“Yes. I met him recently. Let me talk to the man.”
We entered the atrium and found Lentulus’ messenger standing by the impluvium. “You have something for me?” I said.
The man bowed. “My lord, Titus Lentulus sends you greetings. You asked him to inform you if he saw anything unusual at the villa of Sextus Tabellius. This morning we noticed signs that someone might be in the house.”
“Signs? What kind of signs?”
“There was smoke, my lord.”
“Did Lentulus send someone to investigate?”
“No, my lord. He said, after what happened to that girl in the garden, he didn’t want any of his people to go near the place. He decided to post men to keep watch and send me to inform you.”
“All right. Thank you. Demetrius will see that you have something to eat.”
As the messenger followed my steward out of the atrium, I turned to Tacitus. “I don’t think we can wait until tomorrow to go out there.”
“But if we leave now, we won’t have more than an hour or two of daylight left when we get there.”
“If we wait until tomorrow, whoever is there could be gone. And it might be Popilius.”
“Or it might be a gang of bandits who’ve found a convenient hideout.”
Tacitus always looks on the bright side of things. His comment rattled me more than I wanted to show. “We won’t know unless we go there, will we?”
*
While Tacitus went home to let Julia know what he was doing, I rounded up a party of servants to accompany me out to Tabellius’ villa. They had to be freedmen so they could carry weapons. Segetius surprised me when he volunteered to go—almost insisted.
“You’ve been most kind to me and Rufinus, sir. I’d like to do something to repay you. I do know the place inside and out.”
Although I still wasn’t entirely comfortable with the man, he had shown no reason for me to distrust him, and the stripes on his back ought to earn him some credibility. “All right,” I said.
With that settled, I sent one man to cancel my order for horses from Saturius’ stable. Because of its location we would have to ride those horses all the way around Rome or walk them through the streets before we actually started for Ostia. Since Caesar’s day, only animals being ridden or pulling vehicles on government business, or delivering supplies to a building site, have been allowed in the streets of the city during daylight hours. I sent another servant to a stable on the west side of town to hire horses. Along with him I sent two servants to go ahead and get us rooms at Marinthus’ taberna.
As I sent people scrambling in different directions, my mother and Naomi came into the atrium. “Gaius,” my mother called, “what’s the meaning of all this confusion?”
“I have to make a short trip. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“You’re leaving at this time of day?”
“I’m just going a short distance down the Ostian Way.”
“Does this have anything to do with that strange woman with the little boy who was here…yesterday? Or was that…last month? No, it was yesterday. And there was a boy, wasn’t there?”
I could see that she was just guessing. Naomi seemed as concerned about her as I was. When the doctor came back to look at Aurora’s eyes, I would ask him about my mother’s increasing befuddlement. Could it all be caused just by her concern over the karkinos? “That’s right, Mother. She was here two days ago, with a little boy. We’ve sent him home with his aunt and uncle. So that’s all taken care of. You don’t have to worry about it.”
Anxiety still clouded her face. “But what about the woman? Is she still here?”
“No, Mother, she’s not. I’m trying to find her. And her husband.”
“Why?”
“I think they’re in trouble and I want to help them.” I hoped I wouldn’t have to give her any more of an explanation. There wasn’t time, and I didn’t want to upset her with any gruesome details.
“That’s very good of you, Gaius,” Mother said. “Just be careful.”
By the time my small entourage had packed a bit of food and left the house most people were heading for the baths. We picked a route that kept us on streets away from the largest thermae, so we made satisfactory progress to the south side of the city. My servants had procured enough horses, but Aurora wasn’t satisfied until she had inspected them with her hands, massaging and kneading. I could have sworn the animals were enjoying it. The thought ran through my mind that someday, if we ever got to be alone again, I might have to pretend to be her horse.
“This one has a lump of some kind in his neck,” she told the stable owner.
“I assure you there’s nothing wrong with that animal,” the man said, stiffening his own neck.
