John Maddox Roberts - The King Of Sacrifices

by The King Of Sacrifices

  "I'll make no promises," I said. I did not fool her. It was why she put up with my show of insolence. She knew that I would not endanger my family to save my wounded Republican pride.

  "Nor would I ask you to," she said, smiling. "Your first duty is to the Senate and People." My, how the woman did love to rub it in.

  As we walked from the palace Paris said, "So that's the First Citizen. He's not much to look at, is he?"

  "Neither is a dagger in the back," I told him. "But you'd be foolish to ignore either one."

  The house of Aulus Gratidius Tubero was situated on a slope of the Aventine overlooking the Circus Maximus. In the riots following Caesar's assassination the area had burned to the ground and a number of fine houses were built on the very desirable sites thus provided. There was a splendid view of the beautiful temple of Diana to the north. In front of the gate stood a pair of the chinking men.

  "No admittance by order of Imperator Augustus," one of them said. So he already had them using his new title. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the man's thick, German accent.

  "I am here by order of that same person," I informed him.

  "Who are you?" Clearly, Livia had not bothered to send a messenger ahead.

  "I may be the man who killed your grandfather when Caesar was proconsul in Gaul. Let me pass, you Teutonic ox!"

  The man reddened, but the other put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't you know a senator when you see one?" This one's accent was at least Italian, although certainly not from Rome. He gave me a perfunctory if reasonably obsequious smile. "Sorry, sir, but our orders were very strict. Are you the Iudex assigned to investigate?"

  "I am. I've come here straight from the palace, but if you want to explain to the First Citizen ..." I made to go.

  "Oh, I'm sure it's all right," the Italian said hastily. "Anyone can see that you are a most distinguished gentleman."

  "I should think so," I said, passing between them. Behind me I heard the German grumble something. The other said, in a low voice: "How much trouble can one old winesack of a senator cause, anyway?" Nothing wrong with my hearing, although what I hear does not always please me.

  The janitor was chained to the gatepost in the style affected by householders who espouse unwavering adherence to ancestral practices. I've never done it in my house. My janitor always has a hook on the end of his chain. He attaches it to the ring on the gatepost when visitors call. This one announced me and a plump, pleasant-featured woman appeared from within.

  "Welcome, Senator Metellus," she said. "I wish your visit could have been at a happier time." She was remarkably composed for a widow of such recent bereavement, but Romans have never been inclined to the sort of extravagant mourning fashionable among barbarians. We have hired mourners for all the wailing and breast-beating. Still, a tear or two might have been appropriate.

  "This is such a dreadful occurrence!" she said, actually sounding quite put out. "But I do believe that the First Citizen is being too severe. Those detestable guards out there won't even let the undertaker's men come in. I mean, really! There are rites to be observed, after all!"

  This was sounding worse by the minute. If nothing else, Octavius was a stickler for the religious niceties. "So the body is still on the premises?" Since she wasn't grieving heavily, I saw no reason why I should not be blunt.

  She shuddered, or pretended to. "Yes, in that disgusting . . ., well, you will see."

  "Then please take me there. I wish to begin my investigation with its prime object." She led me through a courtyard where household slaves stood around looking confused but dry-eyed. When even slaves can't fake a few tears you know that the departed was not a beloved master.

  "I was given to understand," I said in a low voice, "that a certain person of the First Citizen's household may be involved." With such circumlocutions did we avoid saying "royal family."

  "Oh, that trollop!" she hissed. At least something could rouse her to a pitch of emotion. "She and my husband . . . The things they . . . Oh!" The woman had trouble completing sentences.

  Somehow, I suspected that the two had been up to more than mere dalliance. I was right.

  We approached a door at the rear of the house, an area usually given over to storage, pantries, slave quarters and the kitchen. This was an unusual door, double-leaved, of massive wood construction and strapped with bronze. One leaf was slightly ajar. The smell wafting from within was not agreeable, something like the sort of blood-and-incense aroma you get at a sacrifice, only not as fresh.

