“The baths? At this hour?” I said.
“He doesn’t keep most people’s hours,” the Gaul said.
When I thought of it, a long, hot soak sounded like a good idea. I told Hermes to get my bath things and followed the Gaul through the streets. Celer was a busy man and probably wouldn’t even notice that I was absent. The bathhouse we went to was a modest one, but it adjoined the building that served as Milo’s home and headquarters.
Leaving Hermes to watch my belongings, I followed the Gaul into a steam room, where Milo sat with a group of his cronies. He looked up and grinned when I walked in.
“It’s true!” he crowed. “All Rome says you fought a pitched battle with Clodius and his men and ended up right in front of Octavius while he was holding court!” He laughed his huge, infectious laugh. I would have joined in, but it would have hurt too much.
“Come back from the army without a scratch,” Milo went on, “then cut to ribbons in the streets of Rome! What irony!”
“Oh,” I said, sitting down stiffly, “one expects the occasional scar when in service to Senate and People.” Indeed, in this company it was easy to be modest about a few little scars. Some of the men were arena veterans with more scar tissue than skin showing when they were stripped. One of them leaned forward and studied my shoulder.
“Neat bit of stitching there. Asklepiodes, eh?” I confirmed that he was correct.
“Seems unmanly to me, all this Greek seamstress work,” said another veteran. He gestured to a hideous trough of puckered flesh that slanted from his right shoulder to his left hip. “A red-hot searing-iron, that’s the way to stop a cut bleeding. Atlas gave me this one, a left-handed Samnite.”
“Got to watch out for those lefties,” said a companion.
Milo turned to me, and the others turned away from him. They were a well-drilled band, and we might as well have been alone.
“How did it go with Fausta?” he asked bluntly.
“Extremely well,” I assured him. “I conversed with her for some time, and she seems most sympathetic to your suit. She is bored with the men of her own class, as well she might be, and finds you exciting and interesting. I think that if you call on her, she will welcome you most warmly.”
“Very good,” he said.
“Always glad to be of service,” I told him.
“And I’ll be of service to you as well. I’ve passed the word that any assault against you by any of Clodius’s men earns instant death. My people will watch out for you in the streets. As long as you stay in plain view, that is. When you go sneaking around, as you have a habit of doing, I can’t guarantee your safety.”
“I can take care of myself,” I said, slightly miffed.
He leaned close. “Are those teeth marks on your face? I thought you fancied yourself a swordsman, not a bestiarius.”
“I do appreciate your help, Titus. My real problem now is that I am at a loss to understand what is going on. With each new bit of evidence that comes my way, I think I have the key that will make all else fit, but it never does.”
“Bring me up to date,” Milo said. I told him of the various oddments of information I had picked up. He raised an eyebrow slightly when I spoke of Julia, and frowned when I mentioned Fausta’s words.
“I do not like the idea that she is involved,” he said ominously. Keeping the sundry women out of the matter was getting difficult.
“Oddly, I think that both she and Julia are speaking the truth. How this can be so I can’t say yet.”
“Then here is another bit of information for you to exercise upon: The day after the sacrilege, Crassus posted surety for all of Caesar’s greatest debts. He is free to leave Rome now. All that keeps him here now is Pompey’s upcoming triumph.”
“This is significant,” I said. “But why should he hang around for the triumph, other than that it is sure to be a fine show? I would think that the only triumph that could interest Caesar would be his own, and the very prospect of that is laughable.”
“That’s another little question for you to ponder, isn’t it?”
“How does this happen, Titus?” I said, a little of my long-held disgust coming to the surface. “Here in Rome we’ve built the only viable Republic in history, and now it’s falling to the shadowy machinations of shadowy men like these. I mean, it all worked so well. We had the popular assemblies, the Centuriate Assembly, the Senate and the Consuls. No kings. We could have the occasional Dictator when the times called for one, but only on a time-limited basis, the power to be handed back to Senate and People as soon as the emergency was over. Now it’s all falling to military adventurers like Pompey, plutocrats like Crassus and demagogues like Clodius. Why?”
