Tanneries smell so foul that they are banned from the city, so working only fully tanned leather is permitted. Thus the street smelled wonderfully of that most fragrant of substances, and I found myself inhaling deeply as I passed the many shops where tanned hides were cunningly carved into long strips, then stitched and riveted into the many kinds of reins, control lines, breast bands, and cruppers required by the specialized sport of chariot racing.
The two outer horses on a four-horse team are not yoked and must be controlled by the complicated strapping system alone, a tremendously demanding skill and only the finest leather work will do. Newly dyed harness hung from tall drying-racks after being given the colors of the four racing factions.
Still other workers applied the gleaming brass ornamentation to the finished harnesses. In one shop I saw chariots that were little more than skeletons having the webwork of leather strips that form the front, sides, and floor applied to them. Racing chariots are kept as light as possible and are little more than a pair of wheels and an axle with a tiny platform for the charioteer to stand on. The front of the chariot comes no higher than the driver’s knees. To look at them, they seem so flimsy one wonders why they do not fly apart under the stresses of racing.
Yet I had seen Britons go into battle in chariots little more substantial, though they carried two men rather than one. In fact I never saw a chariot without feeling a twinge in my leg. I was once run over by a British chariot and had almost lost that leg. The fact that I still had it was due to the skills and exertions of Caesar’s personal surgeon, a man whose mastery was as great as that of Asklepiodes.
A few questions led me to a three-storied house with a facade painted a vivid yellow, which was a sensible precaution in this part of town. To paint your house red, blue, white, or green would be to declare allegiance to one of the factions and could lead to its being attacked in one of the occasional riots that erupted between the supporters of one color and another. Nonetheless, the ground floor wall was decorated with paintings of the races, not an uncommon motif in the area.
The doorkeeper announced me and soon the tall, saturnine Archelaus appeared. “Senator, welcome to my house.” He took my hands as if no enmity at all lay between our nations. Or, rather, between Rome and Parthia, since he was not of that nation himself. “Please, come with me.” Instead of going to the usual poolside, he led me up three flights of stairs to the roof of the house, which had been turned into a garden with flower boxes, planters, and small trees growing in big clay pots. The arbors overhead were bare, but it was a warm day for the time of year and it was a delightful place to converse. It had a fine view of the imposing northern face of the Circus.
We took chairs beautifully woven from wicker and paused while the usual delicacies were laid out and then did not talk of important things while we ate. He was a Roman citizen from a long-Hellenized part of the east, but I knew that he would follow the eastern practice of eschewing business until a guest has eaten. This was not a difficult habit to gratify, because he laid a table that was a combination of modesty and sumptuousness. Nothing was so bulky as to suggest a full meal, which would have its own set of rituals, but the ingredients of the small dishes were all of the highest quality. The hard-boiled eggs had been halved and the yolks combined with a paste of anchovies, olives, and vinegar and the broiled quail were stuffed with pine-nuts.
Replete, I produced an appreciative belch and set to business. “First, Archelaus, let me express my sympathy for your plight. That scene in the Senate the other day was uncalled for. It was also very unlike Caesar.”
“A number of your colleagues have called upon me and have expressed the same thing. I will not take it as characteristic of the Senate of Rome as a whole.”
“Nor of the Roman people,” I said. “They love Caesar but few Romans are keen on another war with Parthia. They loathed the expedition of Crassus and think he got what he deserved at Carrhae. It was a great shame that so many good Romans died there as well, but it is to be expected when a fool is in charge. I, too, would like to get our eagles back through negotiation.”
“That is understood. Do you bring me a private message from Caesar?”
Everybody expected me to be Caesar’s messenger. I suppose it was a logical assumption. “I’m afraid not. Actually, I come on a matter concerning my investigation of the murdered astronomers.”
“I was wondering how that was progressing. Poor Demades. And he was soon followed by Polasser of Kish, I hear.”
