SPQR III: The Sacrilege Read online

  “That makes sense,” I admitted. “Will you aid me in this as well?”

  “Certainly,” he said. “Favor for favor?”

  “Whatever you wish,” I said, “but what can a political nobody like me do for you?” I was never under the misapprehension that Milo’s favors were the result of purest generosity and that someday he would require favors of me, but I had assumed that this would happen after I had achieved eminence and influence.

  “It is not your political importance that I need just now, but your social prominence. I want you to help me court the lady Fausta.”

  I should have seen it coming. “You aim high, my friend.” The moment I said it I knew how stupid it was. Why would a man who planned to control Rome aim low?

  “I don’t think the lady herself will see it that way,” Milo said. “She is a Cornelian, but her father came of the poorest branch of the family. Sulla was a patrician beggar who rose high. And she realizes it. Fausta knows that the day of the patrician is past and the future of Rome belongs to men like me.” This was characteristically blunt and perfectly true. Milo was clear-sighted in a way that even Cicero, with his preconceptions and ideals, could never match.

  “I shall, of course, be happy to help in any way I can. What would you have me do?”

  “As yet I lack the prominence to call upon Lucullus casually. You can do that. Fausta seems to have complete freedom of the house. You should have little difficulty in finding ways to speak with her. Press my suit and see how she reacts.”

  “Ahh, Milo, my friend, it is usually customary to approach a woman’s parent or guardian in these matters. In accordance with Sulla’s will, Lucullus has that authority.”

  Milo waved a hand, peremptorily dismissing all custom. “As I have said, certain aristocratic practices are of diminishing importance. They are of no concern to me, and I doubt that the lady in question has any use for them either.”

  “In that case, I shall be pleased to act for you.”

  I left his house amid effusive thanks. This was behavior I did not expect from Milo, whose words were always sincere but usually laconic. It was an indication of how his infatuation with Fausta was altering his manner. I had never seen him change countenance in the face of mortal danger, but this woman made him preoccupied.

  It grows dark early at that time of year, so Milo provided Hermes with a torch to light our way home. I was pleasantly befuddled by the wine and greatly bemused by my new commission from Milo. I did not like the idea, but he had done me many favors and I could not refuse him this. I felt that by pursuing Sulla’s daughter he was storing up much trouble and grief for himself, and I was right, but it was not something I could say to him when his motivation was so obviously emotional rather than political.

  There were some families I thought it best to avoid. The whole pack of Claudians bore that distinction, as did the Antonines. The family of Sulla was another such. People who have a tyrant among their immediate ancestors are apt to have a magnified idea of their own importance.

  Thinking about this led me back to the thing Julia had said that morning that I still could not call up to the surface of my mind. I could not think what the connection might be, but I knew that it was there. I was being more than ordinarily dense, I knew. I could attribute this partly to the wine and partly to the very complicated turns my life had taken since my return from Gaul. And I was about to receive a distraction that would drive it completely from my mind.

  “It’s black as Pluto’s bunghole out here,” Hermes groused as we neared my gate.

  “That’s because it’s night,” I reminded him. “Night is when it’s dark. It’s daytime that is light.”

  “It’s just that it’s dark even for Rome on a moonless night. This torch is about as much use as a one-wick lamp on a night like this.” A second later, he squawked and fell and the torch went out. Without thought on my part, my hands went into my tunic and reemerged with my caestus on one and my dagger in the other.

  “What happened, you little idiot?” I demanded.

  “I slipped! There’s something slippery on the cobbles.” He cursed mightily as he struggled to his feet.

  “Someone’s probably dumped a chamberpot here,” I said. “See if you can get that torch going.”

  “Doesn’t smell like shit,” Hermes insisted. “It’s sticky, though.” He whirled the torch around his head and the flames sprang to life again. By their light he examined the stains on his hands, legs and tunic.

  “If you’ve ruined that tunic, I’ll flog you to—”

  “It’s blood!” he cried, interrupting rudely. Now we both saw a whitish heap on the cobbles a few steps ahead. “A body!” he cried again.

