A Murder on the Appian Way

by Steven Saylor

  “He’s angry at me, Master.”

  “No he isn’t, Davus. He misses his wife and he’s worried about her.”

  “Then you’re angry at me.”

  “No, Davus. Forget that I laughed. Don’t give it another thought. You’ll need all your thinking to stay upright on that horse and to keep track of all the nothing that’s going by.”

  We rode on for a while, the stillness broken only by the clop of hooves against the road. Tufts of steam rose from the horses’ nostrils. I took a deep breath, hungry to feel the bite of cold air in my lungs. The empty azure bowl of the morning sky was like crystal. The brown winter earth was like a slumbering giant across whom we made our tiny progress. I was unspeakably glad to be away from Rome.

  “He was a very good slave, wasn’t he?” said Davus, with a frown so heavy it pulled his chin to his chest.

  “Who?”

  “The bodyguard you had before me. The one who was killed.”

  I sighed. “His name was Belbo. Yes, he was a good slave. A good man.”

  “I suppose he was stronger than me. Smarter than me, too.”

  I looked at Davus’s hulking arms and shoulders and saw the unhappy befuddlement on his face. “Probably not,” I said.

  “But I’ll wager he knew how to ride a horse. I’ll bet he wasn’t afraid of an empty field.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, as gently as I could. None of this was his fault, after all.

  14

  “The sun is up, Eco. The air is cold and clear. There is not another person on the road, not another person in sight. Ah—can you hear that?”

  “I don’t hear a thing, Papa.”

  “Exactly. Not even a bird or a cricket. Silence. I believe my faculties are beginning to return. I may actually be able to think again!”

  Eco laughed. “Did you ever lose the ability?”

  “It’s not a joke. Can’t you feel it? With every step the horses take us farther from the city, the clearer my head becomes. It’s as if I’ve been in fog, and now it’s lifting.”

  “The haze we left behind in the city was smoke, Papa.”

  “The haze that’s visible, yes. But there’s another haze that’s settled over Rome. Panic, confusion, deception—no one can think straight. People are behaving like madmen, rushing wildly about, hiding in holes, running from their shadows. It’s like a bad dream that won’t end. But now I feel like I’m waking up. Don’t you feel it, too?”

  He looked about, took a deep breath and laughed. “Yes!”

  “Good! Perhaps together we can begin to make sense of things.”

  “Where shall we start, Papa?”

  “On this very spot—but let’s go back in time twenty-one days.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was exactly twenty-one days ago that Clodius set out on the Appian Way. I figured it out last night.”

  “And Milo?”

  “Milo set out the next day, the day of their fatal encounter—but we’ll come to that. Let’s begin with Clodius and reconstruct the events as they happened, so far as we know from both Milo and Fulvia.” I had not yet shared with Eco all the details of my interview with Fulvia the previous day. “To begin: Fulvia told me that Clodius left their house on the Palatine at about the third hour. Not as early as we did—we set out even before sunrise, before the first hour. But the third hour would have been an early start for a man like Clodius.”

  “Why, because he was as dissolute as Cicero claims?”

  “No, because whenever a man as powerful as Clodius leaves town, even on a short trip, there are always a great many loose ends and last-minute details to be dealt with. I gathered from Fulvia that such was the case with Clodius that morning—hastily scribbled notes, messengers dispatched, and so forth. Finally, Clodius set out. On his way, before he’d even left the Palatine Hill, he paused to look in on a friend who had fallen deathly ill: Cyrus the architect.”

  “The name’s familiar. Will we be questioning him?”

  “I’m afraid not. Cyrus died later that very day, not long after Clodius left him. He was an architect to the rich and famous, much sought after. He seemed to have been above politics. Cicero hired him to rebuild his house on the Palatine after it was burned down by the mob. Clodius hired him when he bought that monstrosity of a house from Scaurus, to design all the changes. I gather that Cyrus had been spending a great deal of time at Clodius’s house in recent months, overseeing workers, dining with the family.”

  “So Cyrus worked for both Cicero and Clodius?”

