking at Aelius directly. "This was just an excuse to make trouble, you know. They say that, with the times being as they are, the temptation to loot is overpowering. I say it is bestiality as well. Anyhow, the Palace ordered that the watch be doubled around the grain storage, and the city gates will close an hour early tonight."
"What happened, exactly?"
Decimus raised his eyebrows. "Exactly, I doubt anybody knows."
"There must have been provocateurs in the crowd."
"Why? An interruption in the trials against the Christians is enough to enrage any right-minded community."
Aelius glanced at the officer who had interjected the words, the twin called Dexter. It was more or less the opposite of what Decimus had just said, but it only mattered in terms of whether the riot was a sign of more generalized discontent or a brutal protest of the loss of a prosecuting judge. "In my experience," he replied, "after a disorder, everyone declares that someone else started it; that he was dragged along by someone he knew, and so around and around, until it comes to those who were dragged along by people no one knows."
"I thought you served at the Palace in Nicomedia, not in the streets." Dexter was young, pale, and dark-haired, and close up his jaw drew a line ever so slightly longer than that of his twin, to whom he was otherwise identical. He did not talk out of spite, not consciously at least. The cities were filled with officers at the threshold of maturity who had only served in command posts and could hardly conceive of life in the field.
"In Egypt I fought the rebels of Domitius Domitianus and Achill-eus in the streets. It comes in handy in case of riots."
Dexter breathed in, so that his nostrils crinkled nearly shut. Curius Decimus half-smiled. "So, Commander—were any rioters hiding in the baths?"
For the first time this morning, Aelius felt a jab of irritation. "No. Only one of your city policemen vomiting his heart out."
"Pity—what are we coming to. Good help is as hard to find at city hall as it is in one's house." Decimus slapped the reins on his thigh, a flop-flop sound in the silence of the square.
During the rest of the day, at bookshops and in archives, wherever an interlocutor gave him the impression of wanting to discuss the event, Aelius inquired about Minucius Marcellus. It was half a step above idle curiosity at this point, a way to occupy time in Mediolanum while awaiting an answer from His Divinity.
To all reports, the judge seemed much happier dead than he did alive. The melancholy cast on his face, his principal characteristic in the minds of those who knew him, had been smoothed out by death, and if he did not quite smile, he looked serene at least. Somehow, it appeared as though death had freed him from a consuming care, a fact that should put at ease the hearts of his fellow citizens.
Nevertheless, aside from the riot at the prison, outrage in the city was enormous, and perhaps sincere. Marcellus had been in the process of trying a number of Christian clerics from the city and the outlying areas, accused of refusing to give up their holy books and of associating despite prohibition. Because he was a patient, thorough man, the trials he presided over tended to last a long time. One of those rare professional judges that notwithstanding a long career do not seem to lose faith in human nature, he'd only lately begun to admit his sadness at confronting "pertinaciousness and perversion" in the courtroom, as he put it, "every day the gods send to earth." His sentences were masterpieces of attention to legal detail, impossible to appeal; what was surprising was their mildness. In the two years since the multiphase edict against the Christians, which Galerius had wanted and Max-imian was more than happy to apply in his portion of the Empire, the capital sentences issued by Minucius Marcellus were rare. Even the most liberal-minded intellectuals agreed among themselves that those who had finally been put to death had it coming, if nothing else for trying the patience of the court to such an extent.
Not only that: It was commonly agreed that Marcellus's private life was as impeccable as his public behavior. He did not drink, did not eat meat, had read Seneca's Moral Epistles a number of times, with profit, had been married to the same woman for over fifty years; his children and grandchildren were all well matched, occupying important posts throughout Italia Annonaria. Exemplary to the point of ridicule among his acquaintances and colleagues, he had never kept lovers or concubines, did not owe or lend money, possessed an honest wealth commensurate with his long service. In such a money-oriented, pragmatic city, he was not for sale, and his virtues—admired by all—made many uncomfortable. Thus even "the last man anyone should want to kill" could be at the same time sorely missed and a welcome absence.
These generally positive comments were what Aelius heard from those to whom he spoke well into the evening, and even after his return to the barracks from downtown. Of course, he had not yet asked Decimus, who might have a completely different view regarding the victim, if for no other reason than to sing out of the chorus.
True, the military considered Marcellus a little (or a lot) too indulgent in his sentences against the Christians, some of whom were former soldiers. "But you can't have everything in a judge," the Briton pointed out to Aelius. "And besides, last summer he ruled in favor of the army when it came to a dispute regarding additions to the barracks' retaining wall."
