The Year of Confusion s-13

by John Maddox Roberts

  “The very soul of intimacy, indeed,” I commended. She reclined on the cushions of a sort of half couch, a type I had seen in Alexandria, similar to a dining couch but made for only one person. Hermes and I sat in more conventional chairs. Slaves armed with fly whisks kept us free of vermin.

  Cleopatra was about twenty-five years old at this time, and at the height of her beauty, which was not all that great. She could not compare with the great beauties of Rome, such as Fausta and Fulvia, but what she lacked in symmetry of feature she made up for in the sort of radiance that seems to come naturally to people who have a special relationship with the gods. In Egypt she was a god, but that is just a sort of political formality in some barbarian countries. Kings and queens in those places get old and die just like other mortals.

  “Your majesty,” I began formally, “in recent days Demades and Polasser were found with their necks broken in a singular fashion-”

  “What was singular about it?” she asked.

  “It is an injury so odd that even the distinguished Asklepiodes cannot figure out how it was done, and I thought he knew every possible way to kill somebody.”

  “How interesting,” she said. “Far be it from me to be morbid, but it is pleasing to know that somebody has brought a little originality to something as commonplace as murder.”

  “Ah, yes, I daresay. Anyway, Caesar is understandably upset. These men were in Rome at his invitation, working on a project very dear to him. He is taking this matter personally.”

  “Well that’s bad news for somebody. Look at what happens to people who cross my husband.”

  “Precisely. So I am trying to settle this matter as expeditiously as possible. Now, we have two victims. Both were astronomers but aside from that they were opposites. One was a Greek rationalist, the other a pseudo-oriental mystic. For whatever reason, Polasser chose a Babylonian persona, probably because gullible persons consider the Babylonians to be masters of the astrological arts.”

  “They are,” she said.

  “How would you rate Polasser as an astrologer?” I asked her. It had not been a question much on my mind, but it struck me now. There had seemed to me to be something distinctly off about the man. It was not just that I considered starry forecasts to be fraudulent anyway, or that his foreign pose was absurd. I had known many perfectly agreeable frauds in my life, some of them delightful persons.

  She considered it for a while. “Let me put it this way: He was a competent astronomer, or he would not have been in the company of Sosigenes and the others, employed upon a project as important as the new calendar. He could perform observations and calculations as well as anyone. But astrology is different. Calculations are only a part of it. A truly great astrologer must have inspiration. His art partakes of prophecy.”

  “And how deeply did Polasser partake?” I asked.

  “He was what I would term a social astrologer. His art was casting horoscopes for wealthy people and trimming them to reveal what his patrons wanted to hear.”

  “Yet you give credence to this art,” I pointed out.

  “Certainly. The success of a fraudulent practitioner does not invalidate the art. During my years as a princess with my future always uncertain and precarious, I consulted with many astrologers; Egyptians, Greeks, even a few genuine Babylonians. Some were like Polasser, interested in ingratiating themselves with me or, more often, with my father or my brother or sisters, all of whom were far more powerful and with better prospects than I. But there were others whose calculations were careful, who did not deal in flattery and who predicted for me much sorrow, tragedy, and an early death.”

  “Surely you don’t believe that last part,” I said.

  “Oh, but I do. It is only to be expected. I have already outlived the rest of my family. It is unworthy of a queen to desire more years than the gods have decreed for her.”

  “Admirably philosophic,” I told her. “Now, I have heard that you have held parties in this house for many of the great ladies of Rome.”

  “As many as I could get to come,” she said.

  “And that both victims attended some of these get-togethers.”

  She frowned slightly. “They may have. I confess I don’t remember. There are often more than a hundred guests at my parties and they bring along their servants and so these are very crowded affairs. Since my guests are of widely varying tastes, I bring in many sorts of people to entertain them, from philosophers to actors. I have poets, charioteers, dancers, even funeral-fighters. I usually invite Sosigenes and the others since there are so many who are curious about the stars.”