“That is the case. You recall that the neck of Demades was broken in a most singular manner?”
“Vividly.”
“Polasser died in an identical manner. I have reason to believe that both were murdered by a professional assassin who hails from the eastern parts of the world.”
He considered this. “And I, although a Roman citizen, am from the east, but why would I want two astronomers killed?”
“Oh, please don’t misunderstand. I do not suspect you of any complicity. I think this killer is most probably a freelancer who has hired himself out, probably to a Roman employer. You have recently arrived from the east. You represent a great monarch, so I assume you traveled with an entourage befitting your station?”
“The king wanted me to have a much larger one,” he said, “but I urged upon him that in the west embassies are expected to be modest. However, he insisted that I take what he considered an absolutely minimal escort of guards and servants. I managed to avoid the entertainers and huntsmen and dog handlers.”
“Are any of those men with you here in Rome?”
“Just one or two here in the house. The rest are in quarters across the river, on the via Aurelia.”
“I will wish to go out there and have a look at them,” I told him.
“Assuredly. I shall send instructions that you are to receive fullest cooperation. Do you wish to inspect the household staff?”
“I hate to put you to the trouble, but I must. Only those who came with you from the east. Not your personal staff, but those pressed on you by Phraates.”
“No trouble at all.” He summoned his steward and ordered the staff be assembled. He did this with the greatest graciousness, but that was because he was a professional diplomat. Personally, I would have been offended by such a request, but my duties overrode personal feelings.
A short time later the steward reappeared, followed by a small group of men and women who wore puzzled expressions. Some of them had markedly eastern features. I dismissed the women. I had known a number of women to commit murder, usually by poisoning, a few who killed their victims with daggers, even one strangler, but I could not imagine a woman as a neck-breaker. It’s difficult enough for a man to do.
Of the men one was clearly too old so I dismissed him. The three who remained looked young enough and strong enough for the task. One in particular struck me as suspicious. He was a short but burly man with a scarred, pockmarked face and a massive beak of a nose. He wore a long eastern robe and he had the look of a man handy with weapons. Across his forehead lay a pale welt, such as is caused by wearing a helmet for many years.
“Where are you from?” I asked him.
He bowed and touched his spread fingertips to his breast. “I am from Arabia, my lord, but I have served in the army of King Phraates for many years.”
“Were you at Carrhae?” I asked him.
“No, my lord. I rode in the desert patrol until I was assigned to the bodyguard of Ambassador Archelaus.”
“What is the nature of your duty here in the City?”
“When my master must go out at night, I accompany him as a bodyguard, my lord.”
“Show me your hands.”
Mystified, he complied, displaying his hands palm-up. I took them in mine and examined them visually and by touch. They were callused from long practice with sword, spear, and shield, but they lacked the marks common to a wrestler’s hands, and the base between the wrist and the smallest finger was not hardened as on the hand of a pankrat
ist.
“Your people do not practice unarmed fighting, do they?”
“No, Senator. Forgive me, but we consider such brawling beneath the dignity of a warrior.”
“I was afraid of that. All right, Archelaus, you may dismiss these to their duties.”
He saw me to the door. “I am sorry I could not be of more help.”
“Oh, one never knows what may turn out to be helpful. I thank you.”
“When will you wish to see my people on the via Aurelia?”
“Oh, I shall find time soon. Do not concern yourself.” Of course I did not wish him sending word ahead that I was coming. I had little suspicion of him or his people, but it always pays to be cautious.
By now the afternoon was well advanced. On most days I would have made my way to the baths and idled away the rest of the day with ease and gossip, but needed something more active. I felt that my waistline was going soft, and that I was getting slow. That would not do. Murder investigations can often be fraught with the danger of personal violence. Ordinary daily life in Rome at that time presented even more such danger. And, as Julia never tired of pointing out, Caesar might at any time put me in command of an army and send me off to fight Sextus Pompey or conquer Ethiopia or something of the sort. As a propraetorian I was supposedly qualified for such martial distinction, but I felt that merely having held the requisite offices did not make anyone a competent general, however hallowed with antiquity the custom might be. Still, the choice would not be mine to make.
