by Ben Pastor
"But that was three months ago."
"How little do you know Italians, Commander. They serve vengeance very cold on their plates."
Aelius stood from his chair. "Well, then! The brick-maker must be investigated and, if it's the case, denounced. Lady Catula—" Protasius's expression alone interrupted him, as the freedman would never dare doing so in words.
"Dear sir, there is no proof. The word of a freedman whose master has died does not hold up before the court as well as that of a brick kiln owner and contractor, with many friends ready to support him. Working with a judge has made me all too aware of the limitations of illations such as the one I presented you. Mistress is not interested in prosecution anyway, and I wager that Judge Marcellus's successor has already decided who is guilty."
An immense cloud occupied the northern sky, rising from the mountains. The road to Modicia left the city through Porta Nova, a new gate nicknamed "Golden" even though there was nothing gilded about it, only because the next gate over was known as "Silver" on account of a place called Argenta, to which it led. Paved for the first six miles, the road ran lower than the surrounding countryside, fairly straight in a north-northeast direction, among mulberry trees and other deciduous plants, some of which still retained a few leaves, especially the plane trees, with pale spots of peeling bark spotting their smooth trunks. The peeling bark made Aelius think of the freedman's words about the paper manufactory, a piece of Egypt so far from the Nile. As a boy on the frontier, he'd used paper-thin, curling plane bark to write on and to make small boats and wristbands. His father wrote in his letters that he'd planted plane trees around the house, but surely Aelius's childhood recollections had nothing to do with it. During his dinner with Decimus, he'd jested that his family "had broken his arm" to make him study with the best teachers. He had not said that—in a different context but in the same year—his father had literally broken his arm, punishing him for a small infraction.
Crackles fussed in a shrub growing out of a funerary monument along the road. It was a fig tree, actually, stunted by the northern weather, that had pushed its way up between the steps and now barred the monument's door. If the fire waker ever decided to call back to life the inmate of that burial, he had better be ready to hack away the plant to let him come forth. Simpering at the idea, Aelius admitted that aside from the unkempt graves, the signs of abandonment of the countryside that he had noticed elsewhere in the Empire were not so obvious here. Still—from the saddle he could see them even riding along the sunken road—farmhouses looked reduced in purpose and use, windows on their upper floors barred shut, the better part of the properties left fallow at a time of sowing. The upkeep of irrigation ditches seemed less attentive than that of the canals in the city; weeds strangled the wooden floodgates, blocking them in an upright position so that—should early winter rains fall, as they always do on northern plains—it might be impossible to control the overflow.
Notes by Aelius Spartianus
One arrives at Modicia by way of a road post named Sextum, after a travel of about fourteen miles. The place — halfway between a village and a small town — is built on the banks of a navigable little river called Frigidus. The river does not seem as cold as the name suggests, carries a limited amount of water, and flows southward. Across a bridge of some pretension there lie Fulgentius Pennatus's brickworks. Another brickyard, a mile before reaching the town, belongs to a different owner (more about him later). As for the paper manufactory, it stands not in Modicia proper, but on the bank a bit north of the community, a place where mills and a small fish-shaped island enliven the site. Uninterrupted woods rise just beyond, although I am told that farms and small settlements are to be found in clearings here and there, lived in by folks who still speak a Celtic dialect and "are none too swiff (Protasius's words, not mine).
Despite the ravages of the Alamannic attack years ago, the area seems prosperous. A man who gave me directions to Pen-natuss brickyard bragged that he makes a living dowsing for money and silver buried by folks who died during that invasion. Thus, the loss of some makes the wealth of others, but who knows how many of these small treasures go unclaimed!
The self-important Fulgentius Pennatus, whom I met at his brickworks, has the face of a toad, and his complexion is nearly as lumpy and gray-green. The spitting image of a procurer in Nicomedia, whom in the old days my colleague Tralles and I kicked roundly for his bad habit of beating the girls.
