SPQR III: the sacrilege (7 page)

A loud shout from the front of the house jerked everybody's attention in that direction. We scrambled from the couches and to our feet, aware that this was no domestic argument. As the others rushed out, I hung back and took Hermes by the shoulder.

"Now what was all that about the pastries?" I said.

"They were poisoned," Hermes said.

"Ridiculous. Mamercus Capito has no cause to murder me."

"Wasn't him," said Hermes. "It was that little patrician bugger next to you. He asked the old pontifex about that Bona Dea business, and when you looked that way he sprinkled something onto those pastries in front of you." He leaned over and took one from Nero's place and popped it into his mouth.

"Hermes!"

"Well, he didn't poison
his
! I got hungry, standing there while you and your friends stuffed yourselves."

I took my napkin from within my tunic and carefully, without touching them, gathered up some of the pastries. These I wrapped and placed within my tunic.

"Come," I said, "let's see what happened."

The others were gathered in the atrium along with some agitated slaves. On the tessellated floor lay a stout body. It was Mamercus Aemilius Capito, dead as Hector. Appius Claudius Nero stared at the corpse wide-eyed and pasty-faced. The rest, for whom the sight of a murdered nobleman was no novelty, were a good deal more composed. Considering that Nero had just tried to murder me, I found his distress commendable.

"What happened?" I asked unnecessarily.

"As you will discern," Catulus said dryly, "our host will not be joining us for the after-dinner drinking bout. It seems that his caller did away with him."

"Did he have enemies?" asked one of the men from Afranius's table.

"He had at least one," said Catulus. "Come now, man! What Roman of any importance lacks enemies?"

"How boring," said Catullus the poet. "In the epics and the dramas, murders are always exciting and terrible. This is rather tawdry."

Calpurnianus turned to Capito's majordomo. "Summon my slaves."

"At once, Consul." The man bustled off. I looked around for the slave who had summoned Capito from the table. It was a sizable atrium, but I spotted him and beckoned him to my side.

"Who called upon your master this evening?" I asked him.

"It was a man in a dark-colored cloak. He had a fold of the cloak drawn over his head, so I did not see his face. He spoke in a low voice."

"Didn't that seem strange?"

"It is not my place to screen my master's visitors. He said that he was expected."

"Has you master received many such visitors lately?"

"I do not know. I was just working in the atrium when he arrived. The gatekeeper would know."

The Consul's slave retinue came in. Except for a personal valet, each of the greater guests had sent his attendants to the rear of the house. Calpurnianus had at least a dozen, who all tried to pretend that they hadn't been drinking. He summoned a boy who wore the tunic, belt and hat of a messenger. The boy held out a tablet and stylus that were connected to his belt by thin chains. The Consul opened the wooden tablet and began to write on its wax surface.

"Take this to the house of the
Praetor Urbanus
Voconius Naso. He is unlikely to be at home, but wait for him there and see that he gets this. No need to wait for his reply. I'll speak to him tomorrow in the Curia." The boy dashed off and the Consul addressed the rest of us. "I suppose he'll want to appoint a
iudex
to investigate."

I spoke to the slave again. "Were you here during their talk, or was anyone else?"

"My master dismissed me and instructed that he and his visitor were to be left alone."

At that moment, the messenger ran back in. "The gatekeeper's dead," he reported, then ran back out.

"So much for other witnesses," I said.

"The mistress is at Picenum," said the majordomo, "where they maintain a country house. I will see that she is notified and make arrangements for the funeral." From elsewhere in the house began those extravagant mourning noises with which slaves bring a little drama into their lives.

"Any sons?" asked Catulus.

"No. Two daughters, both married. I will notify them as well."

"Nothing more to be done here," said Calpurnianus. "Good evening to you all."

The others sent for their slaves. Our behavior might seem haphazard, but remember that in those days Rome had no police or regular investigative officers. A
iudex
might investigate, or an ambitious young politician might take it upon himself to look into the matter and bring charges against someone. But murderers were often of humble status, and therefore nobody's reputation was to be made by prosecuting them.

I saw Nero gather his slaves together. He had brought no fewer than four. The Claudians were a well-fixed family. I was greatly his senior in years, experience and reputation, and all I could afford was an amoral wretch like Hermes. I summoned that observant youth and whispered to him: "Follow that little bastard and see where he goes; then report to me tomorrow."

He looked indignant. "Is that all?"

"What do you mean, is that all?" I demanded.

"I just saved your life. That ought to be worth something."

"So you claim. For all I know, you've just accused a perfectly innocent young man. Just follow him. If it turns out you really did save me, I'll be nice to you come Saturnalia." He stalked off. Actually, I had no doubt he had told the truth. If Nero was associating with Clodius, then he had to be guilty. But I knew better than to flatter Hermes. Slaves like that will take advantage of you if you let them.

