Saturnalia (11 page)

“I won’t be hypocritical and pretend I think you incapable of such a crime,” I said. “Nor that I think you wouldn’t do it without a qualm if you thought you had sufficient reason. It’s just that there are so many candidates that you are not even at the top of the list. Clodius, Flavius, and Pompey had plenty of motive, and they are just the three most prominent.”

“Yes, but they are
men!”
Clodia said. “Everyone thinks they would have murdered him in an open and respectable manner, with swords or daggers or clubs. Poison is supposed to be the weapon of women or contemptible foreigners.” She was beginning to get wrought up. “And I am a scandalous woman! I speak my mind in public, no matter who is listening. I keep company with poets and charioteers and actors. I indulge in religious practices not countenanced by the state. I pick my slaves personally, right in the public market, and I
wear gowns forbidden by the censors. Of course I must have poisoned my husband!”

“You forgot to mention incest with your brother,” I pointed out.

“That is just one of the rumors. I was speaking of the things I actually do. The truth is, it doesn’t take much to be a scandalous woman in Rome; and if you are guilty of one impropriety, then you must be capable of anything.”

I shook my head. “Clodia, what you say is true enough of Sempronia and the elder Fulvia and a few others. They are just unconventional and have a taste for low company and are public about it. I happen to know from personal experience that you are capable of murder.”

She held my gaze for a few seconds, then lowered her eyes. “I had no reason to poison Celer. He wasn’t a bad husband, as such things go. He didn’t pretend that our marriage was anything more than a political arrangement, and he allowed me to do as I pleased. After the third year, when he was satisfied that I was not going to bear him any children, he no longer objected to any men I cared to see.”

“He was a model of toleration.”

“We would have reached an amicable divorce soon anyway. He was looking for a suitable woman. I wouldn’t have killed him for his property. He left me nothing, nor did I expect him to. I had no reason to kill him, Decius.”

“At least now you’re not pretending that you don’t care whether I believe you.”

“It isn’t that I prize your good opinion. Do you know the punishment for
venificium?
”

“No, but I’m sure it’s something awful.”

”Deportatio in insula,”
she said, her face bleak. “The poisoner is taken to an island and left there, with no means
of escape. The island chosen is always exceedingly small, without population or cultivated plants, and with little or no freshwater. I made inquiries. Most last only days. There is a report of one wretch who lasted several years by licking the dew from the rocks in the morning and prying shellfish up with her bare fingers and eating them raw. She was sighted by passing ships for a long time, howling and raving at them from the waterline. She was quite a horrid sight toward the end, when her snaky white hair almost completely covered her.” She was quiet for a few moments, sipping at her Massic.

“Of course,” she added, “that was just some peasant herb woman. I would not wait to be carried off. I am a patrician, after all.”

I stood. “I will see what I can do, Clodia. If someone poisoned Celer, I will find out who it was. If I find that it was you, that is how I will report it to the praetor.”

She managed a very small, tight smile. “Ah, I can see that I’ve snared you with my feminine wiles again.”

I shrugged. “I’m not an utter fool, Clodia. When I was a child, like most children, I burned myself on a hot stove. That taught me to be wary of hot stoves. But while I was young I still burned myself through incaution. Now I am careful of approaching even a cold stove.”

She got up laughing. Then she took my arm and led me from the room. “Decius, you are not as adept at striking down your enemies as a hero should be. But you may just outlive them all.”

Hermes met me at the door and an aged
janitor
let us out. Apparently the beautiful youth was just for show. This one wore a plain bronze neck ring and wasn’t even chained to the doorpost. As usual I refused a torch, and we stood outside for a few minutes, allowing our eyes to adjust. In a
sense, Clodia’s words have proven to be prophetic. I have outlived all of my enemies but one. The problem is, I outlived all my friends but one as well.

“Did you learn anything?” I asked Hermes as we made our way back toward the Subura.

“There’s hardly a slave in the place who was there when Celer died. Clodia didn’t like his slaves because they weren’t pretty enough, and she sent them off to his country estates. Most of them she bought since he died. Some of her personal slaves were there at the time, but it was like the two of them lived in different houses and their staffs didn’t mix much.”