  “So while they may have been here, they were not the reason for any of your social occasions?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve heard that the great lady Servilia has been-” at that moment a tiny arrow whizzed by, just before my eyes, nicking the tip of my nose in passing. I jerked my head around and saw one of the tiny black men looking wide-eyed. Then he disappeared in the brush.

  Cleopatra leapt from her couch. “You! Come back here!” She grabbed a whip from a slave who was standing by, apparently just in case his mistress should need a whip. She dashed after the little hunter, flailing away with the whip, making leaves fly. In an instant she was lost to sight but we could hear sounds of vigorous pursuit and her choked shouts of rage.

  “Your nose is bleeding,” Hermes said.

  “Of course it’s bleeding. That little bugger almost shot it off with an arrow.” I dabbed at the wound with a napkin and came away with a sizable bloodstain. Within seconds a physician came hustling, followed by slaves who carried his instruments, medications, and bandages. He blotted at my nose with a stinging astringent and soon the blood stopped, although I felt as if my nose had been stung by a hornet.

  Cleopatra came back sweating, her hair in disarray and tangled with leaves and bits of vine. “The little wretch got away. I’ll have him crucified as soon as I catch him.”

  “Nothing that serious,” I said. “My barber cuts me more severely with great frequency, and I usually don’t even have him flogged.”

  “He might have killed you! How would that have looked, a senator murdered in my house? And with an arrow?” A flock of girls busied themselves with restoring her appearance, straightening her clothes, brushing her hair, repairing her cosmetics.

  “Creative homicide is enjoying something of a revival here in Rome these days,” I said. “What are those people, some sort of pygmies?” The race of tiny men were long rumored to live somewhere near the headwaters of the Nile, where they fought battles with cranes and other large birds. At least, that was what they did on wall paintings.

  “I think so. A dealer came down the river a few years ago with more than a hundred of them. It became fashionable to provide them with a little forest to hunt in. I never thought they might endanger my guests. I do apologize.”

  “Think nothing of it. So many people have tried to kill me that it’s a pleasure to be attacked by someone so exotic. He was probably shooting at a bird or a monkey and failed to pay attention to what else was in the way.”

  Her maid Charmian came into the courtyard. “My queen, the ambassador of King Hyrcanus of Judea has come to call.”

  “That scoundrel,” she said. “Hyrcanus, I mean, not the ambassador, who is more agreeable than most diplomats. Senator, I fear I must take my leave. I do hope that arrow wasn’t poisoned.”

  “I hope so even more fervently,” I assured her. “I will need to come back and continue our conversation.”

  “Please do. I always enjoy your company.”

  As we left through the atrium I saw the ambassador and his entourage waiting. With them was Archelaus, the ambassador from Parthia. I nodded to them in passing.

  “That’s one time too many we’ve seen that man,” I said to Hermes as we left the house. I touched my nose gingerly. The small wound had scabbed over.

  “Ambassadors are always in one another’s company,” Hermes said. “It’s probably j
ust a coincidence.”

  “Maybe I’m just being overly suspicious. Getting shot by a pygmy is enough to unnerve a man.”

  “That was Cleopatra’s doing,” Hermes said.

  “What!” I all but shouted, turning to face him. “What do you mean?”

  “That one was lurking close by the whole time you were talking, not running around with the others. Cleopatra gave him a hand-sign”-he moved his hand from the wrist, waving his fingers subtly, — “and he shot.”

  I couldn’t believe it, but I knew better than to think that Hermes would speak idly. He had been a slave, and slaves learn early how to read their master’s little unspoken signals. If he had seen Cleopatra make that gesture, then she had made it.

  “Well, obviously she didn’t want me killed,” I said.

  “Unless the arrow really was poisoned. How are you feeling?”

  “She just wanted to distract me. What were we talking about?” The incident had come as such a shock that I had actually forgotten.

  “You’d just brought up Servilia’s name.”

  “So that’s what she doesn’t want to talk about. It could be for a number of reasons. For one, if Caesar really has taken back up with Servilia, it could be a very sore point with Cleopatra.” I rubbed my nose again. “Still, this seems a bit extreme, just to avoid an unpleasant subject.”

