by Ben Pastor
"Did he ever express fear for his life?"
"Never. Perhaps because he was not afraid of dying."
"The prevalent opinion is that it may be a Christian plot, given the trials your husband sat on."
Catula's crimping of lips, far from being a full-fledged smile, indicated polite disagreement at hearing something silly. For a moment, she reminded him of her namesake cat, but without the cat's air of self-satisfaction. "If so, they will soon be disappointed by his successor. No, I do not believe it was the Christians. We had some among our serfs when I was a girl, and unless they have changed their ways since then, they would not resort to murder."
Aelius kept to himself the fact that he'd seen violent behavior among Christians in Egypt and elsewhere. What, then? He wanted to urge her firmly, but it would be the wrong approach. The softness of her speech forced him to keep his voice below normal tone as well, and he limited himself to saying, nearly under his breath, "As a daughter, wife, and daughter-in-law of eminent judges, Lady Catula, you have probably formulated a theory of your own."
"I am sorry, I haven't."
Behind her, through a window open despite the cold day, laborers among the flowerbeds shouldered piles of bricks on flat wooden supports, for some unidentifiable addition to the low walls, altars, and fountains already in the garden. If her unwillingness to elaborate had come as a headstrong refusal, Aelius would have found a way of insisting, driven by suspicion that she knew and did not want to tell. But Catula's serene lack of curiosity in that regard sounded genuine, as if she had not even begun to want to know, dropping mundane concerns much in the way someone lets a handkerchief fall on the ground.
"I heard that the local brick-making industry was unhappy with the judge's sentence regarding the army barracks, three months ago."
"Ah, that." Lady Catula lowered her eyes briefly. They were light blue, a peculiarity Aelius had noticed in men and women of this part of Italy. "Yes, they are a tight brotherhood, but the same can be said of other groups." The care he took in concealing his attention to the hauling of bricks outside kept her from making a connection between his words and what he saw. She added, without in the least changing her tone, "Judge Marcellus was disliked by conservative circles, by some in the military, even by a few of his colleagues. But dislike is often accompanied by grudging admiration."
"Forgive me: If someone entered the Old Baths to stab your husband to death, I see more grudge than admiration in the act." "It was probably a madman, to be pitied in his delirium."
Whether or not anyone was to be pitied, the new judge thought otherwise. Serfs and free-born personnel of the Old Baths were seized without trial and quietly put to death outside Porta Ticinensis, where the chosen execution place was. Aelius found out accidentally during his return to the city from Marcellus's estate. At the crossroads closest to the arena, he overtook a police detail, and as the officer at the lead recognized the Guardsmen who'd broken the riot, he made conversation at once. Yes, yes, well, it'd been one of those sudden orders that come once in a while. It was done now. "See Nemesis's temple, Commander? There's a whole set of burial areas back there." The policeman indicated a vague direction of bogs and thickets. "Which'll make it easy on those who have to dispose of the bodies." The charge—Aelius didn't even have to ask—was failure to provide security, with more than a hint at possible collusion with Marcellus's killers. "The Christians, that is." "Those executed, were they interrogated beforehand?" "What for, Commander? They were Christians from Africa, the worst of the lot—violent, fanatical. Eh, the days of Minucius Marcellus are gone: It's back to lop the head first, and then ask questions. May he rest in peace, but I like it better this way." With a sidelong glance at the raised flap of Aelius's saddlebag, the policeman laughed a strangled little laugh. "You carry along for good luck one of the projectiles the rioters threw at us, I see."
It was actually a brick from Marcellus's garden, unobtrusively taken along as he left, without the workers' knowing. Aelius let the policeman's comment fall, forcibly closing the flap over his saddlebag.
If there was one thing more efficient than the imperial postal service, and even quicker, it was the system by which employers and servants communicated with one another. Aelius had not been back at the barracks an hour before a man sent by Lady Catula asked for permission to speak to him. Duco, who had the day off and was itching to visit a girlfriend across town, offered his colleague his office as a private meeting space. "I don't care if you mess up my papers," he joked. "They can't be more disorderly than they are."
