A Murder on the Appian Way

by Steven Saylor

  “At what time?”

  “Very late in the afternoon. Shadows were gathering.”

  “Who was she?”

  “I can’t tell you that, not because I wish to keep a secret from you, but because I don’t know. The day was cold; she wore a robe with a hood and kept her face hidden, and as I say, the daylight was failing.”

  “But you heard her voice?”

  “She spoke in a low, husky voice hardly above a whisper.”

  “As if she were concealing her voice as well as her face?”

  “That thought occurred to me at the time.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She came bearing news. She said there had been a battle between Clodius’s men and Milo’s men out on the road, and that it had ended down in Bovillae. She told me that Milo was unwounded but that Clodius was dead.”

  “So she merely came to give you this news?”

  “No, she gave me an offering—a rather generous offering—and requested that we make a prayer to Vesta on her behalf.”

  “A prayer?”

  “Yes. A prayer of thanksgiving.”

  “Giving thanks that Milo was safe?”

  “That was not how she put it.” The Virgo Maxima lowered her eyes. “She asked for a prayer of thanksgiving that Clodius was dead.”

  “Isn’t that unusual, giving thanks to the goddess for a man’s death?”

  “Unusual but not entirely unheard of. There are some deaths at which the gods themselves rejoice.”

  “You accepted her offering?”

  “Yes.”

  “You made the prayer of thanksgiving?”

  “The goddess received it as warmly as any other prayer.”

  I tried to remember exactly what Felicia had said to me. Ask her about the offering that was made and refused … “You say that she made a generous offering and that you accepted it.”

  “Of course I accepted it. If the sisterhood here on Mount Alba were wealthy enough to wave aside offerings, we should have paid to build a new house ourselves when Clodius evicted us.”

  “But wasn’t there something she offered which you refused?”

  The Virgo Maxima eyed me warily. “If you already know so much, why do you ask?”

  “To find out what I don’t know.”

  She considered for a long moment before she answered. “Yes, she offered something which I didn’t take. She offered it as proof that Clodius was dead, and also as payment for the prayer. It was Clodius’s gold signet ring, taken from his dead finger. The proof I accepted. But the ring was hardly appropriate for payment. I told her that coins would please the goddess more.”

  “Where is the ring now?”

  “The woman still has it, for all I know. And now, Gordianus, I think it is time—”

  “Only two more questions, please, Virgo Maxima.”

  “Very well. The first?”

  “Milo’s wife, Fausta Cornelia—would you know her by sight, or by the sound of her voice?”

  She smiled at so obvious a question. “Perhaps, perhaps not. I’ve met many senators’ and magistrates’ wives at one time or another. If you asked me to pick her out of a crowd, I couldn’t, but I suspect she would look familiar. Would I recognize her if a hood hid her face, and she spoke in a whisper? Almost certainly not. And your last question for me, Gordianus?”

  “Can you tell me anything interesting about Marc Antony?”

  She laughed. “One question so transparent, the other so peculiar. Have we moved on to a different subject entirely, Gordianus?”

  “I have a reason for asking.”

  She shook her head. “Marc Antony? The son of Antonius who failed against the pirates?”

  “Yes.”

  “Off fighting Gauls, isn’t he? Really, I know nothing about the young man.”

  “Neither does anyone else, apparently. Virgo Maxima, I thank you for your indulgence.”

  She regarded me kindly. “People should remember the past, and past favors.”

  “They should; and would more often, I imagine, if they could spend less time fretting about the future.”

  19

  “A mystery woman!” said Eco, when we were back on our horses.

  “The Virgo Maxima?”

  “No, Papa! The woman who came to her with Clodius’s ring.”

  “Not too mysterious, from the look of things.”

  “You think it was Fausta Cornelia?”

  “Who else? Rather vulgar of Milo, to send his wife off to the nearest religious establishment to brag about what he’d done. Unless it was Fausta’s idea, which I suppose is more likely. Women of her social standing have a certain sense of how to mark the auspiciousness of an occasion. She probably wanted to offer sincere thanks to Vesta for looking after her household, and incidentally to indulge in a little blasphemous gloating.”

