Rubicon

by Steven Saylor

  Steven Saylor’s fascination with Ancient Rome began in childhood. A history graduate and former newspaper and magazine editor, he has now completed numerous novels featuring Gordianus the Finder as well as his epic novels of the Roman Empire, Roma and Empire. His work has been widely praised for its remarkable accuracy and vivid historical detail. He divides his time between Berkeley, California and Austin, Texas. His web address is www.stevensaylor.com.

  Praise for the Roma sub Rosa series

  ‘How wonderful to have a scholar write about ancient Rome; how comforting to feel instant confidence in the historical accuracy of the novel.’

  Sunday Times

  ‘A marvellously authentic slice of antiquity that will serve as a savoury treat for fans both of mystery and historical fiction.’

  Booklist

  ‘The best of two genres: a faithful and breezy historical novel and an entertaining whodunit.’

  New York Times

  ‘Sensuously written ... spellbinding.’

  Publishers Weekly

  ‘It is Saylor’s particular skill to sketch the political intrigues of the time with great authenticity ... the sense that murky, terrible things are moving secretly beneath the surface of a fairly benign exterior increases in this brilliant novel.’

  San Francisco Review of Books

  ‘Saylor has acquired the information of a historian but he enjoys the gifts of a born novelist.’

  Boston Globe

  ALSO BY STEVEN SAYLOR

  Roma

  Empire

  THE ROMA SUB ROSA SERIES

  Roman Blood

  The House of the Vestals (short stories)

  A Gladiator Dies Only Once (short stories)

  Arms of Nemesis

  Catilina’s Riddle

  The Venus Throw

  A Murder on the Appian Way

  Rubicon

  Last Seen in Massilia

  A Mist of Prophecies

  The Judgement of Caesar

  The Triumph of Caesar

  In ancient myth, the Egyptian god Horus (whom the Romans called Harpocrates) came upon Venus engaged in one of her many love affairs. Cupid, her son, gave a rose to Horus as a bribe to keep him quiet; thus Horus became the god of silence, and the rose became the symbol of confidentiality. A rose hanging over a council table indicated that all present were sworn to secrecy. Sub Rosa (‘under the rose’) has come to mean ‘that which is carried out in secret’. Thus ‘Roma sub Rosa’: the secret history of Rome, as seen through the eyes of Gordianus.

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  55–56 Russell Square

  London

  WC1B 4HP

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published by St Martin’s Press, USA, 1999

  First published in the UK by Robinson,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2005

  This edition published 2011

  Copyright © Steven Saylor, 1999

  The right of Steven Saylor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 9-781-84901-614-8

  eISBN: 9-781-84901-989-7

  Printed and bound in the UK

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  For my brother, Ronny,

  THIS BOOK

  CONTENTS

  Map

  Part One MINERVA

  Part Two MARS

  Part Three DIONYSUS

  Author’s Note

  Part One

  Minerva

  I

  ‘Pompey will be mightily displeased,’ said Davus.

  ‘Son-in-law, you have a penchant for stating the obvious.’ I sighed and knelt and steeled myself to take a closer look. The lifeless body lay face-down in the middle of my garden directly before the bronze statue of Minerva, like a prostrate worshipper at the goddess’s feet.

  Davus turned in a circle, shielding his eyes from the morning sunlight and peering warily at the four corners of the peristyle roof surrounding us. ‘What I can’t see is how the assassin got in and out without any of us in the house hearing.’ He wrinkled his brow, which made him look like a perplexed and much overgrown boy. Built like a Greek statue, and just as thick; that was Bethesda’s joke. My wife had not taken kindly to the notion of our only daughter marrying a slave, especially a slave who had been brash enough, or stupid enough, to get her pregnant. But if Davus had a penchant for the obvious, Diana had a penchant for Davus. And there was no denying that they had produced a beautiful son, whom I could hear even now screaming at his mother and grandmother to be let out into the garden, crying as only a two-year-old can. But Aulus could not be let out to play on this bright, mild Januarius afternoon, for there was a corpse in the garden.

  And not just any corpse. The dead man was Numerius Pompeius, who was somehow related to Pompey – one of the Great One’s cousins, though a couple of generations younger. He had arrived at my house, alone, half an hour earlier. Now he lay dead at my feet.

  ‘I can’t understand it.’ Davus scratched his head. ‘Before I let him in the door, I took a good look up and down the street, like I always do. I didn’t notice anybody following him.’ When Davus had been a slave, he had been a bodyguard – an obvious choice, given his hulking physique. He had been trained not just to fight but to keep a lookout for danger. Now, as a freedman and my son-in-law, Davus was the physical protector of the household, and in these perilous times it was his job to greet visitors at the door. Now that a murder had occurred within the house, practically under his nose, he took it as a personal failure. In the face of my silence, Davus seemed determined to interrogate himself. He paced back and forth, using his fingers to tick off each question.