Off went the Briton, and in his place appeared, led by an orderly, a gray-haired, well-dressed fellow who had all the marks of one who has risen from servitude because of his intelligence. His greeting to Aelius was ceremonious but not fawning, and the moment he began to speak it became obvious that it was a habit in Marcellus's household to converse in whispers.
"Protasius is the name, Commander Spartianus. I was Judge Marcellus's freedman, and he honored me with his trust. Let me tell you right off that with his death the great city of Mediolanum has lost one of its brightest lights. Our public and private horizon is made dim by his demise. Lady Catula bade me be open with you, all the more since I was among the first to see Master dead. With Virgil, let me say that reliving the scene would be for me infandum renovate dolorem — renewing unspeakable grief. But if you're Caesar's envoy, and a well-minded man, I am at your disposal."
Sitting behind his colleague's desk, Aelius could tell by Protasius's stare that the spread of tablets, pens, and papers did not meet the visitor's idea of a well-run office. Automatically, he began creating some order on the wooden surface. "I thank the lady for sending you. You must know that I showed an interest in the murder scene."
Protasius took one of those deep breaths that unwittingly become tremulous, what remains after weeping. "It was one of those sights that stay with you, sir. First thing in the morning, before work, the judge could always be found at the baths. No, never the new ones—and not the ones at his villa, either. Always Balnea Vetra, yes, the small ones at Gallic Meadows, not far from Posterula Mariana. He was in the habit of sitting in the hot pool because he suffered from cramps in his legs, and warmth loosened his muscles. As you have seen, the room in question is internal, fairly private, because no more than two people can fit comfortably in the pool at any time, and more often than not the judge soaked alone. The Old Baths were never considered fashionable, and after the opening of the Herculean establishment, they nearly fell out of use. Now and then, especially during holidays, lawyers and state workers frequent them, because they can have some peace and quiet there. Sir, may I ask how old you are?"
Aelius, who had thus far listened attentively, only pretending to set aright Duco's mess, found himself staring up at the older man, who stood before him with hands clasped. "I'm thirty. Why?"
The brusqueness of his answer did not affect Protasius. "Forgive me, Commander. Your face is a young man's, but the white hair—at my age one stupidly longs for interlocutors as battered by life as one is." It was an odd justification, but to all appearances the real one.
"Won't you sit down?"
"I'd rather not, sir. Bad back. Anyhow, returning to my unfortunate master: Having been stabbed so that a vein in his neck was lanced, what with the heat that accelerated his heartbeat, what with the precision of the blow, he must have bled to death very quickly. Did he thrash about? Did he try to crawl out of the pool? Did he cry for help? No, no, and no. His valet and I found him sitting there composed, in what seemed to have become a cauldron of blood—a scene from a Greek tragedy. What am I saying, from one of Seneca's gory plays. The young valet passed out, and I myself became violently ill. You know, I don't like circus games because I can't stand bloodshed. I close my eyes when animal sacrifices are performed. I made wide detours if I know that executed criminals are exposed in this or that square. Terrible, it was."
"I noticed that the barrel vault of the room is so low, steam collects on it and fa
lls back on the floor. Given the early hour, was the space around the pool already wet?"
"Oh, yes. They start the furnace much in advance. I did look around for footprints, Commander, but none were discernible. Upon leaving the room, it would have been sufficient for the killer or killers to dry their bare feet—who wears shoes in the baths?—with a towel at one of the two entrances, and they could have stepped away without leaving traces. It could have been a client walking in from the street, although at daybreak even the cold pool, the only one to be frequented somewhat regularly by civil servants and officers of the prison guards, is generally empty. The serfs working in the furnaces were all accounted for at the time of the murder, and so were those who man the wardrobes, the masseurs, and so forth. But there's many of them who come and go doing errands."
Aelius saw no point in informing Protasius of the executions outside Porta Ticinensis. The whole city would know before long. "Is there a possibility that Marcellus knew his assassin, and let him approach without suspicion?"