He stretched and leaned his head back against his folded arms. “Because the times have changed irrevocably, Decius. What you describe is a system that was perfect for a little city-state that had recently thrown off its foreign kings. It even worked well enough for a rather powerful city-state that dominated much of Italy. But the city-state days are over. Rome governs an empire that extends from the Pillars of Hercules to Asia. Spain, large chunks of Gaul, Greece, the islands, most of the southern Mediterranean lands: Africa, Numidia, Carthage, Mauretania. And what governs all this? The Senate!” He loosed his huge laugh again.
“The greatest governing body known to man,” I said with great dignity. I was, after all, a new-minted Senator myself.
“Nonsense,” Milo said without rancor. “They are, for the most part, a pack of time-serving nobodies. They’ve won office because their forefathers won the same offices. Decius, these men have been handed an empire to govern, and what is their qualification? That their great-great-great-grandfathers were wealthy farmers! At least these schemers you detest have worked and fought and, yes, schemed to get what they want.”
“Can Rome be handed over to the likes of Clodius?” I said.
“No, but not for constitutional reasons. I plan to kill him first. But you, what is your protection from him? Besides my friendship, I mean.”
“There are still plenty of people in Rome who have no use for his sort of demagoguery. My neighbors in the Subura will keep his men from my door.”
“Forgive me, Decius, but you hold their esteem as much by your colorful, brawling habits as by your Republican rectitude. How long do you think you will keep their loyalty if Clodius should succeed in transferring to the plebs and gets elected tribune, as surely he will? He promises every Roman citizen a perpetual grain dole. That is a powerful inducement, my friend.”
“It is not worthy of a free people,” I said grudgingly, knowing that I sounded like my father.
“They may be free in the technical sense, but they’re poor, and that’s a sort of slavery. The day of the freeholder is past, Decius, and it won’t come back. They’ve become a mob, and politically they will act like a mob.”
“And you intend to control Rome as a mob leader,” I said. I wasn’t asking a question.
“Better me than Clodius.”
“I won’t argue that.” There seemed to be no more to say on the subject. I studied the austere but tasteful bathhouse. “This is convenient, having a place like this so handy.”
“I own it,” Milo reported. “I own the whole block now, and all the buildings on the facing streets.”
“That’s better than convenient,” I commended, “it’s tactically sound.”
“I try to look ahead. When you’re through soaking here, why don’t you let my masseur work you over?” He pointed to a low doorway. “The table room’s through there.”
I winced at the very thought. “The last thing I want is someone pounding my body.”
“Try him anyway,” Milo said. “Handling wounded men is his specialty.”
Mile could be a hard man to refuse, so I tried his masseur. To my amazement, the man was exactly what I needed. He was a huge Cretan, and in his way his knowledge was as profound as that of Asklepiodes. His powerful hands were brutal where the flesh was merely bruised and c
ontused, gentle where I was cut. By the time he was finished, I actually felt not far from normal. My muscles and joints flexed with their usual ease, and only the areas around my wounds were painfully tight. I was almost ready to take on another fight, as long as it was not too strenuous.
There was still a question left unanswered but answerable, and I went to resolve it. The walk from Milo’s citadel to the Aventine let me loosen my newly massaged muscles, and I was pleasantly winded at the end of the brief climb.
I stood on the steps of the lovely Temple of Ceres. It overlooked the open end of the Circus Maximus and commanded one of Rome’s more breathtaking views, and Rome is a city of numerous splendid views. Aside from its religious function, serving the all-important goddess of grain, the temple was the ancient headquarters of the aediles. It was the special province of the plebeian aediles, since they were the judges of the grain market, but the curule aediles, though higher ranking, also had their offices here.