  “She may be planning to kill Servilia.”

  “That would be a good reason to want to avoid talking about her,” I agreed. “Or maybe the two of them are up to something together.” We walked toward the Sublician Bridge and the City proper. “I wish Caesar wasn’t so addicted to dangerous women.”

  “It’s a fault you’ve shown from time to time,” he pointed out.

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Before reaching the bridge we called at the Statilian ludus, where some of Italy’s best gladiators trained. Some claimed that the Campanian schools were better, and they certainly had a longer history, but the old Statilian school turned out fighters as fine as any I ever saw. We went to the hospital and found Asklepiodes standing behind a seated trainee.

  “Ah, Senator, come in,” he said. “Look at this.” We stepped close and I saw that he had drawn little circles on the back of the young man’s neck corresponding to the red marks we had seen on the backs of the two victims’ necks. “Observe, we have two marks to the left of the spinal column, two corresponding marks somewhat lower to the right side. Now look.” He placed the two first knuckles of each hand against the circles. The correspondence was perfect.

  “Were their necks broken with a two-fisted punch?” I asked him. “I’ve never seen such a blow.”

  “I think not. It would be a stunning blow, but it would just knock the man forward. I cannot see how it could apply enough leverage to make the vertebrae shear and dislocate in such a way. I’ve had the pugilism instructors here and questioned them about it. They say the same thing. Such a blow could break a neck only under freakish circumstances, and your murderer accomplished the feat twice in a row. No, we are dealing here with a deadly art of which I was utterly unaware.”

  “Perhaps when we’ve solved this business you’ll get a good philosophical paper out of it.”

  “I intend to,” the little Greek said. “It will make me the envy of many of my colleagues. We so seldom come across something new in the methodology of killing.”

  “There are others like you?” I asked.

  “Oh, certainly. Just as some physicians specialize in particular diseases and conditions, there are a few of us who specialize in deadly violence and its effects upon the human body. Polygonus of Caria, for instance, and Timonides the Paphlagonian. We are a small but enthusiastic body of scholars.”

  “And I thank the gods that we have you,” I assured him.

  “There must have been some means of applying leverage,” he said.

  “Eh? What do you mean?”

  “There must have been something to immobilize the neck while pressure was brought to bear from the rear. It is the only thing that makes any sense. I would suspect a garotte, but there were no ligature marks on their necks.”

  “It is a puzzle,” I agreed. “Keep working on it. Oh, I wished to ask you about something. You may have noticed the somewhat damaged condition of my nose.”

  “I had taken note of your disfigurement, but thought it indiscreet to inquire.”

  “Well, nothing particularly embarrassing about it. But it was caused by an arrow.”

  “We don’t see many such injuries here in Rome,” he said.

  “Indeed. I was just wondering, is there any way to tell if an arrow was poisoned?”

  “Surely. If it was poisoned you will die a lingering and horribly painful death.”

  “But short of that?” I asked.

  “I would not worry about it. Arrows are rarely poisoned, though everybody seems to think they always are. Poison would cause immediate inflammation and I see none in your majestic proboscis.”

  “Excellent,” I said, relieved.

  Of course, it was the first thing Julia noticed when I got home. “You’ve been fighting again!” she accused as we walked in.

  “Nothing of the sort. I am the victim this time.” I threw off my toga and a servant caught it expertly.

  “So what happened?”

  “A pygmy shot me in the nose with an arrow.”

  She glared for a while. “Please show me enough respect to make up a better lie than that.” So I had to give her the whole story and she was mollified. She never apologized for naming me a liar, though. We went to the triclinium and reclined while dinner was laid out. Hermes went off on some errand of his own.

  A slave brought in the family lares and I performed a perfunctory libation. Then I took a cup, tore off a hunk of bread, dipped it in garlic-flavored oil and talked between bites and swallows. “Did you pay a visit to Servilia?”