"I haven't a clue. The judge knew so many people! More often than not, he would fall asleep as soon as he sat in the hot tub. He was a bit hard of hearing and had a heavy slumber. Anyone who'd wanted to surprise him could have done so." Protasius seemed to read the question in Aelius's mind. His long head, with patient, distant eyes that gave it a horsey look, moved from side to side in a disconsolate denial. "Marcellus desired that none of us in the household raise our voice on account of his infirmity. He read lips, but that would not help if his eyes were closed. As a matter of fact, the bath attendants told me they left him asleep, seated in the water as usual. I heard what's being said about Christians being responsible for the crime, Commander, but I don't believe it."
Well, Aelius thought, this is finally getting somewhere. These educated freedmen are wound up like tops, and have to stop twirling before you can see their colors.
"I'd be grateful if you explained why, Protasius. Lady Catula in no way holds it against you, but she did inform me that you used to be a Christian yourself, before squaring things out with the authorities. Are you not one of those the Christian hierarchy brands as lapsP."
"Those who have fallen out, yes. I certainly hope it will not be counted against me during this conversation, Commander. I had my good reasons for abjuring, and believe it or not, they have nothing to do with fear of legal proceedings."
"What was the reason, then?" Side by side, Aelius lined up Duco's many stylus pens by length, creating a Pan pipe on the desk. "I'm only asking out of curiosity." He's a powerful family's freedman, and knows it. Look how unconcerned he is to speak of such things, in times of religious prosecution.
"Unless you are familiar with some of the Christian texts, Commander, you cannot understand. Let us say that it had to do with a discrepancy I perceived between the teachings from Christ's mouth and the way things are run by the clergy these days." Protasius blushed; it was a strangely revealing reaction in a controlled old man, which pleased Aelius. "I read the classics. I didn't come to Christianity unprepared as do urchins and old widows."
"I am not familiar with Christian texts, but suppose you give me a quick course in the organization of the sect. For example, the word you used, 'clergy,' derives from the Greek."
"Yes, fc/eros."
"It means a drawing of lots, does it not?"
"Precisely, and by extension, the allotting of a portion—God's portion. Those men who are God's portion on earth."
Aelius made a lopsided octagon out of Duco's pens. "Does it mean the Christian hierarchy is drawn by lots?"
"In the way an election to office is a kind of lottery, yes. The presence of the faithful—the will of the people, if you wish—is necessary to the process of investiture." Blood left Protasius's cheeks, slowly, as liquid evaporates from a cloth. "It is a kind of monarchical structure, based in Rome as you no doubt are aware, even though many bishops from other imperial cities wield great power. Marcellinus held last the office of pope, that is, head of all bishops, until his execution on October 24. Word has come from Rome that he showed some hesitation and fear during his trial, but having repented, he readily accused himself and suffered the capital punishment. Despite this, in Rome, and in Mediolanum as well, some Christians consider him a traditor —a betrayer of the faith, which puts into question his past decisions and even his ordinations. Great confusion could arise from this, as the Christians are all but united."
October 24. Aelius scattered the pens with a slow sweep of the hand. The same day he'd concluded the investigation in Egypt, and the one hundred seventy-fourth anniversary of the Boy's death in the Nile. The youthful image of the deified Hadrian's favorite, melancholy, rose before him like an unlikely mirror to his different anxiety and solitude.
"Now for the local hierarchy." Protasius was taking seriously the indoctrination. "It includes bishops, presbyters, deacons, and subdea-cons. Bishops and presbyters are priests, but not the deacons, who are at the bishops' service. Lectors, deaconesses, widows, and virgins are not ordained as such, but they fulfill auxiliary duties in the Church. Then there are other roles, such as those of healer by laying on of hands, exorcist, and so on. Those clergymen ordained by the laying on of hands receive the Spirit, or Grace. But deacons in some places are more powerful than bishops."
Aelius knew he'd been slumping, because the chair squeaked when he sat upright. "Did you ever meet a lady from Laumellum—perhaps a deaconess—born as Annia Cincia, now called Casta, who travels with a supposed miracle worker?"