  ‘Why did I let him in? Well, because he announced himself as Numerius Pompeius, kinsman of the Great One. And he came alone – not even a bodyguard to worry about – so I didn’t see any need to make him wait outside. I let him into the foyer. Did I ask if he had any weapons? It’s against the law to carry weapons inside the city walls, of course, but nobody pays attention to that these days, so yes, I did ask, and he didn’t make any fuss at all and handed over his dagger right away. Did I search him for more weapons, as you’ve told me to do, even with citizens? Yes, I did, and he didn’t even protest. Did I leave him alone, even for a moment? No, I did not. I stayed with him there in the foyer, sent little Mopsus to tell you there was a visitor, then waited until you sent back word that you’d see him. I escorted him through the house, back here to the garden. Diana and Aulus were out here with you, playing in the sunny spot at Minerva’s feet . . . right where Numerius is lying now . . . but you sent them inside. Did I stay with you? No, because you sent me inside, too. But I knew better! I should have stayed.’

  ‘Numerius said he had a message for my ears alone,’ I said. ‘If a man can’t safely have a private talk in his own home . . .’ I looked about the garden, at the carefully pruned shrubbery and the brightly coloured columns that lined the surrounding walkway. I gazed up at the bronze statue of Minerva; after all these years, the face that peered down fro
m her great war helmet remained inscrutable to me. The garden was at the centre of the house, its heart – the heart of my world – and if I was not safe here, then I was safe nowhere.

  ‘Don’t chastise yourself, Davus. You did your job.’

  ‘But I should never have left you unguarded, even for –’

  ‘Have we reached a point where a common citizen needs to mimic Pompey or Caesar, and have a bodyguard standing over him every moment of every hour, even when he’s wiping his ass?’

  Davus frowned. I knew what he was thinking – that it was unlike me to talk so crudely, that I must be badly shaken and trying not to show it, that his father-in-law was getting too old to deal with ugly shocks like a corpse in the garden before the midday meal. He stared up at the rooftop again. ‘But Numerius wasn’t the danger, was he? It was whoever followed him here. The killer must be half lizard, to scurry up and down the walls without making a sound! Did you hear nothing, father-in-law?’

  ‘I told you, Numerius and I talked for a while, then I left him for a moment and stepped into my study.’

  ‘But that’s only a few feet away. Still, I suppose the statue of Minerva might have blocked the view. And your hearing –’

  ‘My ears are as sharp as those of any man of sixty-one!’

  Davus nodded respectfully. ‘However it happened, it’s a good thing you weren’t out here when the assassin came, or else . . .’

  ‘Or else I might have been strangled, too?’ I touched my fingers to the rope that still circled Numerius’s neck, cutting into the livid flesh. He had been killed with a simple garrote, a short loop of rope attached to each end of a short, stout twisting stick.

  Davus knelt beside me. ‘The killer must have come up behind him, dropped the garrote over his head, then used the stick to twist it tighter and tighter around his throat. A gruesome way to die.’

  I turned away, feeling queasy.

  ‘But a quiet way,’ Davus went on. ‘Numerius couldn’t even cry out! Maybe he managed a gurgle or a grunt at the start, but then, with his air cut off, the only way to make a sound would be to bang against something. See there, father-in-law, how Numerius gouged his heels into the gravel? But that wouldn’t make much noise. If only he could have banged a fist against the bronze Minerva . . . but both hands are clutched to his throat. That’s a man’s instinct, to try to tear the rope from his neck. I wonder . . .’ Davus peered up at the roof again. ‘The killer needn’t have been a big fellow. It doesn’t take a great deal of strength to garrote a man, even a big man, so long as you take him unaware.’

  I nodded. ‘Pompey will have to be told. I suppose I must do it myself – make the trip outside the city walls to Pompey’s villa, wait for an interview, give him the bad news, then let him deal with the matter as he chooses. Here, help me roll the body face-up.’

  From inside the house, I heard my little grandson shouting again to be let into the garden. I looked towards the doorway. Bethesda and Diana peered out anxiously. It was something of a miracle that they had so far obeyed me and stayed out of the garden. Bethesda started to speak, but I held up my hand and shook my head. I was rather surprised when she nodded and withdrew, taking Diana with her.

  I forced myself to look at Numerius’s strangled face. It was a sight to give anyone nightmares.

  He had been young, in his twenties, probably a bit older than Davus. His broad, blandly handsome features were now discoloured and distorted and almost unrecognizable in a rictus of agony. I swallowed hard. As I used two fingers to shut his lids, I saw my reflection in the black pool of his staring eyes. No wonder my wife and daughter had obeyed me without question. The look on my face was alarming even to me.

  I stood, my knees crackling like the gravel beneath my feet. Davus sprang up beside me, as supple as a cat despite his size.

  ‘Pompey will be mightily pissed,’ I said gravely.

  ‘I said that already!’

  ‘So you did, Davus. But bad news keeps, as the poet says. The day is young, and I see no need to rush across Rome to bring Pompey the news. What do you say we have a closer look, and see what Numerius may be carrying?’