  “I gather that he had an artist’s temperament—the type that’s too talented to take sides. Not only did both Clodius and Cicero use his services, they both gave him legal advice. It seems that Cyrus consulted both of them, separately, when he fell ill and drew up his will—and named both of them among his heirs. After Clodius’s farewell visit that morning, Cicero went to see Cyrus, and was with him when he died.”

  “An architect with a sense of symmetry,” noted Eco. “You say he was above politics, but I wonder. All the time he was spending at Clodius’s house, dining with the family, able to wander about at will—what a splendid eavesdropper he’d have made for Cicero.”

  “I thought of that. Even if he wasn’t a deliberate spy, even in normal conversations Cyrus could have inadvertently given Cicero a great deal of information about Clodius’s household and dealings. And Cicero would know just how to extract the information he wanted. But this is merely supposition. We’ve no cause to think that Cyrus was in any sense a spy. Cyrus merely constitutes a curious link between Cicero and Clodius—just another example of what a small town Rome really is. Cyrus’s name comes up again later, which is why I mention him now, but his part in the story is probably insignificant.”

  “Understood.” Eco looked at me shrewdly. “All the same, I’m suspicious of this Cyrus fellow. I shall be keeping a close watch on him—dead or alive.”

  “That’s the spirit!”

  “Ugh! Papa, it’s not like you to pun.”

  “None intended. To continue: Clodius paid a last visit to the ailing Cyrus and then set out on the Appian Way. The reason for his trip was some business in the town of Aricia, about fifteen miles from Rome. It’s an easy day’s journey on horseback, the traditional first night’s stop on a trip south, a place with inns and taverns for travelers.”

  “Clodius had business there?”

  “He was slated to address the town senate the next morning. Fulvia didn’t seem to know what the occasion was or why Clodius’s presence was required. Perhaps it was time for an annual pig festival in Aricia, or a celebration of some local deity. Politicians are always taking trips to outlying towns to court the voters. Clodius happened to be a major property owner in the vicinity; he and Fulvia owned a villa just this side of Aricia. Something to note: Fulvia didn’t go with him. That’s a little odd. From all I’ve heard, Fulvia was very much the politician’s dutiful wife, and wives generally go along on this sort of trip. While the politician makes friendly jabber with the local magistrates, the politician’s wife radiates matronly virtue and shares recipes with the magistrates’ wives, or something like that. But Fulvia stayed home.”

  “Did you ask her why?”

  “She told me she was concerned about Cyrus’s condition.”

  “Was she that close to Cyrus?”

  “You’ve seen her house—imagine having your architect die on you in the middle of redoing that monstrosity!”

  “I see what you mean. But does it really matter that Fulvia didn’t go with Clodius?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Consider this: If a man was plotting to ambush his enemy—as Milo contends that Clodius was—he’d leave his wife at home, don’t you think? But here’s something curious: Clodius did take his young son along with him. The boy is only a child—eight years old. That seems to negate the idea that Clodius left Fulvia behind because he was plotting violence. You’d think he would have left his son safely at home, too.”

 
“Did Fulvia say why he took the boy with him?”

  “She says Clodius wanted to introduce his son to the city leaders in Aricia. Now that sounds like a typical Roman politician—never too soon to start cultivating the heir! And of course, absent his wife, what better way to show himself off as a good family man than to bring along his little boy? Clodius’s enemies—”

  “Meaning Cicero and Milo.”

  “—have spent years painting him as an incestuous, whore-mongering former male prostitute who lives to seduce other men’s wives and sons—which may or may not have touched on the truth. That sort of talk doesn’t necessarily ruin a man’s reputation in jaded, sophisticated Rome, but it’s poison out in the countryside, where people still take old-fashioned virtues seriously. So when Clodius shows up to speak to the citizens of Aricia, he wants to present himself as an upstanding husband and father. How better to do that than to deliver his speech with eight-year-old Publius junior by his side?”

  Eco frowned. “But the boy wasn’t there when Clodius and Milo had their skirmish on the Appian Way the next day, was he?”

  “No. But we shall come to that. One more thing to consider, while we still have Clodius setting out for Aricia: a large contio was held in the Forum that morning, called by the same radical tribunes who’ve been instigating riots since Clodius died. Normally, Clodius would have made a point of attending such a contio, to make sure things went according to plan. Instead, he headed off for Aricia.”

