A Point of Law (16 page)

“Why do you ask?” The question was blunt, and her look was direct.

“This man Fulvius was from Baiae, recently arrived in Rome. I wondered if he might be a family client of your husband.”

“I know of no family named Fulvius among my husband’s
clientela
. I believe the Fulvias are in some way connected to the Claudia Pulchri, but not to the Claudia Marcella.”

“I see. Do you know if your husband has dealings with the Tribune of the People, Marcus Manilius?”

“I don’t know the man, but my husband stands firmly with the
optimates
and I can hardly imagine him having anything to do with a tribune. Those jumped-up peasants have brought the Republic to the brink of ruin. Sulla should have abolished the office when he had the power to.”

“I see I’ve troubled you needlessly,” I said, rising.

“I am truly sorry I couldn’t help you, Senator. I do hope you don’t think me rude.” Her smile was like the smile carved on a statue.

“Not at all. I’ll just see if I can locate your husband, our future consul. If I miss him, please extend my regards when he returns home.”

“I’ll be sure to do so.”

I collected Hermes and we left the house.

“Did you catch all that?” I asked him.

“Every word. I didn’t think they made Roman matrons like that anymore.”

“They don’t. I’m sure almost everything she said was a lie.”

“That’s a relief. A Roman woman who doesn’t follow City gossip—it’s like saying the sun comes up in the west.”

We found a tavern at the base of the Palatine where the soldiers were celebrating among admiring citizenry and took seats outside. The immense bulk of the Circus Maximus reared its arches skyward just a few paces away. An overworked girl brought us a pitcher and cups. It wasn’t like the wine served in a great house, but it was adequate.

“What have I taught you about criminal investigations, Hermes?”

“Everyone lies.”

“Exactly. What must the investigator do?”

“Sort through the lies to find the truth?”

“That’s only part of it. One of the biggest mistakes you can make is to assume that everyone is lying for the same reason. Sometimes they’re covering themselves; sometimes they’re covering for other people. But sometimes they’re hiding something you aren’t even looking for. The fact is just about everyone is guilty of
something
, and when someone like me comes snooping around they reflexively assume that they’re the target and try to hide their guilt.”

“It gets confusing.”

“Nothing that can’t be solved by a first-class mind and a little inspiration,” I assured him. I took another sip of inspiration and pondered for a while. This called for another sip. It really was inferior wine, not nearly as fine as the unknown vintage Octavia had served—

Abruptly, a god (or my special muse) visited me. In moments like this I have a special radiant, or perhaps stunned look. After awhile I noticed that fingers were waving in front of my face.

“Decius,” Hermes was asking, “are you still there?”

“Let’s order some food,” I said. “I’m going to need a little fortification.”

Mystified, he fetched flat bread, sausage, and preserved onions from the food counter and brought it to the table. I wasn’t really hungry, but I put it away like a starving legionary.

“What’s this all about?” Hermes wanted to know.

“We’re going to visit the Brotherhood of Bacchus.”

He blinked. “The wine merchants?”

“Exactly.”

“You intend to get drunk and stay that way until this is all over?”

“A splendid idea, now that you suggest it, but not my intention.” I was absurdly pleased with myself.

Hermes shrugged, knowing what I was like in this mood. “Whatever you say.”

We left the tavern, rounded the northern end of the Circus, and turned left along the river. This district was devoted to the river trade, a great sprawl of wharves and warehouses with few temples or public buildings. Among the latter was the huge
porticus
of the Aemilian family, where a great deal of the river trade was conducted informally.

The warehouse of the Brotherhood of Bacchus stood between the
porticus
and the river. In the little square between the buildings stood one of my favorite statues in all of Rome. It depicted, about twice life-size, the god Bacchus. He stood in the conventional pose of a Greek god, but this was the Italian Bacchus, not the Greek Dionysus. He was portrayed as a handsome young man, but his features were slightly puffy and pouch eyed, his fine, athlete’s body a little potbellied, his smile a bit silly. He looked like Apollo gone to seed. In one hand he held aloft a huge cluster of grapes. In the other, a wine cup. The cup was tilted and the sculptor, with marvelous skill, had depicted a tiny bit of wine slopping over the rim. His pose was a trifle off-balance, his garland of vine leaves just the tiniest bit askew.