  "I cannot accompany you within, Senator," the woman said, primly. "It is too ghastly."

  I pushed the door open. It was too dark to see much. "1 need light."

  Hands folded modestly before her, she turned her head and bawled like a drunken market-woman: "Leonidas! Come here and bring lamps, you lazy wretch!" So much, I thought, for Octavius's new patricians. The menial thus addressed appeared, a few others in tow, bearing lamps.

  "You go in first," I said to the slave with the brightest lamp. With a look of extreme distaste, the man passed within.

  Illuminated, the room was about the size of a typical triclinium although decorated in a manner rarely encountered in dining rooms. First, there was the altar. Altars are common enough in Roman houses, usually dedicated to ancestors or the guardian genius. This one was not the usual sober, square block of white marble. It was in the shape of a huge, coiled serpent, black in color, and it stood before a statue of a crocodile-headed Egyptian deity. I recalled that his name was Sobek. Like so many of those addicted to foreign cults, Tubero liked to mix them promiscuously. In a wall-niche was a bronze hand from which sprung a small human figure as well as a number of tiny animals and other symbols. It is called, I believe, a Sabazios hand, and is emblematic of some disgusting foreign sect or other. There were many other such talismans: a deformed human skull, a mummified baboon, a basket full of colorful, polished stones. Beside a brazier, now cold, stood a bronze bowl heaped with frankincense. And, of course, there was the body.

  The late Aulus Gratidius Tubero lay on his back amid the considerable disarray of his toga. Upon his features sat a perfectly corpselike expression, which is to say, no expression at all. There was a great deal of blood. The whole floor was sticky with it. Whatever wound had brought about such an effusion, it was not visible. I crouched by the body, pulling up my clothes a little to keep them out of the blood. Even above the smells of blood and incense I detected the sour reek of wine.

  "Remove his toga," I ordered the slaves. They just rolled their eyes fearfully. They were afraid, like most of us, of the contamination that comes of touching the dead before the proper rites are performed. I rose on creaky knees and took a handful of the incense. "I am a pontifex," I said truthfully, "and I can carry out the lustrum," lying through my remaining teeth this time. I sprinkled the yellow crystals over the body while mumbling unintelligibly. "There," I said. "He is purified. Now do as I say."

  Without further protest, one of the slaves lifted the toga, rolling the corpse over on his belly. The pale back was striped with furrows like that of a chastised slave. The stripes were nearly vertical, slanting very slightly from the right buttock to the left shoulder. They formed shallow gouges and lay atop older stripes. They were not sufficient to account for all the blood. I glanced at the toga. It was liberally smeared with blood, but not soaked.

  "Turn him over," I ordered. They rolled him onto his back. "Ah, here's the fatal wound," I said as the slaves backed away in horror. Tubero's genitals were entirely missing.

  The soles of my sandals made sticky sounds as I examined the room in greater detail. The statue of Sobek stood upon a circular base, but the base stood upon a square patch of floor that was free of blood. I ran a hand along the Egyptian god's arm and came away with a deposit of dust. A similar test of the coiled-snake altar proved it to be clean. I left the shrine and found the wife of Gratidius standing outside.

  "You found him like this?" I asked her.

  "Yes," she sa
id. "That is, the slaves located him when he was not to be found in his bed this morning." She spoke as if this were not an uncommon occurrence.

  "Why did you notify the First Citizen instead of one of the praetors?"

  She looked uncomfortable. "Well, because that woman was with him last night. Julia, the First Citizen's daughter."

  "I see. And this was not the first time?"

  "I have heard gossip. They frequented the same licentious parties. But this was the first time he brought her into my house.” She packed a lot of venom into those last two words.

  "When did she arrive and when did she leave?"

  "She arrived a little after sunset. I did not see her. I kept to my own quarters for the whole evening. I did not want to set eyes on her. It is difficult to believe that she is the child of the savior of the Republic." I had grown so accustomed to this sort of twaddle that I no longer even winced at it.