  Eco shrugged. “A man can’t be in two places at once.”

  “No, so he has to make a choice. Some would say that it’s hard to imagine Clodius missing a rabble-rousing contio just to curry favor with the town fathers at a rest stop on the Appian Way—unless he had an ulterior motive.”

  “Such as an ambush on his mortal enemy?”

  “So his enemies might suggest. Simply another point to keep in mind.”

  “What sort of entourage did Clodius take with him?”

  “Three friends and a number of slaves—Fulvia says twenty-five or thirty—most of them on foot and all of them armed.”

  “So many?”

  “A large bodyguard, granted, but hardly unreasonable. How else could a man like Clodius travel safely in the countryside? As it was, the bodyguard wasn’t adequate to save him in the end. But there will be those who’ll suggest that such a formidable group must have been intended for attack rather than defense. Another detail to be noted.”

  “So at last we have Clodius on his way.”

  “Yes. He deals with last-minute business at home, gives Fulvia a kiss, stops in to see the dying architect. He and his thirty or so men stride through the Capena Gate—perhaps a cold drop of water falls on his neck just as it did on mine, and gives him a start. It’s midmorning—the market is jammed with shoppers and stinks of fish. Slaves and humble citizens recognize him, hail him. Those who despise him only scowl and bite their tongues—they’d be outnumbered in a crowd like that. He and his friends get horses from somewhere—Pompey’s can’t be the only stable in the area—and they’re off on the Appian Way, with their entourage walking behind them. Clodius probably pauses to pay homage at the tombs of his illustrious ancestors—his son is with him, and what patrician father would pass up the opportunity to impress his birthright on a boy?

  “They pass the notorious Monument of Basilius and Clodius doesn’t give it a thought—the place is dangerous only at night, and there’s a troop of armed men marching behind him. The road is wide, so Clodius and his three friends ride abreast, with his son at his right hand listening to the grownups converse. The little fellow must be quite impressed with his father—all those men at Papa’s beck and call, the huge crowds that gather when Papa speaks, such a grand house to grow up in. To think, it will all be in ruins the next day.

  “Now Clodius and his company have come to the same long, dull stretch of road where we find ourselves. Clodius has his friends along to keep the conversation lively, and of course his son, to whom he can point out the various shrines and tombs that continue to dot the way now and again. When that fails, he can brag about the road itself, as every Claudian has done since it was built. It is a remarkably fine road, isn’t it? The blocks so perfectly cut and fitted, the surface so level and smooth, the way so remarkably wide—ox carts going in opposite directions can pass without even pausing. You’d think the gods themselves had made such a road, but no, it was Appius Claudius Caecus, many-times great-grandfather of our own Publius Clodius. One more thing for that little boy to be proud of.

  “Aricia lies ahead at the end of the journey, about four hours away. A horseman in a hurry could make it sooner, but since the bodyguards are walking, Clodius and his friends on horseback are obliged to keep a slow but steady pace. On the way to Aricia, what will they pass?”

  “A lot of nothing!” said Davus, asserting his presence after a long silence. He seemed in control of his horse and in better spirits, ready to laugh at himself.

  “A lot of empty farmland, to be more precise, interspersed with woods here and there and some marshes in the low spots, all very flat and not particularly scenic. To the left, distant mountains on the horizon. To the right, a gentle, gradual slope toward the sea. And up ahead, growing steadily larger as they draw nearer, Mount Alba. What do you think of it, Davus?”

  He peered at the low, peaked mass on the horizon. “It must be enormous!”

  I smiled. “Not really. Only a small mountain, as mountains go, but a major landmark in these flatlands. There are several small towns among the ridges and foothills. Aricia is one of them. But the first one we’ll come to, just as the ground begins to rise, is Bovillae. You’ve taken this road plenty of times on your way down to Neapolis, Eco—how far is Bovillae from Rome?”

  “A little past the eleventh milestone.”

  “And what’s there, at Bovillae?”

  “I’ve been through the place, Papa. I’m not sure I’ve ever stopped.”

  “Think!”

  He stared through narrowed eyes at the foothills ahead as if by squinting he could make out the details at such a distance. “I seem to remember an inn along the road. And a stable.”