“There stands a real Roman god,” I said to Hermes. “None of that stuffy, Olympian solemnity about him.”

We passed the god and went inside. The interior was cavernous, with massive, wooden racks stretching off in all directions, holding thousands of clay amphorae from every district of the world where grapes grow. The racks were labeled by district and year. Everywhere, slaves in pairs, stripped to loincloths, carried amphorae here and there, bringing them from the boats tied up to the wharf outside or from the racks to wagons waiting in the street out front. Each pair carried a
pole on their brawny shoulders, the amphora suspended from the pole by ropes passed through the thick handles molded to each side of its neck. The slaves accomplished this seemingly awkward task with wonderful celerity and skill.

A fat man wearing a toga spotted my senator’s stripe and hustled over. “Welcome, Senator. What may the Brotherhood of Bacchus do for you? I am Manius Maelius, steward of the Brotherhood, at your service.”

“I’m of a mind to buy some wine for my household. Of course, my steward will be along later to make the purchase, but I want to try the vintage first.”

“Of course, of course. What is your pleasure? Here we have wine from Iberia, from Greece and all the islands: Cyprus, Rhodes, Cos, Lesbos—some fine Lesbian just arrived today, Senator—Delian, Cretan, the list goes on. We have Asian, Syrian, Judean, wine from Egypt, from Numidia and Libya and Mauretania, from Cisalpina—”

“My taste runs a bit closer to home,” I said, interrupting his circumnavigation of the Middle Sea.

“We have wine from every district of Italy,” he assured me. “From Verona, Ravenna, from Luca and Pisae—”

I could see he was starting with the north, so I stopped him again. “Something more southerly, I think.”

“Good choice. We bought almost the entire production of Sicily, we have Tarentine and some interesting new products of Venusia—”

“I prefer vineyards north of that area.”

He beamed. “Of course, you desire Campanian. The very heart of Italian wine country. Naturally, we have wine from Mount Massicus, especially the always-reliable Falernian, grown on its southern slope. We have wine from Terracina and Formiae, and some rather good Capuan, although its yield has been rather inferior these last years due to excessive rainfall.”

Hermes had finally caught on. “The senator has a weakness for the vineyards around the Bay of Neapolis.”

The fat man clapped his hands in approval. “Ah, the incomparable slopes of Vesuvius! There is nothing to compare with volcanic soil, a steep slope, and perfect sunshine. Vesuvius is even better than Aetna. We have Stabian, Pompeiian—”

“I think,” Hermes said, “if you have some really good product from near, say, Baiae, that you’ll make a sale.”

“I see that the senator is a real connoisseur. Not many people understand the qualities of Baiaean. Small vineyards, very low yield, so little is exported. Only wealthy vacationers ever try them, and they keep the news to themselves because they don’t want a rush to start, driving the price up, as happened with Caecuban a few years ago. It just so happens that we have a few amphorae from a select group of the very best vineyards.”

I clapped him on the shoulder. “Lead on, Manius Maelius!”

We took a long walk down the rows of jugs, the skylights admitting the afternoon sun in bars of light divided into small lozenges, the result of the bronze fretwork that protected the warehouse from intruding pigeons.

We ended up in a shed built onto the southern end of the warehouse. It contained no more than a few hundred amphorae, all of them with the characteristic color of Campanian pottery. The racks were labeled by town, the amphorae by vineyard. A single rack bore the name of Baiae.

“We cannot, of course, unseal these amphorae for tasting,” Maelius said. “But, since the finest vintages are bought only by persons of quality, we have an arrangement with each vineyard to supply a small quantity of each vintage for tasting purposes.” He gestured to a table along one wall. It resembled the serving counter in a wineshop, with jugs resting in holes cut in the table, a dipper and a stack of tiny cups beside each jug.

The steward began at one end of the table. “Now this is from a vineyard owned by ex-consul Cicero himself.” He dipped out a cupful and handed it to me ceremoniously.