  “You’ll see lots of them after you’ve been in the Subura a while,” I informed him. “I wish the gangs wouldn’t do their dirty work so close to my door.” We went closer and Hermes lowered the torch. That was when I saw the red sandals decorated with the ivory crescent at the ankle. I gripped my weapons more firmly.

  “Uh-oh. Not an ordinary corpse after all. Well, let’s see who we have here.” I crouched by the head and Hermes lowered the torch further. “Well, well,” I said. “Here’s somebody we know. Pity it isn’t Clodius, though.”

  “Pollux!” the boy exclaimed. “It’s that little patrician shit who tried to poison you!”

  And sure enough, there lay young Appius Claudius Nero, with a neat puncture in this throat and a circular dent in his brow.

  8

  I left him there until morning. he’d been no friend of mine, and I saw no point in waking up a lot of citizens just to come and gape at the little lout. Still less did I feel like losing a night’s sleep on his account. I’d had a long day and I was tired. So I just tossed a handful of earth over him and went inside. I bade Hermes soak his tunic in a bucket of water before he retired. As usual I was low on funds and did not want to have to buy him a new tunic.

  I slept like a corpse myself and woke feeling much better. Cato brought in a basin and my breakfast at first light. I splashed my face and downed a mouthful of bread and cheese as I laboriously recalled the previous day’s sequence of events. As the cobwebs of sleep cleared, I realized that it had been a more-than-usually-eventful day. I ordered my thoughts while I munched on boiled eggs and fruit and finished off with a crust soaked in sweet wine. My father always told me I was a degenerate for eating breakfast in bed. Eating breakfast at all, for that matter. He thought it was an un-Roman practice and effete to boot. He was probably right, but I did it anyway. Just as I finished, Cato came back in.

  “Master, there’s some sort of commotion out front.”

  “Whatever might it be?” I said innocently. I had decided to keep quiet about finding the little wretch the previous night. “Where is Hermes?”

  “Sick. Says he has a bellyache. I found his tunic soaking in a bucket this morning, so he must have fouled it last night.”

  “Tell that malingering little swine to get in here immediately,” I said.

  “He’s not faking it, master,” Cato insisted. “He’s puked all over his room.”

  “How does that boy find so many ways to annoy me?” I said. I got up and went to his room. The reek of vomit was strong as I opened the door to his cubicle. The boy lay on his side on a pallet, his body curled around his fists, which in turn were pressed into his stomach. I squatted by him and felt his brow. He was not feverish and I sighed with relief. All I needed was pestilence in the house.

  “When did this start?” I asked.

  “In the middle of the night,” he groaned. “I woke up with cramps.” His scarlet face drained and turned pale. He sighed and sat up. “They come and go. I’m all right now, but it’ll start again in a few minutes.”

  “Are the spasms getting worse?” I asked him.

  He shook his head. “No. They’re not as bad as they were a few hours ago, and they’re farther apart.”

  “Did you eat at Milo’s last night?”

  “Yes. A couple of his
men took me to the kitchen and I ate better than I do here.”

  “They probably slipped an emetic into your food. They have a rough sense of humor. Be careful around them. Milo may be my friend, but his men are all murderers and criminals of all kinds.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said weakly. He didn’t fool me. He yearned to be just like them.

  “Listen, Hermes. I’ve decided to keep finding Nero’s body last night secret. Say nothing to anyone about it.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said meekly. Apparently he was too miserable to protest.

  “Good. I’m leaving now. You’ll probably have the runs next. If so, Cato will help you to the public jakes down the street. No sense making the smell in here worse than it already is.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I left feeling relieved. It wasn’t contagious, and he seemed to be recovering from whatever it was. In spite of everything, I had taken a liking to the boy. The world is full of humble, obedient slaves who rob you blind when you turn your back. Having one who didn’t pretend to be anything but a villain was amusing.

