“Now, my friend Sergius Paulus,” I said as we relaxed in the hot pool after a brief plunge in the cold one, “I really must get down to business. Serious business. Murder, sir, and arson, and a partner of yours who happens to be newly dead.” Suddenly, one of the Egyptian girls was beside me in the water, naked as a fish and handing me a goblet of wine that gleamed with droplets of condensation. Sergius was flanked by two such, and I refrained from speculating about what their hands were doing under the water. I took a drink and forged ahead.
“Sergius, what have been your dealings with the man called Paramedes of Antioch?”
“On a personal level, almost none at all.” Sergius leaned back and put his arms around the wet shoulders of his two attendants. Their hands were still beneath the water and he wore a blissful expression. “On a business level, he was just a foreigner who needed a city patron. He wanted to buy a warehouse to store his imports; oil and wine, I believe it was. I have a number of such foreign clients in the city. They pay me a percentage of their annual earnings. I don’t believe I ever saw the man except on the day he came to me and we went before the Praetor Peregrinus to legalize the arrangement. That must have been about two years ago. Pity the fellow’s dead, but Rome is a dangerous city, you know.”
“I know better than most.” One of the fetching little Egyptians took my half-empty cup and gave me a full one. I certainly couldn’t fault the service.
“This business about arson at the warehouse, though, that does disturb me, even though my quasi-ownership is purely a legal formality. Nasty business, arson. I hope you’re able to apprehend the felon responsible and give him to the beasts in the amphitheater.”
“Responsible for the arson, or for the murder?” I asked.
"Both. I should think the two were connected, shouldn’t you?”
He was a shrewd man, and I obviously wasn’t going to trick him with leading questions. We left the hot bath and the attendants oiled us, then scraped us clean with strigils, then back into the hot bath for a while, then to the massage tables. No wispy Egyptians at the tables, though. Instead, the masseurs were great strapping blacks with hands that could crush bricks.
“Do you know,” I asked Sergius when I had breath again after the Nubian pounding, “whether Paramedes had an arrangement of hospitium with any Roman citizen?”
Paulus seemed to think for a while. “Not that I recall,” he said at length. “If he’d had one, that family will be claiming the body for burial, as is customary. But then, if he had a hospes in the city, he wouldn’t have needed to come to me for patronage, would he?” It was a good point. Another possible lead eliminated, then.
Sergius saw me to the door, with an arm across my shoulders. “Decius Caecilius, I am most happy that you have paid me this visit, even under such distressing circumstances. You must most certainly come visit me again, just for the pleasure of your company. I entertain often, and if I send you an invitation, I hope you will be good enough to attend.”
“I should be more than honored, Sergius,” I answered sincerely. Besides, my financial condition was such in those days that I could not afford to pass up such a meal as Sergius would undoubtedly provide.
“Although this was an official visit, it has become much more a social one, so allow me to bestow this parting guestgift.” He handed me something heavy discreetly wrapped in linen and I thanked him courteously as I stepped out onto the street.
I walked, somewhat unsteadily, toward the little Temple of Mercury at the end of the street. The priest hailed me from the top of the steps and for the next half hour I had to listen to his complaints about the shocking state of the temple, of its desperate need for repair and restoration. Such projects are usually undertaken by wealthy men rather than the state, and I suggested that he approach his well-fixed neighbor down the street. As I glanced that way, I noticed an elaborate palanquin had been set down before the street door of Sergius’s house. As I watched, someone came from the house, heavily veiled, and climbed into the palanquin.
The slaves, a matched team of Numidians, closed the curtains and picked up the litter. By the time they passed the temple, they were moving at a smart trot, with the skillful broken step that makes for a comfortable ride. I watched closely, partly because I hoped someday to be able to afford such fine transportation myself, but also because I was curious about who might be leaving the house of Sergius Paulus thus clandestinely. I was able to make out little except that the palanquin was embroidered in the Parthian fashion, with silk thread. Very costly.
Like any other citizen, I made my way home on my own sore feet. There, I changed from my new toga into the one I had begun the day with and unwrapped the guest-gift. It was a cup of massive, solid silver, richly worked. I pondered it for a while. Was it a bribe? If so, what was I being bribed for? I locked the cup away in a chest. My day was not over yet. I still had to view the body and effects of Paramedes.
Mercifully, the house occupied by the late Paramedes was not far from my own. Truthfully, Rome is not a very large city compared with others such as Alexandria and Antioch. Its population is large, but stacked in layers in the towering insulae, which makes for efficient use of space at some considerable sacrifice of comfort, beauty and, above all, safety.
Paramedes’s house was the ground floor of a tenement, quite decently appointed. Usually, in such houses the running water reaches no higher than the first floor, so that the wealthy occupy the desirable ground-floor apartments, the artisans live on the second and third levels, and the poor eke out their miserable lives crowded into tiny rooms beneath the eaves.