“I guess you can’t see it,” Aurora said, “but I can feel it. Put your hand right here.” She took the man’s hand and laid it on the spot that concerned her. The horse neighed and shook its head.
The man’s expression changed at once. “I’ll have to look at that. Let me get you another horse.”
Once the horses satisfied Aurora, we were on our way.
Tacitus had been right. We wouldn’t have much time before dark today. We could find out if the person or persons at the villa were relevant to our inquiry. If not, we would have all day tomorrow to explore the place. And I meant to go into the woods around the property, to see if Popilius had left any traces of where he had been hiding when we were there before.
As we rode, staying twenty paces or so ahead of my servants, Tacitus, Aurora, and I mulled over what we had learned from Nonnius and Marcella.
“What I don’t understand,” Aurora said, “is why Crispina didn’t go ahead and kill Popilius at the villa. If she could decapitate Fabia, she must have had Popilius restrained in some way so he couldn’t stop her. As enraged as she was, why not finish the job?”
“I think she wanted him to suffer more,” I said, “by living with the memory of what he saw.”
“Medea didn’t kill Jason,” Tacitus pointed out. “He was the one she was angry at, but she left him alive after she killed his children and everyone else he cared about. It was the cruelest punishment she could have inflicted on him. Killing him—or killing Popilius—would have been a kindness.”
“I don’t think Crispina has a kind bone in her body,” Aurora said. “How could she feel so little for Clodius that she could just walk away and leave him? Even though he wasn’t her own child, she had raised him as though he was for eight years. He believed she was his mother. I saw that when I was with them at the taberna. Animals will sometimes adopt young that aren’t their own. Aren’t we better than animals?”
“Animals will also sometimes kill young that aren’t their own,” I said. “At least she didn’t do that to the boy. But what I don’t understand is why Popilius and Fabia waited around in Ostia. Even at the end of the sailing season, they could have found a boat going a short distance up the coast, or over to Sardinia or Corsica. Far enough away to save them from Crispina’s axe.”
“It must have something to do with Clodius,” Tacitus said. “That’s the only reason he would have taken the risk.”
“Even if he knew Clodius wasn’t his son?” Aurora objected.
“We don’t know if Fabia had told him what she knew,” Tacitus said. “Even if she had, Popilius could have felt paternal affection for the boy. He’d considered him his son for eight years, and it wasn’t Clodius who’d deceived him. Or perhaps he was humane enough not to want to leave him in the hands of a madwoman.”
* * *
I sensed Gaius shaking his head, even if I couldn’t see the gesture. And I agreed. Nothing I’d heard about Popilius made me think him capable of such a noble gesture. I’d be quicker to attribute baser motives to him. A man with an unnatural interest in one child might well have a similar interest in another, regardless of the gender. As the two thugs in the cave yesterday had demonstrated, to some men gender is irrelevant.
I tried to imagine
myself being touched by an older man in ways that Gaius had touched me. Or doing the things to an older man that Nonnius and Marcella said Popilius liked for young girls to do to him. He might not have killed Fabia, but he deserved to be punished for what he had done to her and to others. A shiver ran through me.
* * *
There was still daylight left when we reached Marinthus’ taberna. His son, Theodorus, greeted us in the absence of his father, who, we were informed, was in Ostia buying supplies. Since Marinthus had earlier expressed doubt about Theodorus’ competence to do anything, I guess he faced a dilemma: leave the young man in charge of the taberna or send him to do business in Ostia. Marinthus must have decided Theodorus could do less damage here.
“I’m delighted to see you again, sirs, and you, Aurora,” he said.
“Good afternoon, Theodorus,” Aurora said.
Theodorus’ upturned face showed his uncertainty. “Is there something wrong with Aurora, sir?” He touched his forehead at the spot where Aurora’s bruise still showed.
“She was struck on the head and temporarily blinded. Now, are there rooms reserved for our entire party?”
“Yes, sir. Will you and Aurora want the same rooms you had last time?”