“Well, you can’t expect slaves to speak readily about a murder in the house.”

“Can you blame them?” Hermes asked. “I think they’re happy that Clodia is the suspect, because if she weren’t, it might be one of them. Then every slave in the house might be crucified.”

Rome has some truly barbarous laws, and that is one of them.

The moonlight was tolerable and the route was familiar. We would simply work our way downhill to the Suburan Street and thence continue downhill into the valley between the Esquiline and the Viminal, where my house lay. I was steady enough, having moderated my intake of wine for a change. In such a place and in such company I knew better than to incapacitate myself. I wasn’t truly worried about being poisoned, not much.

It was not terribly late. Here and there people wended their way home from late parties, their torches winking like lost spirits among the narrow alleys and tall apartment buildings. A fat man passed by us, weaving, supported on each side by a slave boy. An ivy wreath sat askew on his bald head, and
he sang an old Sabine drinking song. I envied someone who could carouse so carelessly these days.

An odd religious procession passed by, with much wailing and clashing of cymbals and tootling of flutes. It might have been a wedding or a funeral or a premature celebration of the coming solstice. Rome is full of foreign religions and strange little cults.

Everywhere people were working late into the night decorating their houses and public squares for Saturnalia, hanging wreaths, painting over the malediction graffiti on the walls, and replacing them with good-wish slogans, heaping small offerings before neighborhood shrines, even washing down the streets.

“That’s a marvel worth traveling all the way from Rhodes to see,” I commented.

“The decorations?” Hermes asked.

“No. Clean streets in Rome. I …” That was when I noticed we had followers.

“Well, it’s only for one day.” Back then, Saturnalia was celebrated for only a single day, not for three, as recently decreed by the First Citizen. “I’m looking forward to … what’s wrong?”

“Eyes front, keep on walking as you were,” I ordered him. “We’ve acquired some admirers.” My hand went inside my tunic and gripped my dagger. I chided myself for not carrying my
caestus
as well. A metal-reinforced punch is a great help in a street fight, and it is always unexpected.

The question was: What did these men want? I knew there were at least two. Did they want to rob me? Kill me? Or were they just out for some fun? All three were reasonable expectations. Any well-dressed man was a target for thieves, especially after dark. I was engaged in a rather murky investigation
involving a number of people who seldom hesitated to kill anyone they found inconvenient. And there were always those amusement seekers who found the sight of blood and teeth on the street infinitely pleasing. Ordinarily, thieves and bullies were easily discouraged by the prospect of armed resistance. Hired killers might take more persuading.

“I see two,” I remarked. “Do you see any more?”

Furtively, Hermes glanced around. “Not much light. It’s the two behind us, isn’t it? The ones pretending to be drunk?”

“That’s right.” Somehow, sober men can seldom imitate drunks convincingly, unless they are trained mimes.

“No, I don’t see any others.”

“Good.” We were nearing my home. “When we get to the shrine of Ops on the corner, I want you to dash ahead and get the gate open. Be ready to shut and bar it behind me when I come through.”

“Right,” he said, relieved that I wasn’t asking him to stand and fight.

As we neared my house the two “drunks” behind us began to walk more quickly, losing their wobbly gait in the process. The moment we passed the corner shrine, Hermes broke into a sprint and I hurried after him, considerably hampered by my toga. I would have cast it aside, but a good toga is ruinously expensive. Besides, the cumbersome garment is not without its uses in a brawl. I almost made it to my gate before they caught up to me. When I sensed they were within arm’s reach, I whirled, unwilling to risk a knife in my back as I went through the gate.

My move was unexpected and they checked their pursuit, almost skidding on the cobbles. Even so, the one on the right barely escaped impaling himself on the dagger I held out at full extension. Both men had knives in their hands, short
sicas
curved like the tusk of a boar. While the two stood disconcerted, I whipped off my toga and whirled it, wrapping my left forearm with a thick pad and leaving a couple of feet of it dangling below.

“What will it be, citizens?” I asked. “Shall we play or would you rather walk away in one piece?” As usual, frustration and puzzlement had put me in just the right mood for a brawl. Sometimes I am amazed that I survived those days.