There was a great, rushing deal of coming and going as I climbed the steps, for the early plowing and planting ceremonies were about to commence. Wellborn Roman women were everywhere in evidence, since this was overwhelmingly a woman’s temple. Children by the hundreds, dressed in spotless white tunics, were practicing their roles in the upcoming ceremonies. Despite my deadly serious mission, I paused to watch the little ones as they solemnly went through the intricacies of their part in the devotions to the goddess.
Despite Milo’s cynical words, which I knew in my heart to be substantially true, I still felt myself to be at the heart of Roman life at such times and such places. Seeing these ladies and their children preparing for the ancient rites so innocently and with such perfect benevolence, I found it hard to believe that men of evil intent were using the equally ancient and honorable institutions of the Senate and the legions to bring about their own selfish gains.
In the warren of basements and outbuildings, I located the cramped quarters of the curule aediles. In a room full of tablets, old papyruses, decayed money-sacks and rancid rushlights, I found the aedile Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus. He glanced up from his pile of tiresome ledgers when I entered, and hastily rose and took my arm.
“I cannot tell you how relieved I am. Anything that gets me away from these stacks of bills and records. I was about to send a man around to your house. Just today I found out about the woman who was murdered.”
“Splendid!” I said. “Who was she?”
“She was from an estate not far from the city, born a slave but manumitted six years ago.”
“Whose estate?” I asked. “Who manumitted her?”
“Caius Julius Caesar,” he said.
Somehow, I was not surprised. It always came back to Caesar. Caesar’s house, Caesar’s debts, Caesar’s ambitions. Now, Caesar’s freedwoman. One might as well throw in Caesar’s unfortunate wife, who must be above suspicion. Her husband was not. I had been so distracted by Pompey and Clodius that I had not given Caius Julius the attention he deserved. And, I confess, I had been reluctant to make him a primary suspect because of his connection to Julia.
It was not that I was besotted with Julia, as once I had been with Clodia, but I sensed in her one who shared my peculiar leanings. I also sensed a goodness and decency of a sort growing rare among Roman women, at least among the intelligent ones. Caesar’s seeming proposal of a match had distracted me from my duties. There was no excuse for exempting anyone involved from suspicion save evidence of innocence. My personal wishes and feelings should play no part in it.
So much for the idealized, iron-willed servant of the Republic. What I was stuck with was Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, a man whose susceptibility to feminine charms was all but legendary. And Julia had mentioned that her uncle took a more-than-passing interest in me and my activities.
As I walked from the Temple of Ceres, my head ached. Why did all this have to be so complicated? Worse yet, I seemed to have reached a blind alley in my investigation. I had questioned everyone except Pompey himself, and he was one man I was not about to annoy. Then I remembered that there was one person involved with whom I had yet to speak. And this one was hardly in a position to cause me any grief, which suited my mood. I was not up to any major challenges. I began to walk toward the house of Lucullus.
The majordomo came up to me as I entered the atrium.
“May I help you, Senator? The master and mistress are not at home just now.”
“No matter. I’ve been commissioned to investigate the late unpleasantness at the house of the Pontifex Maximus.”
“Yes, sir, the master has informed us and instructed us to cooperate in any way you desire.” That was helpful of Lucullus.
“Excellent. I have been informed that among your staff you have a slave woman who plays the harp, and that this woman actually discovered the interloper. I would like to question this woman.”
“I shall fetch her at once, Senator.” The majordomo showed me to a small waiting room off the garden and hurried off. It seemed odd to me that so lofty a personage as the majordomo of a great house would attend to such a task personally, rather than employ one of the legion of slaves who lounged about with far too little to do. When he returned I understood. He was accompanied by not one but two women. One was a lovely young Greek in a simple shift. The other was a middle-aged woman in a rich gown, whose facial features resembled those of Lucullus.
“I am Licinia,” said the older woman, “eldest sister of General Lucullus. My brother has instructed that you are to receive all the aid we can give, but I must attend this interrogation to ensure that this girl does not reveal anything forbidden.”