I didn’t like the way he smirked when he said that. From the increased tightness of Aurora’s grip around my waist, I knew that she could hear his expression as well as I could see it. “Yes, those rooms were nice.”
“Will you need both of them?”
I resisted the urge to kick the man in his smug face. From where I was sitting it would be so easy, and I was wearing a heavier pair of sandals—a pair of soldier’s caliga—for tramping around in the woods. But I had to keep up the pretense, so I contented myself with gritting my teeth and saying, “Yes. Both of them. We’ll be back shortly and would like some dinner.”
“Everything will be ready for you and the lady, sir.”
As we rode away from the taberna Aurora said quietly in my ear, “He might as well have told us he was the one who took the knife. He knew I didn’t spend the night in that room.”
“Knowing you weren’t in the room doesn’t prove he went in there. If he knew, I suppose someone else could have known.”
“Wonderful. This may turn out to be the worst-kept secret in Rome.” Her chin dug into my back.
I put one of my hands over hers. “I wouldn’t really mind if it did.”
We turned onto the side road that led to Tabellius’ villa. As we passed Lentulus’ house and the ruins of Tabellius’ place came into view, I brought my horse to a halt. I could see several men—Lentulus’ servants, I assumed—on guard.
“Has anyone come in or left?” I asked the closest one.
“No, my lord, but there’s still smoke.” A thin wisp of smoke was rising from the front of the house, through the compluvium apparently.
I turned to my own party. “Let’s dismount and approach on foot. We can be quieter that way.” I designated one of my men to stay with Aurora and the horses while the rest of us made our way to the house.
“I want to go with you, my lord,” Aurora insisted.
“No.” This time I would not be persuaded. “If we find a man in the house, we’ll need you to tell us if he was Popilius, since you’re the only one who’s heard his peculiar speech. If we run into a confrontation, though, you become a liability.”
“It looks like the smoke is coming from the atrium,” Tacitus said.
I turned to Segetius. “Are there any entrances we don’t know about?”
“There’s a spot at the rear where animals kept digging under the wall to get into the garden. A man can slip under there. It’s covered by some bushes and a shed.”
“You take that. The rest of you, spread out and approach the house from different directions. Whoever’s in there, I don’t want them to get away, but I want them alive.”
As Tacitus and I came up to the bashed-in front door we heard an eerie keening spilling out from inside the house. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
“That’s not a woman, is it?” Tacitus said.
“No, I believe it’s a man, but I’m not entirely sure.” I tightened my grip on my sword.
“Either way, it’s the ghastliest noise I’ve ever heard.”
“Almost otherworldly.” I put my head in the door. “Hello? Who’s here? We don’t mean to hurt you. We just want to talk.”
“Go away!” a voice—definitely a man’s—shouted. “Go away! I’m going to do it. It’s the only way. You can’t stop me. Nobody can.”
We entered the atrium and were confronted with a man standing on the side opposite the door. The empty impluvium lay between us. His dirty tunic had a bloody spot below his stomach. In a brazier in front of him a fire was burning, with a poker sticking out of it. He held a knife in his shaking right hand.
“I don’t care if I live or die,” he said. “It would be better to die if it let me stop seeing that awful sight.”
I had to assume he was Popilius.
“Has he already wounded himself?” Tacitus asked.
“I don’t think so. He wouldn’t still be standing.”
“I can’t get the blood off,” Popilius muttered, like crazy old men with bulging eyes do as they stumble around the streets of Rome. “Have to cut it off. Burn it off. The only way.”
I thought he was referring to the blood on his tunic until he lifted it and placed the knife on his genitals, which were also covered in blood.
“By the gods! He’s going to castrate himself,” I cried. I started to run around the impluvium.
“Stop!” the man cried. “Don’t take another step. I’ll do it. I really will.”