  ‘But I told you, I searched him when I took his dagger. There was only a small moneybag around his waist, with a clip for his scabbard. Nothing else.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be sure of that. Help me take off his clothes. Be careful; we shall have to put everything back exactly as it was, before Pompey’s men come to claim the body.’

  Beneath his well-cut woollen tunic, Numerius wore a linen loincloth. It was wet with urine, but he had not soiled himself. He wore no jewellery except for his citizen’s ring. I took off the ring and examined it; it appeared to be solid iron, with no secret compartments or hidden devices. There were only a few coins inside his moneybag; considering the chaotic state of the city, it would not have been prudent for a man without bodyguards to carry more. I turned the bag inside out. There were no secret pockets.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right, Davus. Perhaps he was carrying nothing of interest, after all. Unless . . . Take off his shoes, would you? My back aches from bending over.’

  The uppers were made of finely tanned black leather stamped with an intricate design of interconnected triangles, closed and fastened by thongs that wound around the ankle and calf. The soles were quite thick, made of several layers of hardened leather attached to the uppers by hobnails. There was nothing inside them. They were warm and carried the scent of Numerius’s feet; handling them was more intimate than handling his clothing or even his ring. I was about to hand them back to Davus when I noticed an irregularity in the layered sole, at the heel. The same irregularity appeared at the same spot in both shoes. There were two breaks in the middle layer of the sole, about a thumb’s length apart. Near one of the breaks was a small hole.

  ‘Do you have the dagger you took from Numerius?’

  Davus wrinkled his brow. ‘Yes. Ah, I see! But if you mean to cut into his shoes, I can fetch a better knife from the kitchen.’

  ‘No, let me see Numerius’s dagger.’

  Davus reached inside his tunic. I handed him the shoes and he handed me the dagger in its sheath.

  I nodded. ‘What do you notice about this sheath, Davus?’

  He frowned, suspecting a test of some sort. ‘It’s made of leather.’

  ‘Yes, but what sort of leather?’

  ‘Black.’ He saw that I was unimpressed and tried again. ‘It’s decorated.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It’s stamped – and the same pattern is carved on the wooden hilt of the dagger.’

  ‘Yes, a pattern of interlocking triangles.’

  Davus peered at the shoes in his hands. ‘The same pattern as on his shoes!’

  ‘Exactly. Meaning?’

  Davus was stumped.

  ‘Meaning,’ I said, ‘that whatever shop made the shoes also made the dagger. They’re a set. Rather unusual, don’t you think, that the same shop should produce such dissimilar goods?’

  Davus nodded, pretending to follow my thoughts. ‘So – are you going to pull out the dagger and cut open the shoes, or not?’

  ‘No, Davus I am going to unlock the shoes.’ I left the blade in its sheath and studied the hilt, which was carved from the hard black wood of the Syrian terebinth, attached to the metal by bosses of ivory. The triangle design ingeniously concealed the hidden compartment in the hilt, but it slid open easily once I found the right place to press with my thumb. Inside the compartment was a tiny key, hardly more than a sliver of bronze with a little hook near one end.

  ‘Son-in-law, hold up the shoes with the heels facing me.’ I started with the shoe on my left. The irregularity in the heel, the two breaks I had noticed in the centre layer of leather, proved to be a narrow door, with a hinge at one side and a keyhole at the other. I inserted the tiny key into the tiny hole. After a bit of fiddling, the door gave a little snap and sprang open.

  ‘Extraordinary!’ I whispered. ‘What workmanship! So delicate – yet sturdy enough to
be trod on.’ I took the shoe from Davus, held it under the sunlight and peered down into the narrow chamber. I saw nothing. I turned the shoe over and knocked it against my palm. Nothing came out.

  ‘Empty!’ I said.

  ‘We could still cut into it,’ said Davus helpfully.

  I gave him a withering look. ‘Son-in-law, did I not say that we must put back all of Numerius’s things exactly as they were, so that Pompey’s men will see no signs of our tampering when they come to fetch him?’

  Davus nodded.

  ‘That includes his shoes! Now hand me the other one.’ I inserted the key and fiddled until the lock sprang open.

  There was something inside. I withdrew what appeared to be several pieces of thin parchment.

  II

  ‘What does it say, father-in-law?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Is it Latin?’

  ‘I don’t know that yet, either.’

  ‘I see Greek letters and Latin letters both, all mixed together.’

  ‘Clever of you, Davus, to spot the difference.’ Davus had lately been taking instruction from Diana, who was determined to teach him how to read. His progress had been slow.

  ‘But how can that be, Greek and Latin letters both?’

  ‘It’s in some sort of code, Davus. Until I figure out the code, I can’t read it any better than you can.’

  We had stepped from the garden into my study, and now sat across from each other at the little tripod table by the window, peering down at the thin pieces of parchment I had extracted from Numerius’s shoe. There were five pieces in all, each covered with writing so tiny that I had to squint to make out the letters. At first glance, the text appeared to be pure nonsense, a collection of random letters strung together. I suspected the use of a cipher, with the added complication of mixing Greek and Latin characters.