“Welcome, Senator, welcome,” the old man enthused. He clapped his hands and slaves came running to wash my hands and feet, even though I had just come from the bath. One took my toga, another thrust a beaker into my hand. Others fanned us vigorously. It wasn’t hot and there were no flies, but maybe the slaves just needed the exercise. We went into a small, circular dining room that was one of the many eccentric features of the Egyptian embassy, which followed no architectural convention I was ever able to discern.
“His Majesty informs me that you performed some signal favors for him last year. He is most grateful.” Even as he spoke, as if by magic, viands appeared on the table between us. It always amazed me that, no matter what hour I called upon Lisas, it was always dinnertime. Romans are punctilious about mealtimes, but not Lisas. Even for an impromptu courtesy call, he had not just the usual fruit and cheese and olives ready, but fresh-baked bread still hot from the oven and whole roast fowl with its skin still crisp.
While we ate we spoke of inconsequential things. I inquired about the health of Ptolemy’s latest son, who had been just a bump in his mother’s belly when I left Alexandria, and Lisas asked about my stay in Rhodes, hoping that I had been on some sort of secret mission. Alas, it was just one of my many unofficial exiles.
“I’m a little puzzled about Rome’s political state,” I admitted, as a slave poured a sweet dessert wine. “I’ve been out of touch for a long time and my friends are unenlightening.”
“Hardly surprising,” Lisas said. “The events of recent months have been unprecedented. Caesar’s has been a most productive consulship.”
“Most consuls just sit out their term and hope for a rich province to govern afterward,” I said.
“Exactly. Not Caesar, though. Almost immediately he rammed through the settlement for Pompey’s veterans. Then he remitted a third of the contracts to Crassus’s friends, the tax farmers for Asia.”
I shrugged. “Campaign debts. The three of them are as tight as my maiden aunts. Caesar would never have been made consul without the help of the other two.”
“Quite possibly. Of course, it helps that he is acting as if he were sole consul.”
“How did that come about?” I asked. “Granted, Bibulus has the spine of a squid, but couldn’t he even try to overrule his colleague?”
“Indeed, he did try.” Lisas spread his hands in an Egyptian gesture of futility. “But he was driven from the Forum by open threat of violence and took refuge in his house. There he announced that he was watching for omens.”
At this one I laughed aloud. “That one’s been tried before!” By ancient law all public business had to be suspended while an augur watched for auspicious omens. It was a common way for connivers to delay legislation, but it was rarely good for more than a day or two, certainly not for the duration of a consulship.
“Caesar ignored him and proceeded to act unilaterally. You have noticed that by now everyone has dropped the Caius and Julius and refer to him merely as Caesar? It disturbs some people.”
“As it should,” I said. “Only kings and slaves are called by a single name. Somehow I don’t see Caesar fancying himself a slave.”
“Just so. Most graciously, Caesar has also persuaded the Senate to ratify His Majesty’s position as king of Egypt and as friend and ally of the Roman people.” Lisas oozed contentment.
I forebore to ask what sort of bribe Ptolemy must have offered, knowing it had to be immense. But it was worth whatever he paid. From now on no foreigner could invade Egypt without going to war with Rome, and no usurper could do away with Ptolemy without giving Rome an excuse to annex Egypt. I went back to an earlier point.
“You say Bibulus was driven from the Forum by violence. Was Clodius by any chance involved?”
“Who else? His mob supports Caesar and the popular party.”
“What about Milo?”
“They brawl, but for the moment Clodius is in the ascendant. Milo is allied with Cicero, and Cicero is probably packing his belongings right now. When Clodius takes office as tribune, he will make it his first order of business to drive Cicero into exile, using the executions of the Catilinarian conspirators as an excuse.”
“It was necessary,” I said uncomfortably. I hadn’t liked the idea of the executions myself, but for once Cato and I were in agreement: It was folly to accord constitutional protection to men who were in the very act of the violent overthrow of the Constitution.
“You needn’t convince me,” Lisas said. “It is only an excuse. Cicero fought Clodius’s transfer to the plebs with all the legal and political skill at his disposal, and that was considerable. Clodius does not forget.” He took a sip of his wine and set the cup aside. “But Caesar’s term of office draws to a close. Events in Gaul beckon.”
“I was there on an embassy with Creticus just before we went on our mission to Alexandria. The people there are very unhappy with us.”
“They are unenlightened barbarians. The allies of Rome are falling away and joining those who would resist Roman expansion into free Gallic territory.”
“Can’t really blame them for that. The free ones, I mean. We are sometimes a little nonchalant about helping ourselves to other people’s territory. That’s no reason for our allies to desert us though.”
“There is a new factor, however,” Lisas said, spinning it out for the sheer delight of keeping me after him for details.
“New factor? Not an invasion from that island up north, Britannia or whatever it’s called?”
“Oh, no. The eastern Gauls have been fighting among themselves for several years now.”
“I knew about that. One faction is led by the Aedui and the other by the Averni, I believe. The situation changes so fast there that it’s hard to keep track.”
“That is still the lineup. Anyway, word has it that the Averni were losing and so they decided, foolishly, that they needed, well … allies.”