  "By the way," I said, "please accept my congratulations upon your new patrician status. I do not believe your husband's tragic demise will affect that."

  "You are too gracious," she said, preening.

  "It is unfortunate that he never got to be invested as Rex Sacromm.''

  "Oh, yes. That would have been a wonderful privilege." She sounded utterly indifferent. This was a distinction she would not miss. As wife of the Rex Sacrorum she would have endured as many taboos as he. She would have become all but a prisoner in her own house, lest she glimpse some forbidden sight, like a black dog or a man working at his trade.

  "I’ll take my leave now, but I wish to speak with your steward."

  The man was a Greek in his middle years and I knew at once 1 would get little from him. He had the look of one who knew how to keep the secrets of the household. I spoke with him as he accompanied me to the door.

  "Did you admit the lady Julia yesterday evening?"

  "I did, Senator. That is, the porter admitted the lady and the master."

  "And when did she leave?"

  "I did not see her leave. I questioned the porter but he must have been asleep. I shall have him flogged soundly." Like all good and trustworthy retainers he could lie with a perfectly straight face.

  "As you will. I do urge you to search your memory, though. It may be that you and the rest of the staff shall be called to testify in court, and slaves can only testify under torture."

  He shrugged. "One endures what one must."

  I walked away, wondering why the worst masters always seemed to have the best slaves. I have always striven to be an exemplary master, and my slaves have always been lazy good-for-nothings.

  My weary feet took me back to the house on the Palatine, where the clinking men conducted me to Livia.

  "I need to speak with Julia," I informed her.

  "Is it truly necessary?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Very well then, if you must." She guided me to a wing of the sprawling but ostentatiously austere mansion where the various children of the family had their quarters. Julia sat in a spacious room, carding wool by the light of the late afternoon sun. This is what Octavius expected Roman wives to do, however high their birth. Even Livia pretended to card, spin and weave wool. I suppose she might have directed her slaves at the work, when she could spare the time.

  "Julia," Livia said. "I believe you know the distinguished Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus. He is Iudex investigating the murder of Gratidius Tubero and needs to speak with you." With that, Livia took a chair and watched me with gorgonlike intensity.

  "Have we your leave, Madame?" I asked. "I would prefer to confer in privacy."

  "That would not be proper," Livia insisted. "Julia is a widow of a patrician family."

  "I believe my venerable years constitute sufficient chaperone."

  "Not if half of what is said about your past is true." Nonetheless, she rose. "I do, however, trust your well-demonstrated sense of self preservation." She left, her spine rigid with indignation.

  "It's so refreshing," Julia said, "to see someone with the nerve to defy her."

  "I am old," I said. "I won't live much longer whatever I do. You, on the other hand, infuriate her regularly. You are very young and have to live in the same house with her."

  "It's not courage," she said. "It's desperation." I had to sympathize. I always rather liked Julia. She was a spirited, intelligent young woman forced to adopt the false Stoicism of the Julio-Claudian house and marry for the sake of political alliances.

  "You may have carried your independence a little too far this time. Gratidius Tubero is dead and you seem to be the most likely suspect. I hope you can convince me otherwise."

  "How did he die?" I told her and her fair skin turned even paler.

  "How may I convince you?" she asked, greatly sobered.

  "First tell me about the events of last night."

  "I encountered Tubero at a dinner party given by the Parthian ambassador. I'd seen him a few times before, at similar occasions. We frequent the same circles."

  "The high-living set. In my youth I was fond of the same milieu. In your position it is unwise."

  She shrugged. "Exile or death from boredom. Which is worse. Anyway, by nightfall we were both the worse for the wine and he urged me to come to his home to see his collection of foreign cult objects. I've taken part in some of the Mysteries . . . only the lawful ones," she added hastily. "Anyway, it seemed fascinating at the time. But the trip from the embassy to his house was a long one, and by the time we arrived I was sober enough for second thoughts. In his atrium I begged off, pleading illness. He was still very drunk and wild-eyed. Besides, I could see a woman, probably his wife, spying on us from a side room.