  “But why conceal her identity? She never seems to bother about hiding anything else.”

  “You mean her affairs?”

  “I said it before: the woman has a penchant for getting caught. Not the secretive sort by nature.”

  “Perhaps she hid her identity thinking to conceal her husband’s role in the incident.”

  “Is that credible? The next day the whole world would be talking about Milo’s part.”

  “Ah, but this was only shortly after the battle, Eco. Everything must have still seemed very much up in the air. Something awesome had occurred, overwhelming yet also exhilarating. Clodius, dead at last! Cause for jubilation—but also for fear. How will the world react? Will there be some terrible retribution? Can the crime still be concealed? Discretion is advised, but for something so extraordinary, there must be an act of pious thanksgiving. So while her husband regroups, Fausta slips away to the nearby House of the Vestals. She gloats over Clodius’s death—but in disguise. Where is the mystery?”

  “I suppose you’re right, Papa …”

  “I only wonder where Clodius’s ring ended up. The decent thing would be to return it to his widow by an anonymous courier. Somehow I imagine it on a shelf with Milo’s old wrestling trophies, where he can take it down to fondle and gloat over whenever he’s had a bit too much wine.”

  “Possession of the ring would make for a damning piece of evidence.”

  “As would the Virgo Maxima’s tale, if she could say that it was Fausta who came to her. But the ring is missing, and all the Virgo Maxima can tell us with certainty is that an unknown woman came to the House of the Vestals—a mystery woman, as you say. I think Fausta Cornelia may be cleverer than her husband.”

  “Didn’t we know that already? She keeps fooling him over and over.”

  “Or making a fool of him, anyway. And here we are, back at the shrine of the Good Goddess. I don’t see Felicia about, do you? Perhaps she took my advice and headed south already.”

  “More likely she’s gone home for the day. The sun’s getting low, Papa. What next?”

  “I’d hoped to make it to Clodius’s villa today, but we probably don’t have time.”

  “I think we’ve accomplished quite a lot for one day, Papa.”

  “We found out more than I expected to. Yes, I think it’s time to find Pompey’s villa and come to rest.”

  The way to Pompey’s place was easy to find. A pair of stone pylons chiseled with the letter M (for Magnus) marked the turnoff. A long, winding road led up to the ridgetop. It was not paved but was excellently graded and maintained, and shaded by a canopy of towering oaks. Here and there statues of woodland beasts adorned the route or could be glimpsed in open meadows. I had the feeling not so much of entering the woods as of passing through a park.

  The villa itself was a long, two-story building that sprawled along the ridge, the red tiles of its roof making it visible from a great distance amid the stony gray-green and umber winter landscape around it. As we entered the forecourt a slave appeared almost at once to help us dismount and to take our horses. Another slave must have run to alert the foreman, for even before Davus
’s mount had disappeared into the stable, the door of the main entrance opened and a tall, sturdy-looking man with graying hair and a look of authority stepped out to greet us. When I produced the letter of commission which Pompey had given me, the man hardly glanced at it.

  “Yes, we’ve been expecting you,” he said.

  “How can that be?”

  “The master sent a messenger a couple of days ago saying we should look for you.”

  “But I met your master only last night.”

  The man gave me a wry look. “The master has a way of knowing what a man will do before the man himself knows.”

  “Your master was very confident of my cooperation.”

  “I suppose he was,” said the foreman, with a look that implied and why not? “These are your companions?”

  “My son and my bodyguard.”

  “No one else? This is your entire party?” He peered at the road behind us.

  “I prefer to travel discreetly.”

  “There’s safety in numbers.”

  “Not always,” I said, thinking of Clodius.

  “Ah, well, I prepared the villa for a larger party,” sighed the foreman, evidently disappointed that his master’s foresight had fallen down at details. He clapped his hands. “Well, then, your stay shall be all the more comfortable. Feel free to sleep in a different room every night and eat several meals a day. The idea seems to please this one.” He raised an eyebrow at Davus, who returned a crooked smile as he reached back to rub his saddle-weary rump.