The door was guarded by a hired watchman, who stepped aside for me when I displayed my Senate seal. The house was like a thousand others in Rome. It seemed that the man had owned no slaves, and there was little in the way of housekeeping equipment present beyond a few jugs and plates. Any papers the man had had were already taken. The body was sprawled in the bedroom, as if he had been awakened by a sound from the front of the house, had gone to the bedroom door to investigate and had been met by the assassin’s dagger. There was a gaping rent slanting from the breastbone to the side, and the floor was awash with blood. Something about the wound seemed peculiar, although I knew I must have observed hundreds of such injuries in war, in the arena and in the Roman streets.
I turned my attention to the little pile of personal effects that had been left on a table. There was an old dagger, not very sharp. A statuette of Venus and one of Priapus; a set of dice, loaded; and an amulet of cast bronze shaped like a camel’s head. The reverse side of the amulet had lettering engraved in the bronze, but the light had grown too dim to make it out. I swept the items into my napkin and tied them up.
I informed the watchman that I was taking the effects into my keeping for the nonce. He said that the undertaker’s men would come for the body after sunset the next day. If nobody claimed the corpse within the customary three days, it would be buried at state expense in the common burial-ground, along with the corpses of slaves and of other foreigners without patrons. These mass burial pits, which made the whole city redolent in summer, occupied the ground now covered by the beautiful gardens of Maecenas. This is one improvement of the old city of which I have always thoroughly approved.
On the way home, it struck me that I had neglected my obligations in not scavenging some scraps of Sergius’s sumptuous meal for my slaves. That was what I should have been carrying in my napkin instead of the possessions of the unfortunate Paramedes. I considered stopping at a wineshop and buying some sausages and cakes, but the shutters were already closed for the night wherever I looked. I shrugged and continued on my way. They would just have to be content with kitchen fare. The good cheer of the afternoon was fading and my head was beginning to throb.
Cato, my janitor, opened the gate at my knock. He shook his head in disapproval of my behavior. Cato had been a gift from my father when I set up house in the Subura. He and his equally aged wife, Cassandra, did what modest housekeeping I require
d. Needless to say, both had been adjudged too old and feeble to be of use in Father’s household.
Cassandra brought me a dish of fish and wheat porridge, supposedly a sure guardian against the chill of winter, along with heated wine, heavily watered. After the luxurious delicacies of Sergius’s table, it was plain fare indeed. But I felt the better for having downed the mess, and quickly collapsed into bed, still in my tunic, and fell asleep.
It was perhaps two hours before dawn when I awoke to find someone in the room with me. It was black as Pluto’s privy, of course, but I could hear scuffling and the sound of breathing.
“Cato?” I said, not quite awake. “Is that—” A dazzling white light flashed inside my head. When next I was aware of the outside world, it was to hear Cato reproving me.
“This is what comes of moving from your father’s fine mansion to this Subura crib,” he was saying, nodding in agreement with himself. “Thieves and housebreakers all over. Maybe now you’ll listen to old Cato and move back …” He went on in this vein for some time.
I was unable to dispute with him because my head was swimming and my stomach heaving. It was not the effect of my excesses of the day before; I had been soundly bashed on the head by the intruder.
“You are lucky to be alive, master.” This was Cassandra’s voice. “You owe a cock to Aesculapius for your escape. We must wait till full light to find out what’s been stolen.” She was ever a practical soul. That was a question much on my own mind.
Before I could investigate the matter, though, there was still the tiresome routine of the morning report of the vigiles, and my clients’ morning call. All were properly shocked and speculated upon the new depths to which the city had fallen. I am not sure why anyone should have been shocked that my house was broken into, since the crime was so common in the Subura, but all men are baffled when the prominent are victimized along with the poor.
When the light was sufficient, I went through my bedroom to see what was missing. It had already been determined that the intruder had been in no other part of the house. I first unlocked the safe-chest and made sure that everything was there, including Sergius’s silver cup. There was little about that might tempt a thief, and nothing seemed to have been disturbed.
Then I noticed the little pile of personal effects left behind by Paramedes of Antioch prior to his journey to the Styx. Most of the items still lay on my unfolded napkin, resting on a bedside table. They were in some disarray, and the little figurine of Venus lay on the floor. I gathered the items together and at first thought that they were all present. Then I remembered that there had been an amulet of some sort. That was it, an amulet in the shape of a camel’s head, flat on the reverse side, with lettering. It was gone.
That the thing should be missing was mystery enough, but what manner of cat-eyed thief could unerringly find so small an item in such utter blackness? Sorcery came immediately to mind, but I dismissed it. Supernatural explanations are a crutch for those who won’t take the trouble to puzzle out a logical answer.
Despite my ringing head I attended my father’s rising; then we all went to the house of Hortensius Hortalus, since it was a day when official business was forbidden. Hortalus was a large man with a profile of immense dignity. He always seemed to be regarding something to one side of him, so as to present the world with his most gratifying aspect.
When Father presented me, Hortalus clasped my hand with power and sincerity, just as he would have the hand of a street sweeper whose vote he wanted.
“I have just heard about your narrow escape from death, young Decius. Shocking, utterly shocking!”