Aelius let the sentence go through him before even realizing there was a small, interesting detail embedded in it. "Do you mean a dispute regarding the building contract?" he asked.
"Yes, precisely. We ordered bricks
from Modicia, northeast of here, and when they arrived, traveling first by waterways and then on wheeled transportation, a good part of them were nicked or broken altogether—below quality at any rate." Duco sat in his small office with his feet propped on a stool, circling his freckled thumbs. "The owner of the brickworks tried to maintain that he had no control over the way the transport was effected—this was in fact done care of the military. Our commander argued that if bricks are worth their salt, they do not fall apart just because they are placed on a barge or a cart. Minucius Marcellus listened to both sides without comment, with his usual calm, and then ordered a third party who was in the business— the brick business, I mean—to select one of the bricks taken at random from the lot and report to him. Well, the expert was not long in declaring that the firing process was defective—too low or too high a temperature in the kilns, I forget now—with the result that the final product was friable and structurally weak. There was no argument afterward: The brick supplier was made to return the advance the army had paid him, and not only that: He was also fined and had to refund us for the delay in the construction."
Aelius leaned against the doorjamb. He'd gotten a bruise, likely from a rock hurled full force, on his outer right knee, and under the trousers his leg was becoming sore; it felt a little torpid. "Who was the defendant in the trial?"
"Oh, a man called Fulgentius, from Modicia. You would think he could not stay in business, after the story of the faulty bricks came out. Clients who had bought material from him in the past followed suit, literally. But he paid up and went back to work as if nothing had happened, selling the overstock of bad bricks to rural areas where there aren't smart city lawyers or judges."
"And the brick-making expert Marcellus appointed: Who was he?" "Not from these parts. A fellow who happened to be at Medi-olanum for business but had no connections whatever with the local manufacturers. That is why the judge chose him."
"He was not from Augusta Treverorum, by any chance?" Duco replaced his feet flat on the floor. He shrugged his shoulders, palms held flat upward. "I couldn't tell you. The officer at the engineering department might have the information, though."
The brick-making expert called in by Minucius Marcellus was not Lupus, but turned out to be one of Lupus's competitors for the large bid on the annex and tribunal at Treveri, the man from Mogontiacum who, according to the naked old bureaucrat Aelius met in the baths up there, "had lost by a hair." The ruling in the Army vs. Fulgentius case had stirred discontent among local brick-makers, to the point that their northern colleague had been manhandled at his exit from the courthouse. Under army escort he'd been taken out of Mediolanum. "As far as we know," the head engineer told Aelius, "he continued without further incidents his journey back to Belgica Prima, and that was that. As for Marcellus, he received some unpleasant anonymous threats, which were ascribed to the brick-makers."
Coincidences of people and places were not unusual in areas close to the frontiers, especially when army suppliers were concerned. The same trademarks returned across wide distances, and one could wear in Africa body armor made in Mantua, or trousers sewn in Segovia. Still, Aelius found it an intriguing detail, that brick-making should figure among the judge's last sentences, as it did in Lupus's murder. It did not make sense, not quite. The connection was hazy and thin, even though something so solid seemed to constitute its foundation. A connection? No, a window revealing a possible vista; a background to the events that included brick-making, or the men making the bricks, or possibly their relations with the State: He could not begin to tell.
But the Army vs. Fulgentius case was three months old. Marcellus's assassination had to have another reason. Eyes on his paperwork, the engineer concluded that he could see no apparent logic to the murder, as it did not remove a martinet or a corrupt civil servant. "I've heard of judges killed before, Commander, but they were thorough pricks, or thieves, or both."
3 December, Sunday
In the morning, rain came and went; the wind had grown cold. From the tower balcony, the sight of the mountains was impeded by low clouds. Pigeons huddled in gray clusters on the lee side of the many roofs over the Herculean Baths, south of the camp. Aelius's knee hurt more now than during the night, which he'd spent mostly awake; he limped back inside to reread the draft of a second letter—not counting the message about Maximian's refusal to receive him—he'd been jotting down for His Divinity.
. .. I am mindful, Domine, of your encouragement when my pursuit of historical research in Antinoopolis became against my intentions a criminal investigation. A few months since then, as I report on a separate addendum, another violent death has marred my travels. Perhaps I am making more of it than there is, but the person and rank of the victim — a judge from an eminent Mediolanum family — justifies my boldness in trusting that I have Your Divinity's permission to find out who the players may be in the ugly deed.