  In the city, Pompey was known for his lack of ostentation, as a man who cared little for the gaudy ornaments of wealth, but there was nothing spartan about his villa on Mount Alba. Perhaps, like many politicians, he maintained a stern, sober guise in the city but allowed himself to put on a more festive and pleasure-loving face in the seclusion of the countryside. Or perhaps the luxurious amenities to be found at every turn were put there solely for visitors, such as myself. Many a rich man keeps his country villas not as private retreats but for the entertainment and lodging of others.

  The bathing rooms in our wing were lit by skylights above and by a row of tiny windows at eye level, through which I caught glimpses of the twilit sea on the far horizon; we had risen high enough on the mountain to see the coast. The walls and floors were decorated with ornately patterned tiles whose subtle gray-blues and moss greens duplicated the colors of the distant, darkening sea. The three pools were kept at perfect temperatures for taking the cold, warm and hot plunges; I went through all three several times, feeling my saddlesore body grow more and more relaxed. As the natural light began to fade, lamps were brought; the reflection of their orange flames danced upon the water. A wizened, toothless old slave with remarkably strong hands gave us massages. I insisted that Davus be given a thorough massage as well, considering that he was likely to be even stiffer than myself the next day. Even the towels we were given were inordinately thick and luxurious. No day could have had a sweeter ending.

  Our dinner was served in a heated room near the baths, where the same furnaces which heated the water also sent warmed air through vents in the floor. The quality and variety of the meal was remarkable, especially a course of little pies filled with wild game and onions.

  Our sleeping chambers were located above the baths, yet another clever way of making the most of the heat generated by the furnaces and the steam. The furniture was mostly of Eastern design and manufacture; the gold-painted chairs with tasseled red pillows were a bit elaborate for my simple tastes, as were the madly patterned hangings which covered the doorways. Pompey had spent many years in the East and had apparently developed an appreciation for the florid styles and delicate craftsmanship to be found in those lands he had conquered or pacified, where such booty was his for the taking.

  The bed was a beautiful thing carved from some dark, exotic wood, strewn with plump silk pillows and soft woolen blankets, and covered with a gauzy canopy. Bethesda would have deemed it too fine to sleep on. Diana would have adored it. Though I had planned to stay up for a while to sort out with Eco all that we had seen and learned that day, and intended only to test the bed to see how soft or hard it was, I must have fallen asleep only moments after putting my head on a pillow and closing my eyes. When I next opened them, the room was bright with the cold light of morning.

  I rose, sinking my toes into the plush wool rug, stretched myself, smiled at the surprising lack of soreness in my buttocks and legs, drank from a ewer of cold spring water, relieved myself into the pot by the bed, pulled on my cloak and my shoes and finally stepped toward the light. It streamed through shutters drawn over a wide doorway on the southern side of the room. I pulled them back, stepped onto the spacious balcony, and stood astonished at the view. Of all the luxuries at Pompey’s villa, surely this was the most unusual and offered the most enduring delight.

  Toward the west I was able to look down on the wooded hillside above the Appian Way, catching glimpses of the wide ribbon of road below. Beyond the road were the foothills, where shreds of mist still clung to treetops, and beyond the foothills a wide expanse of open plains and farmland extended to the distant blue-green sea. Above all was the deep blue bowl of the cloudless sky. If the day remained clear, the sunset from this vantage point would be extraordinary.

  I turned and walked to the opposite side of the balcony with the morning light on my face and looked down onto a wood-encircled lake hidden from the lower world. Its placid surface, as smooth as polished silver, reflected the forested cone of Mount Alba. The sun had just risen from behind the mountain and for the moment seemed to be balanced on its highest peak.