I sipped. Immediately I knew I was right. It was very similar to the wine Octavia had served. Soil and sunlight will always tell. I reflected that Cicero had never served this vintage when I’d visited him. Keeping it to himself, was he? This confirmation alone would have made the trip a success, but I decided to press my advantage. When the gods have shown you exceptional favor, it makes sense to determine just how much they love you.

“Excellent,” I told him, “but not quite what I’m looking for.”

I tried one from the Puteoli district, then several others, each time closing in on the bay itself.

“This is an especially fine one, Senator.”

He handed me the cup and I tasted. Perfect. It was the very vintage I had tasted earlier that day. My palate is infallible in these matters.

He caught my smile but misinterpreted it. “Ah, I see that this is exactly what you are searching for. Excellent choice, Senator. This wine is from the Baiaean vineyards owned by the great family of Claudius Marcellus.”

“The consul?”

He squinted at the label on the jug. “No, this estate is owned by his cousin, Caius Claudius. He is the one standing for next year’s consulship.” He looked at the rack that held the big amphorae. “You are just in time, Senator.”

“How is that?”

“In previous years we’ve usually managed to get six or seven amphorae from that small estate. This year we got only three and there is one left. Shall I have it set aside for you?”

“Please do so. I’ll send my steward to pick it up tomorrow or the next day.” We left him beaming.

“Do you really intend to buy it?” Hermes said, as we left. “Julia will have your hide off for buying such expensive wine.”

“That’s why you are going to pick it up and take it to the country house. It really is excellent wine. Do you know why they only got three
amphorae this year?” As we passed Bacchus I kissed my fingertips and touched them to his toes. He must have been the god who sent my inspiration.

Hermes thought a moment. “Because, last year, a part of the estate went to Manilius.”

“Exactly.”

“But was Manilius being bribed for a specific favor or was it just for his cooperation during his year as tribune?”

“An excellent question. You really are learning how to do this, Hermes. Next year, when I’m praetor, you’ll make me a first-class investigator.”

“
If
you’re praetor next year. If you’re
alive
next year, for that matter.”

“Such are the vagaries of politics. But the gods are on my side, and maybe they’ll continue to favor me.” By this time we were past the Porticus Aemilia and turned rightward along the old Servian Wall toward the Ostian Gate.

“What do we know about the Claudia Marcella?” I asked as we passed beneath the portal.

“Not much,” Hermes answered. “I’ve got a feeling we’d have heard a lot about them if we’d spent more time in Rome these last few years.”

“That is what I think. We need someone who specializes in gossip, the more scurillous the better. Not a respectable type, mind you. We can’t use anyone whose party affiliation compels him to exalt his own side while defaming the others. We need someone who is shameless about vilifying anyone at all. We need—”

“We need Sallustius.”

“Exactly. I loathe the man, but I loathe him for precisely the same qualities I am in need of now. Run on ahead to the Forum, look into the baths. He’ll be wherever the news is to be had, maybe out on the Campus Martius where the legionaries are pitching their tents.”

“That’s a lot of territory to cover,” he complained.

“Sallustius won’t be hard to spot. When you’ve located him, come back and find me and lead me to him. I’ll be making a more dignified progress toward the Forum. I’ll wait for you at the Rostra.”

He dashed off and I ambled my way up the old street past the Temple of Flora and around the northern end of the Circus, stopping to chat with citizens as I went. It was still election time after all. Nobody seemed to be disturbed by my suspect status. So far, so good.

The day was getting on, but there was still plenty of daylight left. My head buzzed pleasantly from the recent wine tasting. I always take satisfaction in mixing business with pleasure.

By the time I reached the Rostra, Hermes was standing there, and Sallustius was with him. I put on my biggest, most sincere false smile and took his oily hand and clapped his hairy shoulder.

“Caius Sallustius,” I shouted, “you are just the man I wanted to see!”

“So I presumed, since you sent your man to fetch me.” He tried for a sardonic smile, but on his face it was merely ugly. “I take it that this has something to do with your current difficulty?”

I gave him a surprised look. “You mean that silly business with the late Fulvius? Not at all! I simply wished to call upon your matchless—ah, scholarship concerning the political personages of our Republic.”

“I see,” he said, not buying a bit of it. “And just what would you know?”