Every time we encounter the look-alike of a man we once found unpleasant, we have to be particularly attentive not to transfer to him the antipathy we felt for the fellow he resembles. Yd have succeeded in keeping equanimous this time, had Pennatus not grumbled as soon as I stepped into his office that I reminded him of a German colonel who tried to wheedle money out of him. Such conceit, and the way he showed himself annoyed with me, my visit, and my words, made me right away suspect he has protectors on high, well above his colleagues in the brick-making guild. As it turns out, it is so.
Replying that, thanks to the latitude my charge from His Divinity grants me, I am allowed among other things to look into criminal cases I judge of some peculiarity, I posed such questions as I thought appropriate. Usually, the sole mention of my position as Caesar's envoy strikes as lightning in a haystack. Pennatus, toad that he is, stayed perfectly cool.
To begin with, he denied any knowledge of the judge's violent death, which is only marginally possible, Modicia being less than two hours from Mediolanum. But let us assume that I traveled faster than bad news. Every inch the businessman, the brick-maker prevented my next question by letting me know that unless I have taken leave of my senses, I would not go as far as suggesting he has anything to do with Marcellus's end.
One thing he added makes sense, however: that if he planned to eliminate the judge, he would not have sent him a threatening message beforehand, something he boldly admits having done. Whether or not he assumes the message was kept by Mar-cellus (I did nothing to disabuse him of the opinion), with impeccable logic Pennatus maintains that he contented himself with venting his anger at Marcellus through the written word. As to his whereabouts on the day of the judge's murder, he says he has half of Modicia ready to account for him. I believe that's the case; it would be the case, probably, even if his fellow townsmen knew he had gone swimming in the Old Baths at Medi-olanum on that day. "What about the other half of the town?" I asked, and Pennatus answered that the other half "doesn't count for nothing."
Such haughtiness is becoming more and more frequent, as the distance between the haves and the have-nots increases throughout the Empire. And to think that the Maximum Prices Edict was written to limit the accumulation of wealth in the hands of a few! When I remarked that hired killers can be sent to do one's dirty work from anywhere, Pennatus grew openly provoked. It was then that he informed me he is friends with the city prefect (not a good thing for me if it's true, as the prefect is known to be extremely close to the Palace), and that if I didn't measure my words, he'd make sure a vibrant protest would reach His Divinity's desk. It isn't this that troubles me so much, as I am reasonably confident I could explain my reasons to Our Lord Diocletian; but the local authorities could make my stay in Italia Annonaria very uncomfortable. Not yet satisfied, Pennatus threatened — it must be his favorite sport, when he isn't producing faulty bricks — to put investigators at my heels, to "find out why a soldier shows an interest in matters not of his competence. "
Rather, he told me, I ought to take a look atMinucius Mar-cellus's politics, and at those who opposed them long before the trials against the Christians began. "You think you are so smart, when you haven't been here enough time to know who outsniffs whose doorjamb in Mediolanum after someone else has marked it with his piss." Why these merchants have to be so crude, I am sure I don't know. But I can be crude with the best of them, thanks to my elective profession, and so replied that I have a nearly uncanny ability to tell by the height of the mark the measure of the man who has been doing the pissing, and not
hing Vd seen thus far worried me too much. I was bluffing, naturally, since I had no idea of what Pennatus meant. What doorjamb? What politics, and who is involved? Protasius says that conservative circles disliked Marcellus. If I only knew what "conservative circles" means these days. Pennatus is not the one to ask.
Our Lord Diocletian brought back peace and order to the Empire, and politics of any kind is out of place. "It is extremely dangerous to be in politics these days" was the last comment the brick-maker regaled me with, adorned with a quip about the relative height of my own mark on the doorjamb.
He is not the type one can soften up with words, being one of those men who love confrontation and receive physical gratification from an argument. I know only one other person who displays such a hankering for verbal contrast, and that is my old Nicomedia flame, Helena. So, whatever Pennatus meant by the judge's "politics," I was unable to pull it out of him. I left the brickyard after as inconclusive a meeting as I can think of, saving the impression that he is a crooked merchant and a bully, but likely not a murderer.