There were exercise facilities at the baths, of course, but I needed something livelier, so I crossed the river and went to the ludus. Hermes was still there, and for once I wasn’t displeased. He was supposed to be attending upon me by noon, even if I didn’t want him with me but he would spend his life at the ludus if I let him. Since I had imprudently given him his freedom, he abused his new status shamefully.
Just then I needed a sparring partner and the gladiators were seldom satisfactory for this purpose. Either they were overawed by my senatorial status and wouldn’t give me a good fight or they were vicious brutes who would beat me bloody for the fun of it. Hermes had long experience of both my abilities and my temper.
When I entered the training yard the head trainer strode up to me. “Are you here to see the doctor, Senator? I’m afraid he went off somewhere this morning and he’s not back yet.” This man, like all the trainers, was an old champion. His arena name was Petraites and his many dreadful scars displayed Asklepiodes’ expert stitching. He belonged to what we still called the Samnite school in those days. That meant he fought with the large, legionary-style shield and the short sword, usually with a helmet and at least one leg guard, and always wearing the wide, bronze belt of our old Samnite enemies. The biggest and strongest men fought in this category. Since the Samnites have been citizens for the last generation, the First Citizen has renamed this style of fighter the Murmillo. He has a passion for putting everything into strict categories.
“No, Petraites, I’ve come for a workout. I’m getting soft.”
“Always a good idea to keep up your sword work. Some of your fellow senators are here today. With a big war coming up, a lot of them want to sweat a little lard off before they have to go off to Parthia.”
It was not at all unusual for highborn men to train with the funeral fighters back then. That is another thing the First Citizen has cracked down on. He doesn’t like aristocrats to mix with the scum. In those days the fighters were mostly volunteers and even condemned criminals and prisoners of war often re-enlisted after they’d survived their sentences, because it was a good life for a poor man with no marketable skills. You could get killed, but then senators got killed, too. Everybody else, for that matter.
For a while I watched the men train. Slave and free, volunteer fighters and condemned men, equites and senators, they were slashing and sweating with a will. Some of the highborn men were surprisingly expert. I saw the great senator Balbus practicing with a famous Thracian named Bato. That is to say, he belonged to the Thracian school and fought with the small shield and the short, curved sword, with both legs protected by armor. He was Illyrian by birth. Balbus of course used legionary weapons, similar to the Samnite.
“Senator Balbus could be a top professional,” Petraites said admiringly. “I think he’s the strongest man in Rome, and he fights like he was born with a sword in his hand. Maybe it’s the Spaniard in him. They’re great warriors.” Balbus was a rare non-Roman in the Senate, a man who had gained his rank through his services to Rome and his personal friendship with Pompey and Caesar. “Your boy Hermes could make you a fortune in the arena, Senator, if you’d let him. He’s an excellent light swordsman. Not enough bulk for a Samnite and he’s not comfortable with Thracian armor, but as a Gaul, with the narrow, oval shield and light helmet and no armor, he’d be perfect.”
“He’d like nothing better,” I said, “but I’ve forbidden him to fight professionally. And he’s not my ‘boy’ anymore. I freed him a while back. Luckily, I still have some control over his more foolish leanings.” At that moment Hermes was sparring with a dreadfully earnest-looking youth whose tunic had the stripe of an equites, doubtless recently made a Tribune of the Soldiers and soon to join a legion. Hermes was a joy to watch. He fought with grace and style, but he lacked the true brutishness that a professional must have to survive for years in the arena. When they were done with their bout I joined them. Hermes looked only a little shamefaced.
“Senator, this is Publius Sulpicius Saxo, who will be serving with Voconius Naso next year.” Naso was one of that year’s praetors, and sure to be given a legion command if not a province. You could never tell, with a dictator in power.