  “Oh, yes. She acted as if she had been expecting me. You’d think she was suspicious.”

  “She has reason to be. How did it go?”

  “To begin with, I was far from the only lady there. A woman as prominent as Servilia has flocks of callers.”

  “Were there any notable names among them?” I asked, grabbing a handful of oil-cured olives.

  “Fulvia was there, loaded with scandalous gossip.”

  “Well, she’s the one to have it, being more than a bit scandalous herself.” The flamboyant Fulvia had been married to my old enemy Clodius, who was killed by my friend Milo, then she married Curio who had died fighting for Caesar in Africa. Recently she had married Marcus Antonius and was pushing his career as fiercely as she had those of her first two husbands. Julia named a few other prominent women.

  “That sounds promising,” I said. “What was all the talk about?”

  “The usual things. We had to listen to Servilia praising her son Brutus as the very paragon of Roman virtue. Fulvia described Antonius’s endowments in embarrassing detail. Several complained of the inconvenience the new calendar is causing them. They blame you.”

  “Naturally. Anything germane to my investigation?” I pulled a plate of baked fish closer.

  “Not at first, but then I am more subtle than you. I don’t reveal my intentions by diving straight into my subject of inquiry.”

  “Very sensible,” I said, “and when in your circuitous fashion you finally got around to that subject, what did you learn?”

  “You are trying to rush me,” she said, plucking grapes and popping them into her mouth one by one. “I dislike it when you rush me.”

  It was going to be one of those times. “At your own speed, then.”

  “That’s better.” She pushed the heap of grapes aside and picked up a dish of cherries and cream. Julia adored cherries and had a slave whose principal work was to remove their pits, a tedious and exacting task. She began to eat them with a golden spoon that had been a gift from Caesar.

  “Atia arrived after the morning sacrifice at the Temple of Venus Genetrix. S
he had young Octavius with her. The air grew noticeably frosty. Servilia considers Octavius a rival for Caesar’s inheritance, of course.”

  “Either way it’s a stretch,” I observed. “Octavius is a great-nephew, Brutus barely a relation at all. There’s no real reason he should adopt either of them. He could as well adopt me.” I caught her look. “Don’t even think it.”

  She sighed. “It would never happen. For one thing, you aren’t ambitious. Caesar will adopt only someone ambitious. Brutus is ambitious, or at least Servilia is ambitious for him. Octavius is quiet but very deep. He’s spent a lot of time with Caesar lately.”

  I barely knew Octavius and had only seen him a few times, from a distance. He was just another young man beginning his career and there were hundreds like him. I couldn’t keep track of them all. “Why was Atia there, since the two women detest one another?”

  She ate another spoonful of cherries. “I’d thought you would have guessed by now.”

  “You’re being-” then the light dawned. “Atia wants a horoscope cast for Octavius?”

  “And who better to go to for advice than Servilia?”

  “What is to stop Servilia from giving her bad advice?” I asked.

  “She wouldn’t dare in front of all those women of their circle. Someone would be sure to tattle to Atia. That would put the tattler in a good position should Octavius prove to be the heir.” These women had a system of politics as complicated and cutthroat as that of the Senate.

  “So there were two women at the gathering, each hoping to be in possession of Caesar’s heir.”

  “Three,” she corrected. “Don’t forget Fulvia.”

  “Ah, yes. How could I forget?” Marcus Antonius was yet another with eyes on the glorious inheritance. In Gaul, he had been Caesar’s right-hand man, supplanting the formidable Titus Labienus, who had turned against Caesar in the civil war. When Caesar was made dictator he named Antonius his Master of Horse, second in command and enforcer. In Roman public life of the day, Antonius was a character out of Plautus: a soldier-buffoon who had himself carried about in a lavish litter while slaves carried his golden drinking vessels before him on purple pillows like holy cult objects. Caesar had forced him to give up his foolishness for a while, but he kept lapsing. Despite his many faults it was almost impossible to dislike Antonius. He was the eternal boy-man. We loved the boy and feared the man.