On the northernmost wooded island on a bend ofModicias Frigidus, where I stopped to take a look at the paper manufactory, a crew of fullones from a nearby clothier's were dying wool in great vats. The dye was madder, and even from a distance, the liquid in the containers resembled blood. I understood what Protasius meant when he said that Judge Marcellus, dead in his bloody pool reminded him of the scene in a Seneca tragedy.
The towering cloud had hardly moved at all when I regained the road. Even after I passed Modicias bridge, leaving behind the clay beds that give it its name, the vapors were still motionless over the mountains, as if the peaks themselves produced moisture, and this gathered into clouds above them. I don't know the wind currents in this region enough to predict what cloud-capped mountains portend, but there is always a sense of imminent change in a thunderhead. Something tells me not to inquire directly ofCurius Decimus regarding politics in Mediolanum, of the conservative kind or otherwise. Indeed, there is no need to bring up the subject with any of the locals — least of all with the officers at the horse barracks, who talk far too much.
Riding back, I recalled that I promised Decimus to show him the antique helmet I bought at Arae Flaviae. He has — what else? — a forebear among those who died in Teutoburg Forest under Quintilius Varus's ineffectual command. I am also taking along the humble brick from Marcellus's garden, just to see how he reacts.
That evening, the ancestors' room seemed warm when Aelius walked in from the street, because a freezing norther had risen outside. In fact—this time he noticed, being less dazzled by the elegance of the surroundings—mildew stained the bottom of the walls, around the floor where humidity seeped despite all. A draft from the window agitated the drapery in front of it, and its invisible fingers tried to nip the lighted wicks in the lamps.
The helmet he had placed on the studio table was of the kind used for parades and cavalry exercises, the hippika gymnasia beloved in earlier years. Decimus, who had scoffed until this moment that it was probably a fake, and that Aelius had been taken in by an unscrupulous vendor, changed his expression when he had it in his hands.
"It had fallen in a bog," Aelius explained, "and that is why it is so well preserved. The man found it in the process of saving his hunting dog from the quicksand. Succeeding when the animal had nearly gone under, he felt something else in the mire, reached for it, and here it is. He told me that completely preserved bodies are occasionally pulled out when peat is cut from the dryer areas. Flesh, clothes, weapons: All is kept intact by a sort of tanning process."
"And that's all the eternity any of us can hope for."
During the stops on his trip southward, Aelius had buffed and polished the helmet himself. Now the hinged construction—a true helmet molded for the skull, with a short crest mimicking feathers, and tritons facing each other above the visor, attached to an elaborate full-face mask—shone with the paleness of steel and silver, the eye slits seemingly twinkling in Decimus's hands. He turned it this way and that between his dark fingers, observing it in the light of the closest lamp.
"There's the owner's name punched inside," Aelius said.
This, too, Decimus looked for eagerly.
"The vendor told me he found an officer's arm in the same bog, with bracelet and rings still on it; he hoped to sell the whole, except that the limb soon decayed in the fresh air. As we read about the battle in Dio Cassius and Velleius Paterculus—"
"How much do you want for it?"
"It's not for sale."
Decimus kept the helmet on his side of the desk, in a jealous grasp. "You have no forebears among the ambushed Romans."
"No, but for all I know I might have some among the auxiliaries, six cohorts and three cavalry units of whom were slaughtered. My mother's people were from those parts."
"This is not a Germanic or Pannonian name, punched inside."
"Vonatorix is not exactly a Roman name, either."
"How much do you want for it, Spartianus?"
"It's not for sale."
The mask, molded so as to cover the entire face, represented a youth with curly sideburns and an expression of absorbed serenity, as if he were thinking of something pleasant and secure; a narrow chin and chiseled mouth, the virile ideal in Augustus's day, gave it a sensitive air of adolescence preserved. With a pouting grimace that buried his lower lip under the upper one, regretfully Decimus watched Aelius wrap the helmet in soft leather and replace it in a canvas bag. "I hope you'll change your mind."