“Not all that great a matter, sir,” I said. “Just a break-in by some—”
“How terrible,” Hortalus went on, “should Rome lose her young statesmen through her lamentable lack of civic order.” Hortalus was a mealymouthed old political whore who was responsible for at least as much of the city’s violence as any of the gang leaders. “But, to lighter things. Today I sponsor a day of races, in honor of my ancestors. I would be honored if you and your clients would attend me in my box at the Circus.” At this, my spirits rose considerably. As I have said, I am passionately fond of the Circus and the amphitheater. And Hortalus, for all his bad qualities, owned the finest box in the Circus: on the lowest tier, right above the finish line. “You Caecilii are supporters of the Reds, are you not?”
“Since the founding of the races,” my father said.
“We Hortensii are Whites, of course, but both are better than those upstart Blues and Greens, eh?” The two self-styled old Romans chuckled away. The Blues and Greens in those days were the factions of the common men, although their stables were greater than those of the Reds and Whites, and their charioteers better and more numerous. It was a notable sign of the changing times that a rising young politician like Caius Julius Caesar, of an ancient patrician family which traditionally supported the Whites, ostentatiously favored the Greens whenever he appeared in the Circus.
A slave passed out vine wreaths for us, somewhat brown and wilted at this season, and we all trooped gaily to the Circus. All thoughts of official business were forgotten for the moment, with the prospect of a day’s racing ahead of us. The whole city was flocking toward the flats by the Tiber where the wooden upper tiers of the Circus reared against the sky.
The carnival atmosphere lightened the dismal season, and the open plaza around the Circus was transformed for the day into a minor Forum with traders, tumblers and whores competing for the coins of the audience, turning the air blue with raucous shouts and songs. It is at such times, I think, that Rome turns from being mistress of the world and reverts to her true character as an Italian farm town in which the folk have left their plows for the day.
Father and I were honored by being seated next to Hor-talus, while our lower-ranking clients took the lesser seats higher in the box. Even those seats were better than any others in the vast stadium, and I saw my soldier, freedman and farmer preening themselves, the envy of all eyes, trying to act as if these privileged seats were their customary lot.
To keep the people entertained and in good humor while the first race was being readied, some swordsmen were going through their paces with wooden weapons. Those of us who were fond of gladiatorial exhibits, which is to say nine tenths of the spectators, took a keen interest in this mock fighting, for these men were to fight in the next big Games. Throughout the stands, handicappers wrote furiously in their wax tablets.
“Do you favor the Big Shields or the Small Shields, young Decius?” Hortalus asked.
"Give me a Small Shield every time,” I said. Since boyhood, I had been a keen supporter of the men who fought with the little buckler and the short, curved sword or the dagger.
“I prefer the Big Shield and the straight sword, the Sam-nite School,” Hortalus said. “Old soldier and all that. Those were the arms we fought with.” Indeed, Hortalus had distinguished himself as a soldier in his younger days, when some patricians still fought in the ranks on foot. He pointed to a big man with a shield such as the legionaries bear, which covered him from chin to knee. “That’s Mucius, a Samnite with thirty-seven victories. Next week he fights Bato. I’ll put a hundred sesterces on Mucius.”
I looked about until I saw Bato. He was a rising young fighter of the Thracian School and was fencing with his little square shield and short, curved practice-sword. I could see no signs of injury or other infirmity. “Bato has only fifteen victories to his credit,” I said. “What odds?”
“Two to one if the Thracian fights with the sword,” Hortalus said, “and three to two if he uses the spear.” The small Thracian shield gives a man more freedom to maneuver a spear than does the big scutum of the legions.
“Done,” I said, “If Bato wears thigh armor. If he wears only the greaves, in a fight with swords, then I want five to three in his favor. If he uses the spear, the bet stands as you’ve made it.”
“Done,” Hortalus said. This was a fairly simple bet. I’ve known real
devotees of the fights to argue for hours over such fine points as whether their man wore simple padding for his sword arm, or bronze plate, or ring armor, or scale, or mail, or leather, or fought with the arm bare. They would quibble over the exact length and shape of sword or shield. The superstitious would shave points over such matters as the colors of his plumes, or whether he wore a Greek-style crest in a quarter-circle, a square Samnite crest or paired feather tubes in the old Italian style.
There was a flourish of trumpets and the gladiators trotted from the arena. Their places were taken by the charioteers, who made their way around the spina in a solemn circuit while the priests sacrificed a goat in the tiny temple atop the spina and examined its entrails for signs that the gods didn’t want races that day.
The priests signaled that all was propitious and Hor-talus stood, to tremendous applause. He intoned the ritual opening sentences, and it was a joy to hear him. Hortalus had the most beautiful speaking voice I ever heard. Cicero on his best day couldn’t match him.
He dropped the white handkerchief into the arena, the rope barrier fell, the horses surged forward and the first race was on. The charioteers dashed around the spina with their customary recklessness for the seven circuits. I believe a Green was victor in that first race. They showed equal elan for the rest of the twelve races that made up a regular race-day at that time. There were some spectacular crashes, although there were no deaths, for a change. The Reds won heavily that day, so my financial condition was bettered at the expense of Hortalus and his fellow Whites. Hortalus took his losses in good part, making me instantly suspicious.
SPQR I: The Kings Gambit Page 3