  “Yes, the stable has probably been there in one form or another for well over two hundred years, since the first stretch of the Appian Way from Rome to Bovillae was paved. Appius Claudius Caecus built the road as a military route for the legions to use, that’s why it’s so wide and so straight. Bovillae was the first post-station for military messengers, a place to change horses. And where there’s a stable, of course there’s an inn. What does the inn at Bovillae look like?”

  “A stone building. Two stories.”

  “Yes, there’s probably a communal sleeping room upstairs, a tavern downstairs, and a cookhouse out back. A stable and an inn; what else?”

  Eco shrugged. “A few houses here and there, away from the road. Oh, and an altar to Jupiter, built under a circle of old oak trees with a little creek nearby. A very pretty spot.”

  “Oak trees, yes; once the road starts ascending to higher ground at Bovillae, the trees get thicker. The top of the mountain is a veritable forest. I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen a forest, Davus?”

  “I’ve seen what they call groves, growing around temples in the city.”

  “Not quite the same thing. Well, so much for Bovillae. Not much to it, is there? Not a very special place to breathe your last breath, but that’s where Clodius died the next day. The skirmish started farther up the road, but apparently Milo’s men chased Clodius to the inn, where he made his last stand. According to Fulvia, it was a senator named Sextus Tedius who came along later and found the body lying in the road. He had his slaves put the corpse into his litter and sent it on to Rome. You and I saw the condition it was in when it reached Fulvia—stabbed and strangled. And after Bovillae, Eco? What’s next on the road?”

  “The land begins to rise, as you said. Wooded slopes with rich people’s estates—pylons set on either side of private roads leading up to
big houses that you can barely glimpse as you go by.” He cocked his head and squinted. “Something new, closer to the road—a temple of some sort …”

  “Not a temple, but a residence: the House of the Vestal Virgins. You’re right, it’s new, built only in the last few years. Before that, the Vestals lived somewhere higher up the mountain. There’s a temple of Vesta somewhere up there. Not a place we men are likely to set foot in. Press on, imaginary rider. What’s next along the road?”

  “On the opposite side of the road … something else religious … having to do with women. A shrine, not a temple … a shrine to Fauna, the Good Goddess!”

  “Excellent! A place for Fauna’s female worshipers to leave offerings and make prayers, and another place where we wouldn’t be particularly welcome. But according to Fulvia, it was on the stretch of road directly in front of the shrine of the Good Goddess that the skirmish between Clodius and Milo began. We’ll want to take a careful look at the lay of the land and see whether it looks like a suitable place for an ambush. But let’s return to Clodius on the day before his death, on his way from Rome to Aricia. He’ll have passed all these places, perhaps without stopping, wanting to press on now that he’s so close to his destination. What comes next, Eco?”

  “Hmm. I seem to remember some impressive pylons on the left and a road heading up to a villa on the ridge above.”

  “Yes. If my assumption is correct, that’s where we’ll be spending the night.”

  “Pompey’s villa?”

  “From the directions Baby Face gave me, I think that must be the place.”

  Eco whistled. “The view must be extraordinary.”

  “Yes. Pompey seems to like living in places where he’s able to look down on the world around him. But don’t stop yet. What’s next along the road?”

  “More private estates. One of them must belong to Clodius.”

  “Yes, his is that enormous thing that seems to perch on the side of the hill.”

  “The place where they cut down all those trees and did all that excavating?”

  “Yes. Apparently a great deal of the interior space is underground, like a vault—defensible as a fortress, Fulvia told me. From what she said, I gathered that Clodius was especially proud of the place, even happier with it than that palace of a house on the Palatine. We’ll get the chance to take a closer look at it. That’s where Clodius’s journey ended for the day, just a mile or so this side of Aricia. There must have been a few hours of sunlight left. Clodius probably inspected the grounds, talked to the foreman, saw to whatever it is that estate owners see to when they arrive at one of their estates. His cook prepared a dinner that night to which some of the local elite were invited. It all sounds very respectable, very boring. After all that riding, little Publius junior probably fell asleep on his dining couch. The next morning, Clodius delivered his address to the town senate of Aricia, followed by a brief reception. Then back to his estate by shortly after midday or early afternoon. Fulvia says that he intended to spend at least another night there.”