For the rest, having begun work on the biography ofSeverus, whom they call Septimius Severus, I am greatly troubled as to the approach I should take regarding the life and deeds of this famous prince. The sources and documents I have gathered thus far (including Herodian) indicate him as a man who during his reign continuously had to defend himself from enemies within and without the Empire. Yet the mode in which he took vengeance upon those who had fought him, after they were defeated, goes beyond what good Roman sense would term exemplary. Indeed, on many an occasion, not only did he have the enemy killed and his body dismembered and publicly exposed, but he also exterminated his family. Thus he behaved with the senatorial class (I counted at least thirty-five senators among his excellent victims), thus with the citizens of towns and provinces deemed by him less than faithful, not necessarily supportive of his adversaries. I am mindful here of the words spoken by the deified Trajan and the deified Hadrian, your forefathers in the sacred purple, regarding clemency toward those accused without certain proofs. And while as Romans we value above all the safety and well-being of the State, at the same time, it appears to me, we should wonder to which level we are willing to lower ourselves before behaving like the enemy we abhor.
Severus had two sons (Geta, and especially Bassianus nicknamed Caracalla, his eldest), who were monsters. Julia Soaemias, a woman of his family renowned for her beauty and intelligence, bore the likes of Elagabalus. And yet the selfsame Severus embellished the City, rebuilt the frontier towns and settlements destroyed by the barbarians in the previous years, and was an excellent commander of troops. How am I to handle the story of his life? While for the deified Hadrian I confronted the pure genius and brilliance of the man with his occasional acts of cruelty and mutable character, here I am faced with a prince whose hands are bloody thousands of times over. All lights and no shadows do not make for a distinguishable relief as stonecutters teach us. In darkness, no portrait is visible. Thus, I remit the judgment to Your Divinity's wisdom, as I wish to tell the truth without troubling the readers' minds, or besmirching the name of Caesar that Our Lords Maximian and Galerius bear with such honor.
In the officers' mess hall, Duco and the engineer were eating breakfast. They were still talking about Marcellus's death, and how elsewhere in the city the rioters had succeeded in emptying bakeries and even assaulting private homes.
After an exchange of greetings, Aelius said casually, "Speaking of houses, where did Judge Marcellus live?"
Duco glanced up from a porridge-like blob of boiled wheat in his bowl. "Nowhere near the places that were attacked. Why?"
"I thought I'd go pay my respects to Marcellus's widow."
It was not entirely true, but the Briton had no reason to suspect ulterior motives. He deferred the question to the engineer, who said, "Actually it wouldn't be bad if someone from the military went. Marcellus's suburban estate is half an hour south of Porta Ticinensis, at the second crossroads past the public arena. The lady's name is Lucia Cat-ula. Would you present the Maximiani Juniores corps of engineers' condolences for me?"
"I will."
Duco planted his spoon in the thick meal and watched it lean over slowly without touching the edge of the bowl. "Mine, too, if you would. Bringing a couple of Guardsmen along would not be an excess of prudence, I think."
Again, Aelius said, "I will," because he agreed that it would not be excessive prudence.
"Forgive the confusion, Aelius Spartianus. We were having some work done in the garden."
Lucia Catula apologized as if this were a simple courtesy call, and she had to justify the to and fro of masons Aelius had crossed to reach her door. He had his own turn at apology for coming unannounced, and once they had abided by the etiquette of the case, he followed the lady to a well-lit little parlor.
She wore no jewels. Her white hair was neatly arranged, not a wisp out of place. That she had hastily applied makeup on her cheeks was hardly a mark of vanity, this Aelius understood well; on the contrary, it meant to conceal from the visitor's eyes the paleness of her grief, inappropriate to her status. She graciously accepted the offer of sympathy, and listened to the guest's words (that he was Caesar's envoy, saddened and concerned about the crime) without interrupting him. When she spoke, her voice was like water running in a small, smooth conduit that descends ever so slightly. It trailed down without affectation, because she was surely tired. Aelius wondered whether she had wept— whether status and dignity allowed her that much.
"You understand, Commander Spartianus, that if a judge or his family had to take seriously the threats against his person, they would stop living. Minucius Marcellus had received hundreds of threats in the many years of his work. He would not go as far as my dear departed father-in-law, also a judge, who during Philip's reign collected the insults and menaces against him in a booklet he distributed to friends under the rubric Honesty's Recompense. Marcellus merely ignored those messages."