  I went out into the street and saw that a crowd had gathered around the body. It now lay completely stripped, the clothes lying in a heap nearby. Apparently, somebody had come across it during the night and had removed all valuables. The clothes were too blood-soaked to bother with. In morning light the body just looked frail and rather pathetic. He might have tried to poison me, but he was just a boy who had got involved in matters too great and too dangerous for him.

  My neighbors looked to me for instructions. I was, after all, the neighborhood Senator. I spotted a vigil who had apparently just got off duty. His bucket still dangled from his hand.

  “Go to the Praetor Urbanus,” I told him. “Report the murder of a patrician in the Subura.” The thief had not taken the red sandals. Even the stupidest thief would know better than to try to sell those.

  “What was he doing down here?” a man asked. The question had occurred to me as well. I knew that my mental faculties had been uncommonly slow of late, but I also knew it was no mere coincidence that Nero had been murdered a few steps from my door. Had he been sent to finish the job he had botched at the house of Capito two nights before? If so, why had he been murdered instead? It had to mean that the murder of Capito and the attempt on my own life were somehow connected.

  “Neat bit of throat-slitting there,” someone commented. There were connoisseurs of such things in my neighborhood.

  My clients began to arrive and we retired within my house. There was one duty I knew I could not avoid. One of my clients had brought a slave boy with him, and I borrowed the youth.

  “Do you know where the mansion of Clodius is?” I asked him. The boy nodded. “Then go there and tell him that he has a dead relative lying in the street here.”

  “Me? Talk to Clodius?” His eyes bugged with fear.

  “You will probably only talk to his majordomo. If Clodius wants to question you, don’t be afraid of him. He knows better than to harm another man’s property. Now be off with you.”

  The boy ran out, and a few minutes later an official arrived accompanied by a single lictor. I did not know him.

  “I am Lucius Flavius,” he said, “iudex of the Urban Praetor’s court. Did you discover the body, Senator?”

  “My neighbors found him this morning,” I prevaricated. “But it looks as if a robber found him earlier.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Appius Claudius Nero. I met him at the house of Metellus Celer four days ago. He was with Publius Clodius, and I’ve sent a messenger to Clodius so that he can come to claim the body.”

  “That saves me a task, then. He seems to have been killed in the same fashion as Mamercus Aemilius Capito.”

  “He was at Capito’s house the night of that murder. I don’t know what the connection might be, if there is any.”

  Flavius shrugged. “Friends of Clodius often die violently. I imagine the lad just fell into bad company. If you’ll forgive my saying so, this is a rough neighborhood. Probably he was looking for some of the low amusements available hereabout and ran into the killer by chance. It doesn’t pay to be both well dressed and alone in some parts of the city.”

  “All too true,” I said. At Capito’s house he had been accompanied by a pack of slaves, but if he’d come to kill me, he would not have wished to bring witnesses.

  “I suppose I’d better wait for Clodius to come fetch the body,” he said. I sent Cato for some food and wine and asked Flavius to join me in my study. He accepted gratefully. Apparently the murder of Nero did not interest him greatly, but I soon found out what did.

  “I know we haven’t met, Senator,” he said, “but new friends are always valuable, even if met under unorthodox circumstances. You see, I am standing for a tribuneship for the coming year, and the support of the Metelli would not come amiss.” This was an understatement. We controlled a tremendous voting bloc in the plebeian tribal assembly.

  “I am not high in the family assemblies,” I said, “but I am not totally ignored. What is your stand on the land for Pompey’s veterans?”

  “I intend to introduce an agrarian law in support of the land distribution using a combination of public lands and land purchased from revenues. I’ve outlined it to Cicero and he agrees it’s workable.”

  “Good. Will you oppose Clodius’s efforts to change his status to plebeian?”

  “I’ll interpose my veto to stop any such attempt. And it will be needed, because I happen to know that Clodius is pushing Caius Herennius for the tribuneship. The agreement is that Clodius will help Herennius get elected, and in return Herennius will propose a bill to transfer Clodius to the plebeians.”