“Family connection?” I asked.
“I’m his son-in law.” He didn’t look old enough to be married, much less hold a tribuneship. I wondered if I could ever have been that young. Then I recalled that I had been this boy’s age when I was sent out to Spain as a military tribune to fight Sertorious. That was where I acquired the biggest of my facial scars.
“Hermes is a good instructor to teach you swordplay,” I told him. “Have you considered the gear you’re going to take with you?”
“Ah, I am not sure I understand,” the boy said.
“Simple enough. If it’s Spain or Gaul, you want the best sword you can buy. Get Gallic swords if you can, both a short sword for foot-fighting and a longsword for horseback. If it’s Macedonia, you want the best horses you can get. If it’s Parthia, don’t stint on your armor, because those buggers love to shoot you full of arrows. Greek plate armor is the best over there, the arrows just glance off.”
“Ah, thank you, Senator. I shall remember your advice.”
“No you won’t. You’ll probably just get killed like all the other young fools who go out to join the eagles with their heads stuffed with Homer and stories about Horatius.”
He wandered off, shaking his head. “A little rough on him, weren’t you?” Hermes chided.
“I just gave him almost the same advice my father gave me when I went off to Spain. Only the probable theaters of operation are different. I didn’t listen, why should he?”
I went to one of the equipment racks and tossed my toga atop it, then selected a wicker practice shield and a wooden sword. These were weighted to give them the feel and balance of real arms. Gladiators often trained with double-weight and even triple-weight arms, to build up strength and to make the real arms feel light when they went to fight seriously. I had always considered this a questionable practice and Asklepiodes concurred. He said that it caused more injuries in training than anything else.
“All right,” I said to Hermes, “Let’s fight.”
“I’m tired!” he protested. “I’ve been here all day!”
“That’s your fault,” I told him. “Now suffer for it.” I launched an attack at his face, forcing him to raise his shield, then I went low with a stab at his leading thigh. He evaded both easily. Tired or not, he was about fif
teen years younger and trained daily with the sword. We contended for a long while, and I almost got the better of him a few times, but in the end he wore me down and I had to call a halt. We got a polite round of applause from the spectators and Balbus relieved me of my shield and sword, which I could barely lift by that time.
“You’re not too far off your best form, Decius Caecilius,” he said.
“You are too kind. I’m getting old and slow.”
“But you have a lot of sneaky and treacherous moves. That makes up for a bit of slowness brought on by age.”
“I’ve always prided myself on my utter lack of honor on the battlefield.” I saw Asklepiodes standing by in the crowd that had been watching. “Please excuse me, I need to speak to the physician.”
“I need to confer with him myself,” Balbus said. So we went over to him.
“Fine fighting on both your parts,” the Greek commended.
“I’m not a patch on Senator Balbus,” I said truthfully.
“Doctor,” Balbus said, “I have some sort of strain in my right leg that needs attention. Come, I’ll treat all of us to dinner.”
“I’ve been out all day,” Asklepiodes protested. “Let’s go to my apartments and I’ll have dinner brought in.” Physicians are usually eager to sponge dinner off somebody else, but Asklepiodes had grown wealthy with his uncanny ability to cure wounds. Treating the gladiators of the school took up no more than half of his time. There was so much fighting among Romans of the ruling class in those days that he made a fortune sewing up the cuts and stabs that adorned aristocratic hides like military decorations. He once reduced a depressed skull fracture right in the Curia Hostilia when the clubbed senator was too severely injured to be moved.
In his spacious receiving room we sat and relaxed among his vast collection of weapons. He gave orders to his silent slaves in their incomprehensible Egyptian dialect and then he went to Balbus. “Let’s have a look at that leg.”
Obediently, Balbus put his foot on a sort of footstool that Asklepiodes had devised for displaying and immobilizing the leg. The Greek set about feeling that brawny limb and making wise noises.
The Year of Confusion s-13 Page 14