“I fully understand, my lady,” I said. What a way to conduct an investigation, I thought. I sat in one of the chairs and the two women sat on a bench facing me. The Greek girl looked nervous, as slaves usually do when they are being questioned by someone in authority.
“Now, my dear, I want you to have no apprehension whatsoever. I merely wish to establish the exact sequence of events as they occurred that night. No one suspects you of any sort of wrongdoing. Now, first, your name?”
“Phyllis, sir.” She smiled shyly.
“And you are a musician?”
“Yes, sir, a harpist.”
“And you were employed in that capacity on the night of the rites of Bona Dea? These questions may seem simpleminded, but this is how they would be asked at a trial.”
“I understand, sir. Yes, I was there to play the harp.”
“Good. And just when did you make the discovery that a man had intruded upon the rites?”
“It was when—” She glanced at the older woman, who gave her a sharp look. “Well, it was at a time when we musicians were not playing. I glanced at a hallway entrance and I saw the herb-woman and the one with her. The herb-woman hung back in the hall, but the other came into the atrium. The herb-woman reached out and took his arm, as if to stop him, but he pulled loose and walked into the atrium. That was when I recognized him.”
“I see. I’ve heard from others that he was veiled. Was the light sufficient for you to see that it was a man’s face?”
“No, sir. It was more the way he walked. You see, I have seen Clodius many times in this house, when he has come to visit his sister, my mistress Claudia. I felt sure it was him; then I recognized a ring on his hand and I yelled that a man was in the room. The mother of the Pontifex Maximus rushed over and tore off the veil. There was a great deal of screaming after that.”
“I should imagine. And I understand that they had just arrived?”
She shook her head. “Oh, no, sir. They must have been there for quite some time. I saw them arrive early in the evening, when most of the other ladies were arriving.”
“What? Are you certain?”
“Oh, absolutely, sir. This was the third year that I’ve played my harp at the rites, and I knew the herb-woman from that purple dress she wore.”
I tried to keep a self-condemning curse behind my teeth. This was what came o
f giving too much credence to secondhand information. Somebody makes a mistaken assumption, and for lack of contradiction it gains the stature of fact. If I had come to question this girl first, I would have got my facts straight and perhaps the herb-woman would be alive. It struck me that the purple dress was her professional trademark, since her name was Purpurea. Then something else struck me.
“You recognized the herb-woman from her dress, not her face?”
“She also wore a veil, Senator.”
“There seem to have been a number of veils that night. Clodius, naturally enough, now Purpurea. I’ve also heard that Fausta was veiled.”
“Then you heard wrong, Senator,” said Licinia. “The lady Fausta”—she gave the little sniff that highborn women perform when they mention their scandalous sisters—”was here in the home of Lucullus that night.”
“I see,” I said. “And you did not attend the rites?”
“I was unwell that night. As for Fausta, she has no respect for religion and did not wish to attend the preliminary ceremonies, as unmarried women should.”
So now the argument as to Fausta’s presence stood at one for, two against. But the vote for was Julia’s, and I was still reluctant to discount her words. I rose.
“Thank you. I think that this will prove useful to my investigation.”
“Good,” said Licinia. “There must be a trial. What will become of Rome if we allow our sacred rituals to be violated? The gods will take a terrible vengeance.”
“We certainly can’t have that,” I said. I no longer had the slightest interest in the sacrilege. I was burning to find out what else had been going on that night. I was about to leave, but I turned back. “Phyllis?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You’ve said that Clodius and the herb-woman were standing in a hallway entrance. Do you know where that hall leads?”
“It’s one of the ones that lead to the rear of the house, Senator.”
“Where the unmarried women retire at a certain stage of the rites?”
The girl thought for a moment. “No, that is on the other side of the house. The hall where I saw the two of them leads back to the living quarters of the Pontifex Maximus. Some years, we slaves were sent to wait there when we were not needed.”
SPQR III: The Sacrilege Page 18