I all but let my cup clatter to the floor. “Jove preserve us! You mean the Germans are across the Rhine again?”
“So it would seem. Only mercenaries so far, but they have a new and apparently ambitious king, one Ariovistus. Last I heard, the king was still east of the Rhine; but my sources say that there may be more than a hundred thousand German warriors on the western bank already, and the Germans have coveted the rich lands of Gaul for a long, long time.”
I groaned. As a rule, foreigners come in three sorts. There are the comical ones, like Egyptians and Syrians. Then there are the ones who are both comical and scary, like the Gauls. And then there are the Germans, who are just plain terrifying.
“Surely the Senate isn’t sending Caesar into Gaul with a mandate to drive the Germans out?”
“By no means. I suspect that Caesar will first ensure that the Helvetii do not migrate into Roman territory. That is what has been feared for years. He cannot very well march to the Rhine and leave them at his back. I think he intends to crush the Helvetii, then wheel northeast and take on the Germans and their Gallic allies.” He gave me a self-deprecating smile. “Of course, that is just my theory. I am not a military man.”
Lisas dealt with the world from his embassy, but he knew how to interpret a map and he had a sound grasp of politics as it is played on a world scale. I did not doubt that he was very close to the truth of the situation. Roman territory did not extend to the Rhine, but for generations we had considered it our unofficial border. If the Germans crossed, it was a sign of hostility.
“Nobody ever gained great wealth fighting Germans,” I said. “Gauls are a wealthy people by comparison.”
“But one may win glory and a triumph,” Lisas pointed out. “And who was the last Roman to defeat the Germans?”
“Marius, of course,” I said. “At Aquae Sextiae and Vercellae.”
“And what is Caesar’s dearest wish except to be the new Marius? He has courted the populares for his whole career, always stressing that Marius was his uncle by marriage.”
“It makes sense,” I admitte
d. “But it amazes me that even a man like Caesar can believe that he has what it takes to beat the Germans! A few victories in Spain don’t amount to all that much. By the time Marius fought those battles, he’d all but built his legions from scratch and led them to victory for twenty years. You can’t just take charge of established legions as a new proconsul and expect that sort of performance and loyalty.” I knew as I said it that I was probably wrong. Everyone, myself included, had underestimated Caesar for years.
“Caesar has a genius for persuading the common people. Men don’t come any more common that legionaries. They are the most powerful force in the world, more powerful than politicians and consuls, more powerful than the Senate. Marius knew that and so did Sulla. Pompey never understood it, and so his sun is setting.”
As I took my leave of him, Lisas led me out by the arm. “Decius, my friend, as always I rejoice to see you, but I did not expect to see you until after the tribuneship of Clodius should expire at the end of next year.” He had given me some inside information, now he expected the favor to be returned.
“I must confess that I am surprised as well. I was recalled from Rhodes unexpectedly. It has something to do with Celer’s death.”
His eyes lit up with conspiratorial delight. “A most distinguished man. We were stricken with grief at his untimely passing. Your family expects you to exercise your … unique talents in the matter.”
“I can’t imagine why else they want me here. I’m not a family favorite.”
“But you have a brilliant future before you,” he effused. “I am sure that, in a decade or two, you shall be the most prominent of all the Metelli. You must come see me often while you are in Rome. I may be able to help you. I hear things.” And, of course, he wanted me to pass on anything I might learn. It might be a fair trade.
I had little confidence in his predictions about my bright future. At that time the only way to achieve prominence in Roman life was through military glory or extreme longevity (Cicero, as always, was the exception). I detested military life and my prospects of reaching my fortieth year were exceedingly slim. Oddly, I actually have reached the distinction Lisas predicted so many years ago, although in a way neither of us could have dreamed. I am the only Caecilian of my generation still alive.
But he was wrong about Caesar. Caesar wasn’t interested in being the new Marius; he wanted to be the one and only Julius Caesar.
3
The meeting was held in my father’s house. The janitor opened the door when Hermes knocked and we went inside. The old mansion was eerily quiet.
“The Master and the others are in the triclinium,” the aged gatekeeper informed me. “Your boy will have to stay in the back of the house with the other slaves.” That explained the quiet.
Hermes made a face. “I’ll just wait out front, in the street.”
“You mean in that tavern on the corner,” I said. “Get on in back.” He stalked off with ill grace. I could sympathize. The real reason he didn’t want to be exiled to the rear was that my father had no young, pretty slave girls in his town house.
Besides my father, there were three Caecilians gathered in the triclinium, all of them named Quintus, my family not being imaginative in the way of names: Creticus, with whom I had served in foreign lands several times, and now the most prominent of the clan, a former consul and a pontifex; Nepos, who had been praetor the previous year, and an adoptive Caecilian who went by the ringing name of Quintus Caecilius Metellus Pius Scipio Nasica, was a pontifex and was serving as Tribune of the People that year. The rest of the distinguished men of the clan were away from Italy that year.
We exchanged curt greetings. The usual wine and refreshments were absent. There was not so much as a pitcher of water in the room. These men were here for serious business.