  "So I returned home and that was all until this morning, when I found myself under virtual arrest."

  I stood. "Very well, I have noted your story."

  "Don't you believe me?" I could hear the desperation in her voice.

  "I will take your words into consideration." A good scare would do her a world of good.

  "Well?" Livia said, when I left Julia's chamber.

  "I must consult with some experts. I would like to meet with you and the First Citizen at Tubero's house this evening."

  "But are you satisfied that Julia had nothing to do with this sorry business?" She was almost pleading. How I loved that.

  "Not yet. Will you meet with me there?"

  She fumed for a while. "We will." It was good to have the upper hand with these people for a change.

  I left the mansion on the Palatine and went to the houses of two of my fellow pontifexes who were far more learned than I in religious matters.

  It was already dark when I reached the house of Gratidius Tubcro once again. Paris carried a torch before me, overjoyed at the prospect of messing about in a murder investigation.

  I found a whole crowd of metallic-sounding men in togas before the door of the house, as well as a number of lictors shouldering their fasces,

  "You stay out here," I ordered Paris. "This business is entirely too ugly for one as young as you."

  "But you've always told me that when you were my age . . ."

  "Enough. Times were different then. Besides, this looks like a dangerous enough crowd to suit even you."

  I went inside and found the First Citizen seated by the pool in the courtyard, along with Livia and Octavius's right-hand man, the formidably competent Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, whose future marriage into the house depended upon the result of my investigation. The widow Gratidius stood by, looking suitably awed by the presence of so many mighty persons. A chair was thrust under me and I sank into it gratefully. I was getting rather old for these long, active days.

  "I have indulged you because I know you to be efficient at this sort of work," said the First Citizen. "I trust you have reached a satisfactory conclusion."

  "By ‘satisfactory' I take it you mean one that clears your family of scandal?" I enjoyed the sight of his reddening face for a while, then added, "If so, be at ease. Julia didn't do it."
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  "What do you mean?" blurted the widow.

  "Silence, woman!" Octavius barked, a little of his real nature showing through. "Explain, Senator." Relief oozed from his p)ores.

  "Will you accompany me into the room where the murder occurred?"

  He raised a hand piously. "Senator, you know quite well that, as pontifex maximus of Rome I may not look upon human blood. Livia is under the same rule."

  "Are we going to maintain that fiction?" I said, mightily vexed. "You attend the munera like everyone else. Gladiators bleed rather profusely."

  "Those are funeral games and therefore are religious observances. It is different," he said.

  "Oh, very well," I said. "Marcus Agrippa, will you bear witness on behalf of the First Citizen?"

  "I will," he said. So the two of us went into the now extremely smelly shrine while the royal couple waited just outside the door. The body was quite stiff now. A number of lamps now illuminated the grotesque scene.

  "You have all heard Julia's story and I find it to be true in all relevant details."

  "I knew it!" Octavius said.

  "Then who killed him?" Livia demanded.

  "Bear with me. How did you ever settle on such a man to be Rex Sacrorum?”

  "Senator," Octavius said, "have you any idea how difficult it is to get anyone to accept that office?"

  "Just so. He must have been drunk when he accepted. It seems he was often in that state. In any case, while his wife was very pleased to be promoted to patrician status, she had no interest in being the wife of the Rex Sacrorum.''

  "Then a Roman wife has murdered her husband, with the collusion of the household slaves? Infamous!" A tragedian could not have done it better.

  "No!" squawked the widow.

  "Much as I hate to clear that woman of anything," I said, "I fear I must tell you that she didn't do it either. In fact, there was no murder."

  "This should be a good one," Agrippa said. "What happened?"

  "The silly bugger did it himself."

  That raised Agrippa's eyebrows. "I've heard of opening your veins, but this ..."

  "You will notice the toga. It is smeared with half-dried blood. Had the man been wearing it when the wound was inflicted, it would be soaked. The wife and servants found him here, dead and quite naked, and they wrapped him in it to make the scene marginally less bizarre."