They hadn’t been expecting this, which meant they didn’t know my reputation. Both men wore short tunics, the
exomis
that leaves one shoulder and half the chest bare. Both had identical scrubby beards and pointed, brimmed felt caps. In a word: peasants.

“Leave off this snooping, Metellus,” said the one on the right, waving his blade at me.

“Get out of Rome and leave be,” said the other. They had an accent I had heard before but could not quite place. But then, every village in Latium, even those within a few miles of Rome, spoke its own distinctly accented brand of Latin.

“Who sent you?” I asked. The one on the left tried to slide in, but I snapped a corner of my toga at his eyes and took advantage of the distraction to cut the other one, nicking him lightly on the hand. The left-hand peasant got over his surprise and took a cut at me. He was creditably skillful but not quite fast enough. I blocked with my impromptu shield and punched him in the nose with my wool-wrapped fist. The other slashed toward my flank, but I jumped back and evaded the stroke. They weren’t as unskilled as their appearance suggested. If they got their attack coordinated, I knew, they would get to me soon.

“Back off, you louts!” The cry came from behind me and
a second later Hermes was beside me, my army
gladius
in his right hand, the moonlight gleaming along its lethal edges. “You two may be terrors in your home village, but you’re in the big city now!” He grinned and twirled the sword in his hand, an excellent act, considering he had no slightest knowledge of swordplay. But he loved to hang around Milo’s thugs, and he knew their moves.

Now thoroughly disconcerted, the two backed away. “Stop poking into things as don’t concern you, Metellus,” said one of the rustic gemini. “If you don’t, there’ll be more of us back soon. Leave Rome now, if you want to live.” With that, the two backed to the end of the block, then turned and darted around the corner and were gone.

“That was well done, Hermes,” I said, as we walked the few steps to my gate. “I really must get you enrolled in the
ludus.
I think you’ll do well.”

“When I saw it was just a couple of bumpkins that had ridden into town on a turnip wagon, I ran to get your sword,” Hermes said. “What was that all about?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” I told him. “Clodius would have sent trained killers. Clodia would have poisoned me. All my enemies have competent murderers for their dirty work. Who sends hayseed bullies from the hills?”

We went inside and barred the gate. Cato and Cassandra stood there, blinking, wakened by the commotion from a sound sleep. “What is it, Master?” Cato asked shakily.

“A couple of cutthroats,” I told him, holding my toga out to Cassandra. “There may be some cuts in need of reweaving.”

She took it, yawning. “I hope there aren’t any bloodstains this time. That’s always the hard part, getting the blood out.”

“None of mine,” I assured her. “But I punched one of them in the nose and he may have bled on it.”

“Who cares whose blood it is?” she grumbled. “Blood’s blood.”

Yes, my tearful welcome home was definitely a thing of the past.

M
Y CLIENTS SHOWED UP THE
next morning. Word had gotten out. Burrus, my old soldier, was there. So were several others I knew well, along with quite a few that I didn’t. Celer had died childless, and it seemed that his clients had been divided among the rest of the family. There were so many of us that none was burdened with too many of them, but it seemed to me that, as the most penurious of the lot, I should have inherited no more than two or three. Instead, I had eight of them, almost doubling my crowd. I suppose I should have been flattered. It meant that my family believed I had a political future, if they thought I would need so many.

After a lot of greeting and learning of names, I had a sudden thought and took Burrus aside.

“Burrus, it occurs to me that you’ve been over much of Italy on maneuvers and military operations. Have you ever
heard this accent?” Here I spoke a few words in the fashion of my attackers. I had been particularly struck by the odd way they used
p
for
c
and placed strong emphasis on dipthongs. Burrus frowned at my amateurish recital, but he also showed recognition.

“If anyone talks that way, it’s the Marsi, up around Lake Fucinus. We did a lot of fighting in that area in the Social War. I was with Pompeius Strabo’s army in that one. It was my first war and bloodier than any I ever saw afterward. Strabo was a hard one. Why, in one day we executed so many prisoners that …”