“I’m surprised to see you still in Rome, Nepos,” I said. “I thought you were given Sardinia.”
“I passed on it,” he said. “Vettius took it instead.” Nepos was a tall, soldierly man, who alone among our clan leaders supported Pompey. This was tolerated because that way, should Pompey become dictator, at least one of us wouldn’t be executed or exiled, and the family would keep most of its lands.
“I can sympathize,” I told him. “I wouldn’t accept Sardinia if I won it at dice.”
Creticus made a face. “You’ve not changed, Decius. You’re an utter political moron. Nepos stays in Rome because he’s going to stand for consul next year.”
“That explains a lot,” I said. “A proconsular province beats Sardinia any day. What’s up for grabs?”
“Barring a foreign emergency, he’ll be assigned Nearer Spain,” Father said. Nobody suggested that Nepos might be defeated or that, barring emergency, he would fail to secure the desired province. When the Caecilia Metella settled on one of their own for consul, he got it. And Spain had been Metellan territory for almost two hundred years. We had been governing there for so long that it was a major power base, second only to our Italian lands.
“Next year will be a bad one,” Creticus pointed out. “It will be Clodius against Cicero, and a tribune can do real damage. We’ll need to have as much influence as possible the year after to undo whatever’s been done. Scipio will stand for curule aedile as well.”
Scipio nodded. He was a pale, distinguished man of about thirty-five. “As aedile I will be celebrating my father’s funeral games. I intend to give a gladiatorial display of special magnificence.” His adoptive father, the elder Metellus Pius, had died four years earlier. It had become customary to delay funeral games until an heir held the aedileship, in charge of the public spectacles. That way he could discharge his civil and filial duties at the same time and win popularity for higher election. When Caesar was aedile he set incredibly high standards of spectacle outlay.
“Clodius will have the commons stirred up, and nothing buys back their loyalty like a good set of games,” I observed. “But it will be expensive.”
“You will be expected to contribute,” Father said. I should have kept my mouth shut.
“All of which is strictly secondary to the evening’s business,” Creticus said. “Decius, you know that Celer was poisoned, don’t you?”
“I knew that he was dead and that he didn’t die by violence, disease, or accident that anyone witnessed. People always suspect poison when a prominent man dies without visible cause, but there are a hundred illnesses that can kill without warning signs.”
“He was poisoned,” Creticus said flatly.
I released a sigh. I had been afraid of this. “And I can just guess who you suspect did it.”
“No need to guess,” Creticus said. “It was his wife, that slut Clodia. We want you to gather evidence so that we can bring charges against the bitch and have her executed or exiled.”
“You don’t quite understand how this works,” I said. “If I am to investigate, I will gather evidence then decide who the murderer is, if indeed he was murdered.”
“Whatever it takes,” Creticus said.
“It may not be Clodia,” I said.
“Who else could it be?” Father demanded.
“I have no idea, but no man ever became consul and commanded armies in the provinces without making plenty of enemies. He fought the Catilinarians and executed plenty of them. Their families will not have forgotten. He might have been dallying with the wrong man’s wife. Married to Clodia, I can well imagine that he sought female companionship elsewhere.”
Nepos snorted. “What man ever commits murder over a little trifling adultery? Celer’s enemies were not the sort to resort to poison.”
“Right,” said Scipio. “If he’d been decently attacked and cut down in the street, we could be certain that it was a political enemy behind it. Poison is a woman’s tool.”
“Why would she have killed him?” I asked. At this they all looked surprised.
“The woman is a murderess many times over,” Creticus said. “Why not?”
It was typical of these men. Murder was all
too common in Rome, but they knew that a man would have a sound political or personal reason for resorting to the act. A scandalous woman, on the other hand, would kill because it was her nature to. And any woman whose name was bandied about in public was scandalous. Highborn Roman ladies were supposed to live anonymously.
“Very well. What is to be my authority?”
“We want this handled with discretion,” Creticus said. “After all, this is within the family. But if you encounter difficulty, you may say that you are acting for Scipio. As tribune, he will bring charges against the venefica.” He used the old word for witch poisoner.
“You understand that poisoning is perhaps the most difficult of all murders to prove?” I said.
“I’ve prosecuted and judged such cases,” Father said. “So has Creticus. Just bring us evidence for a credible charge and we’ll get rid of her.”
“Why did Celer marry her in the first place?” I asked.
“We needed an alliance with the Claudians at the time,” Creticus said. “What else?”
What indeed?
At the door of Father’s house, Hermes took a torch from the stand and began to light it from the doorside lamp.
“Don’t bother,” I told him. “There’s decent moonlight tonight.”
I preferred to avoid torches in Rome except on the inkiest nights. Their light is flickering and they destroy your night vision. An attacker need only throw a cloak over it or douse it with water and you are utterly blind until your eyes readjust. Besides, a torch draws attention.
We went outside and stood by the gate for a few minutes while our eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. After that, the streets were fairly negotiable. The moon was three-quarters full and almost straight overhead, casting her beams upon even the narrowest alleys.
“What did you learn?” I asked Hermes as we set out.
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