  “What a view!” said Eco, joining me on the balcony. When I gave a start, he laughed. “Relax, Papa! If we aren’t safe in this house, we aren’t safe anywhere. What a view,” he repeated, turning his head from side to side to take it in. “Pompey seems to have a penchant for houses with a view, just as Fausta Cornelia has a penchant for getting caught …”

  I took up the theme. “Just as Clodius had a penchant for making trouble and for acquiring real estate—”

  “Often both at the same time.”

  “And as Milo has a penchant for social climbing,” I went on, “and Cicero for winning impossible cases. Every man acts out of his own nature, and moves on a singular path toward his destiny.”

  “What’s your penchant, Papa?”

  “Trying to figure out the others! Not always a rewarding pursuit, or a pleasant one.”

  Eco sighed. “Things could hardly get more pleasant than this.”

  “Yes, men like Pompey do know how to live.”

  “I could get used to it.”

  “Best not to, Eco. We’ll be out of here as quickly as possible. Aren’t you missing Menenia and little Titus and Titania?”

  He looked wistful. “Menenia never served me a meal like the cook made last night. Or gave me a massage like that shriveled old bath attendant!”

  “Men like Pompey own all the best slaves.”

  “Speaking of which, Papa, I had to rouse Davus from his bed before I came here. He’s practically paralyzed.”

  “The more muscles a man has, the more there are to ache.”

  “Did a wise old Etruscan say that?”

  “I doubt there was ever a wise old Etruscan who didn’t know how to ride a horse. But Davus is young and supple. We’ll see that he gets another good dose of riding today to work out the stiffness.”

  “Papa, you’ve never been one to torture a slave.”

  “Consider it the revenge of the old on the young. But it’s time to start moving. First, we eat. Shall we see what the cook has come up with this morning to help you stop missing Menenia?”

  Our bellies were warmed by freshly baked bread sprinkled with sesame seeds, a porridge of oats and honey, and a warmed compote of spiced apples. Davus joined us. Though the simple act of walking and sitting seemed to cause him considerable agony (manifested by grunts and grimaces), this did nothing to impair his appetite. He con
sumed as much as Eco and I combined.

  I intended to take our horses and head out again on the Appian Way, but when the foreman discovered our destination he suggested that we walk instead. It seemed there was an ancient footpath that ran along the ridge that would take us directly to Clodius’s villa. “It’s considerably shorter,” he explained, “and of course more discreet than being on the open road. Besides, it’s much warmer today, thanks to all this sunshine, and the walk is quite beautiful. It will take you through the grove.”

  “The grove?”

  “The sacred grove dedicated to Jupiter … or what’s left of it.”

  “Yes, I think I should like to see that. Come, Eco. Well, Davus, it looks as if you’re to be spared the agony of mounting a horse again, at least for the moment.”

  His smile of gratitude turned into a wince as he rose to his feet.

  As Pompey’s foreman had promised, the walk offered splendid views, especially on a day when the sky was cloudless and the visibility unlimited. The mountain peak brooded above us and the plain shimmered below, both equally remote. The hidden lake showed nothing of itself, only a perfect reflection of the sky. The sea was too distant to be heard, even as a whisper. The taciturn woods, as we passed into their shadow, blocked off all sight of the rest of the world except for fleeting sunlit glimpses.

  I found myself bemused by the shade-dappled boulders strewn along the path, by the rustle of last autumn’s leaves beneath our feet, by the canopy of gnarled branches above. I have always delighted in the beauty of the countryside, even though my one attempt at living there, on my farm in Etruria, had failed so utterly. That chapter of my life, like so many of those who participated in it, belonged now to the dead past.

  As the path continued to descend, we came to a cleared place and the foundation of a house. The outline of the various rooms could be seen amid the scattered debris of stone and old wood. There was little of any decorative value remaining, except for a few fragments of mosaic floors that had been damaged in removal and left where they were. There was also a marble statue of a female form, its head missing, that lay broken in pieces on the ground. I was reminded with a shiver of the fallen bronze Minerva in my own house. This goddess, I suspected, had been knocked over by careless workmen rather than angry looters, though the man to whom workers and looters alike had owed their allegiance was almost certainly the same. Living and dead, Clodius had left destruction in his wake.