This not being a formal dinner, they remained in the studio to chat. First came the story of Decimus's heroic ancestor, chief of staff under Varus, like Varus a grief-stricken suicide in the face of disaster. His portrait sat on the shelf with the other family members, staring out of a gloomy black marble face with silver-leaf eyes. From this, the conversation progressed to Marcellus's death, the riots, and—on Aelius's part—the coincidence of having brick-makers figure one way or another in the murders at Treveri and Mediolanum.
Asked about his opinion, Decimus smiled slowly. He joined his hands, palm against palm, and tapped their edge against his mouth, as if giving himself time to think. Still smiling, he let a suspended moment go by. The signet ring on his left hand, bulky and antique, formed a shiny gold spot on the swarthiness of his skin. It was the sole ornament on him. Compared to the regalia worn by the Palace Guard and officers as a whole, it seemed self-effacing moderation, but Aelius believed otherwise. These aristocrats, he thought, they wear old gold like their names and titles. The precious metals and famous, inherited names are consumed by the passing centuries, hut do not lose luster because of it. How many of them are left who can actually claim their primacy as Romans? Entire clans have died out one hundred years ago already, other families have few or no sons, and — unless they are stopped — the Christians will claim more and more aristocrats as celibates and virgins. My seven nephews and nieces have a better chance to reproduce, and stand to generate a myriad imperial soldiers and civil servants, none of them Roman.
Decimus removed the hands from his lips but did not cease smiling. He said, "It must be true that when an object is too large for a room, folks risk not seeing it. I am surprised at you, Spartianus, who don't belong to this batch of shop-owning burghers. Naturally they would understand nothing unless there's money at the bottom of any enterprise, including crime. But you! Leave the argument about the bricks alone. It's patent, the sole party to have a valid motive to kill Marcellus is the extreme fringe group of the Christians. Why? Because even a lenient judge is still a judge, and will pass judgment. A sad reality worth pondering, how often the harshest prosecutors are respected for their dourness and go unscathed, while the nice fellows with a sensitive heart are made to pay."
"It seems to me like cutting one's foot to spite the leg, on the Christians' part."
"Well, do not expect me to join the procession of those who sing the praises of the dear departed: I did not like him. And I don't care wh
o killed him."
Decimus's last statement, unrequested, was pronounced without animus. The coldness in his tone—like everything else about the man—had a touch of artificiality, something he might well try to pass off as superficial disregard, but was not. In fact, while it implied the opposite, such iciness gave Aelius the impression that a man like Decimus could maintain his composure even when he cared enough to kill.
"Truly, I don't see why you insist on the matter of the bricks," the host added after having wine served, with a choice of cured meats "from Parma and Mutina, where they know their hogs." Holding a small slab of ham on a serving fork, he took out of it an even smaller bite. "Saying that bricks somehow form a connection between the killing of that Lupus of yours in Treveri and our esteemed judge's end is like trying to link a mutton shoulder to a pheasant thigh, simply because both animals get slaughtered for meat. If you wish to penetrate the not-so-shady world of brick-making, why don't you stop by my estate north of Sextum? I own clay beds and kilns there, and if I can say so myself, the figlinae of Manius Curius Decimus—an ivy leaf and palm branch as trademark devices—built half of those grain depots whose workers are so stupid as to fall into the bins."
Yes, Aelius knew. He had ridden by in the morning and, mistaking them for Pennatus's brickworks, had inquired of the laborers and learned the name of the actual owner.
Decimus was about to say something else, but his mouth clamped shut. His attention, until now alternating between Aelius and the food, migrated to the corner of the studio table, to the object his guest had taken out of the canvas bag and laid there. Irritation tweaked the tightness of his lips. "Well, what do you want with this, and where did you pick it up?"
"In Judge Marcellus's garden."