"No, sir." The freedman raised one eyebrow, glancing upward as if to search his memory. "But I did read about her in an episcopal letter when I was still in the superstition. Bishop Maternus, head of this city's congregation, used the story of the noblewoman's conversion as an example of how the drawing of lots—the kleros —can extend even to the lesser among us."
"The lesser? She is of noble birth—why, I heard it from relatives of hers."
"I meant that she is a woman."
Aelius set the pens in a star pattern of unequal rays. "And what about him, Agnus the fire waker?"
"He's said to be pious, celibate, severe. She follows him as his servant, ministering to women when required." Protasius lifted his forefinger to his lips—no, to his nose, or to both, indicating a need to be on the lookout, or to keep a secret, or both. "I think the clergy envies his success in preaching, and even more so the wonders he does. If what is said of him is true, not since the Apostles have such miracles been seen. I don't know what to think in that regard, not having seen his works. But the gossip that malicious tongues have put around regarding Casta's virtue is belied by the fact that the Christian hierarchy does not allow immoral men or women to spread the Word. Had Casta even been widowed of two husbands rather than one, she would have not been accepted by the Church."
Idly, Aelius considered that Casta was a much lovelier name than Annia Cincia. He wondered how old she might be, and why Decimus had said, She was a beauty once. Perhaps she was a beauty even now. The thought distracted him from the matter at hand; visibly, perhaps, because Protasius resolved to conclude the lesson for the day.
"In sum, Commander, I betrayed no one, turned in no one. I did change my mind. My good master, who had never imputed religious wrongheadedness to me before, did not charge me with cowardice afterward. He, who read Christian texts in order to understand how to judge those who lived by them, reminded me that before his permanence in Rome the apostle Peter himself was an apostate not once but three times over."
"Really?" Mention of the City interrupted Aelius's reverie. "In Rome I was shown by my guide a spot in Gaius's circus, where this man Peter is said to have been executed during Nero's reign. But my guide— an Egyptian—was not very trustworthy, so I don't know."
Out of prudence or disinterest in the topography of Rome, Protasius did not comment either way. "Now, tell me if a man of such wisdom and generosity would be killed by the local Christians. Minucius Marcellus was the best thing that happened to t
hem."
They chatted for a while longer, in the rush of autumn rain that came through the window like the sound of a distant waterfall, with the dripping of eaves closer in. Then, when the freedman had been already dismissed, he turned back from the door so vivaciously that Aelius was surprised by the reaction. "If I were in the authorities' shoes, Commander, I would knock on the door of Fulgentius Penna-tus, brick-maker from Modicia. I saw the threat he or his sent to my esteemed master, and there is no doubt in my mind that he is guilty, or involved at any rate."
Awkwardly Aelius dropped in his lap one of the pens he was laying to rest after playing with them. "Lady Catula told me the judge showed the threat to no one and disposed of it at once."
"Well. He told me to dispose of it at once. But 'at once' does not mean I could not lay my eyes on it as I held it over the flame. It read like a threat."
"Are you sure?"
"My Greek is very good, Commander. And the paper came from Modicia."
"Really. How can you tell?"
"As a secretary, I make it my business to be familiar with writing material. Now, there's a papyrus manufactory in Modicia. They import the raw material from Egypt and process it locally. The workers themselves are Egyptians, although the owner is a local man. The paper they produce is recognizable because of its texture. You might know that when the bark is stripped off the papyrus stalk, the inner fibers—they're technically called philurae —must be delicately separated from one another. Afterward, the resulting stripes are plaited crosswise, again and again. Lime-water is used to wash the paper, which is then pressed until it's ready. But —at Modicia they do not use the innermost vegetable fibers, as they ought to. They sell those to another paper-maker in Ticinum, for the production of charta regia, 'royal paper' for state documents. In Modicia they use the second-best fibers; not quite those outer layers you make packing paper out of, but second-best. The result is pompously called charta niliaca modiciana, Modicia's Nile paper. The threat Master received was scribbled on a piece of such paper. And who else but Pennatus held a grudge against him in Modicia?"