  “I’ve heard that Clodius is using some unheard-of tactics to curry favor with the mob,” I said.

  “And very successfully. To hear the tavern-talk now, you’d think that Clodius was Romulus come again.”

  This sounded ominous. “If that’s the case, you may count on my support.” I had no idea whether I could trust his word, but I resolved to find out soon. We spoke of political matters for some time, until a client came to tell me that a party had come to retrieve the body. I rose and went to my front gate, my clients close behind me. I had little fear of a real fight with Clodius. Whatever his growing power in the slums, my district was strictly Milonian.

  Outside, Clodius’s crowd had brought a bier and waited by the body while the Libitinarii went through a perfunctory lustrum so that the body could be handled without contamination. The priest touched it with his hammer to claim it for the goddess, then went through the usual rigmarole with liquids and powders. Then he nodded to Clodius, who had been standing by, studiously ignoring me.

  Clodius then performed his duties. The body was lifted onto the bier and he leaned over the dead boy’s face, almost kissing him, miming the action of catching his last breath as it escaped the body. A little late for that, I thought, but it had to be done. He straightened, clapped his hands three times and shouted the conclamatio:

  “Appius Claudius Nero! Appius Claudius Nero! Appius Claudius Nero!” After the last calling of the name, a crowd of female relatives and slaves set up the usual shrill lamentations and Clodius placed a coin under the boy’s tongue, to pay the ferryman. As the bier was raised he turned to glare at me, but he said nothing until bier and body had been carried away and the mourning wails faded into the distance.

  “Metellus! You murdered my cousin and I intend to bring charges against you in the Court for Assassins!” Obviously, he didn’t really believe what he said. He preferred to kill his enemies without benefit of a trial.

  “You’re babbling even more dementedly than usual this morning, Clodius,” I said. “Even if I wanted to murder the boy, I wouldn’t do it in front of my own gate. Anyone can see that he was killed by the same murderer who killed Mamercus Capito, and I was in Capito’s triclinium when that happened, as several of the most distinguished men in Rome will bear witness.” I made no mention of the po
isoning attempt. People might infer from it that I bore a grudge against the boy and had a motive to kill him.

  “I didn’t say you did it with your own hand!” Clodius yelled. “You’re not that good with a dagger. The assassin was your hireling!” Behind him, a gang of his thugs growled, but all the rooftops were crowded with my neighbors, armed with enough stones to build a small city.

  “If you want to make formal charges, you know how it’s done,” I said, “but a man under accusation of sacrilege cuts a poor figure in court.” At this my supporters roared with laughter while Clodius grew scarlet in the face.

  “Then perhaps we shouldn’t bother the courts with this!”

  I saw the glint of daggers being drawn among his mob, and behind me, my own followers gripped cudgels, stones and, no doubt, a few swords. I reached into my tunic and gripped my caestus. We had the makings of a full-scale riot here, and I was ready for one. The past few days had been frustrating, and a street brawl is a fine way to relieve tension, despite what the philosophers say. I have always held that excessive equanimity is unhealthy. We were about to come to blows when something unexpected happened.

  The crowd in the street parted as if by magic as a herald came forward in his white robe, parting the mob with his ivy-wreathed staff. “Make way!” he shouted. “Make way for the Pontifex Maximus!” The daggers disappeared as if they had never existed. I released my grip on my caestus and the crowd fell silent.

  Caius Julius Caesar strode superbly into the space between the two hostile groups. He wore a magnificent formal toga, one fold of it drawn over his head as if he were engaged in one of his sacerdotal functions. He turned slowly in a full circle, and people fell back before his lordly eagle’s frown. This was the first time I witnessed Caesar’s easy mastery of crowds, and I was impressed. Now I could see why he was so influential before the huge public assemblies. In small gatherings, even before the Senate of his peers, Caesar’s manner looked like bombastic posturing. In the midst of a great mob it was godlike. I began to have an inkling of what he would be like haranguing the troops before battle.