I didn’t feel that his threat was serious. He could cut off any body part he wanted. In an abstract sense, I didn’t care. But, if this was Popilius, I needed him alive and able to answer questions—if he still retained enough sanity to do that. A man who was threatening to cut off his own genitals was clearly not in his right mind. The fact that he hadn’t done it yet made me suspect he didn’t really have the nerve to carry out the job, but would he if he were provoked?
I stopped and lowered my sword. “I won’t come any closer. My name is Gaius Pliny—”
“I know who you are. You took Fabia’s body off that accursed wheel. For that I thank you.”
“So you are Clodius Popilius?”
“Yes, I am the wretch who answers to that name—or what’s left of him.”
Behind Popilius I saw Segetius approaching from the back of the house, moving from column to column in the peristyle garden like a hunter sneaking up on an unsuspecting prey, from tree to tree. I had to keep Popilius talking for another moment or two.
“Why did you take her head away from here?”
“I didn’t want somebody to identify her and start looking for me. That was all of her I could carry.”
“Weren’t you afraid somebody would see you walking around carrying a head?” Tacitus asked.
“I found a bag.”
“Where did you go?”
“I hid out in the woods. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. But when I saw you and your men taking her body away, I decided to follow you.”
“So you reunited her head with her body and then set fire to the shed.”
“Yes. It was the closest I could come to giving her a proper funeral. But then someone discovered the fire and tried to put it out.”
“You got into the line passing buckets and—”
“And did whatever else I could to—”
Segetius lunged at Popilius and wrapped his arms around the poor man, pinning his feeble limbs to his sides and forcing the knife down. I rushed over and yanked the knife out of his hand. He was trembling violently, but his grip—induced by fear or panic—was surprisingly tenacious.
“Get him something to eat,” I ordered as Aurora and my other servants came into the atrium. “Set him down over here.” Segetius and I moved him into a shady spot. His body was so
rigid we had to force him to sit down. “You’re going to be all right,” I assured him.
He shook his head and sobbed. “How can I be all right? She’s dead. Ravaged and murdered right before my eyes.”
There was a raspy quality to his voice that I’d never heard before. I could understand what Nonnius and Marcella had meant about recognizing him by that characteristic.
“We’re trying to find the woman who did it,” Tacitus said, with a kindness in his voice that I wasn’t accustomed to hearing except when he was talking to his wife. “We need your help.”
Popilius’ eyes grew wider with fear. “Oh, no! If she ever got near me again, she would do worse to me than she did to Fabia.”
“We won’t let her harm you,” I assured him. “Now, have a little something to eat and we’ll talk.”
When he had eaten a few bites of bread and cheese and drunk a little wine, the trembling in his body began to abate and his shoulders slumped. Aurora sat on a bench opposite him, feeding him, but we sent the rest of the servants away.
* * *
I can’t see Popilius, but he’s sitting within arm’s reach of me. I can hear his raspy breathing. Gaius expects me to give him something to eat. What I want to do is shove this bread down his throat and choke him to death.
* * *
Before he left, Segetius said, “Sirs, you ought to see something in the rear garden.”
He led Tacitus and me to the spot where Fabia had been murdered. The wheel on which she died had been smashed into bits. The axe used to decapitate her was lodged in the post where Popilius had been tied.
“I guess that’s one reason he came back here,” Tacitus said.
“He did something many of us wanted to do, sir.” Segetius kicked at the splintered pieces of wood.
“Thank you for showing us this,” I said. “Now we need to talk to Popilius.”
We dismissed Segetius, and Tacitus and I pulled a marble bench over close to Popilius. Aurora sat next to me.
“I know it will be painful for you,” I said, “but I have to know what happened when Fabia was killed, and what Crispina is up to—if you know.” I wondered if his version of the story would bear any resemblance to what we had heard first from Aurora, then from Crispina, and finally from Nonnius and Marcella. Sometimes historians say that they have found various accounts of an incident in their sources but cannot sift the true from the false. They simply record all of them and let their readers select whichever they find most convincing. I did not have that luxury.
The Eyes of Aurora Page 21