The pool of blood around the body was growing rather large, but most of it was on one side. I stepped closer on the less bloody side and crouched for a better look. The murderer had cut Capito's throat, but from what I could see of the wound, it was amazingly small, rather like a stab wound. Then I noticed a slightly depressed mark between the brows, as if he had been struck by some sort of cudgel. Most killers find one death-blow sufficient, but I supposed that a little insurance would not come amiss. I stood and backed away from the corpse, my sandals making slight, sticky sounds as I did. I had not been able to entirely avoid the blood.

"Well," I muttered, "that's one who won't be Celer's colleague."

"What's that you say?" Afranius said. The others had already left, but he had been busy berating his linkboy, who was too drunk to keep his torch alight.

"Oh, a political matter. My kinsman Metellus Celer is standing for the Consulship, and I was to talk with Capito about a possible alliance." It was not the sort of thing that had to be kept confidential.

Afranius's eyes lit up. "A
coitio
? Well, Capito is out of the picture. You know, I think the wine-bowl is still full in the triclinium. Why don't we go back there and talk while my boy sobers up?" We ambled back into the dining room as all around us the house was filled with wails of mourning.

Chapter IV

"Lucius Afranius, eh?" Celer said. We stood on the steps of the Curia in the dismal light of early dawn. "He wouldn't be a bad choice. I could count on him not to give me any trouble or try to override my acts. In fact, he was one of the ones I planned to have you sound out, eventually. Good work, Decius."

"Always happy to serve," I assured him.

"Pity about Capito, though. The
janitor
, too, you say?"

"Killed with the same two blows, still chained to his gate."

"The killer was probably an ex-gladiator, then. The gangs are full of them, and the stab in the throat is the arena death-blow."

That had occurred to me as well. I had known many gladiators, and among that stalwart confraternity it is a matter of honor to kill the defeated with swiftness and dignity. With a sword, this is best accomplished with a quick jab to the jugular. It is believed to be nearly painless as well, but since none who receive the blow ever talk about it afterward, this is difficult to confirm. Also, there is lots of blood, and the crowds like that.

"Probably a jealous husband and a hired killer," Celer pronounced. "That's what it usually is. Political matters haven't reached the killing stage lately."

"I'm not so sure, " I said. "Business disagreements can get just as vicious."

"He was a patrician," Celer said. "They're not supposed to engage in business. Not that they don't anyway."

While we spoke the Senate was assembling. The curule magistrates, accompanied by their lictors, climbed the steps, stifling yawns like everybody else. Cato was there, virtuously barefoot. The adherents of Pompey formed a grim, determined knot, ready once again to press their suit for his triumph. The usual gaggle of Metellans formed around us. Creticus was there, and Pius the pontifex, although he was an adopted Metellus, actually a Scipio. Of the prominent Metellans only Nepos was not with us. He was always to be found among Pompey's faction. For a wonder, there was not a single prominent Metellan governing in the provinces that year.

"I've spoken to you all," said Celer. "You know how the vote is to go." There were murmurs of assent. Besides the great Metellans, there were at least thirty like me: Senators who had served in the lower offices but were otherwise undistinguished.

"Then to your seats," Celer ordered. Obedient as a veteran legion, we trooped into the Curia.

The interior of the Senate house was dim, and it was musty with damp wool, for it had been raining that morning, and the finest toga is not a fragrant object when it is wet. The fullers use human urine in their whitening process.

Thus my first Senate meeting was not fully as edifying as I might have wished. At least, I thought, it would be the day of a memorable vote. Only the Senate could grant a triumph, one of the few privileges it had managed to keep from the popular assemblies.

The first part of the morning was devoted to arguments. Pompey's adherents reeled off the stunning list of his accomplishments: enemies slain, enslaved or brought under Roman control; territory added to the empire; riches brought to the Roman treasury.

Then the aristocratic party had its hour, belittling the upstart's accomplishments, complaining that the seas were as dangerous as ever despite his campaign against the pirates (this was outrageously untrue, but the aristocrats were grasping at straws by that time) and accusing Pompey of offenses against the gods.

Then the presiding Consul, Niger, called for the vote. The
Princeps
stood. Quintus Hortensius Hortalus was
Princeps
of the Senate at that time, and he cast his vote for Pompey with a brief (for Hortalus) and undeniably eloquent speech. Even at his advanced age, Hortalus had the most beautiful voice in the world. Cicero rose and cast his vote likewise. There were no boos even from the aristocratic party. Everyone knew that Cicero didn't like Pompey. They hated him for the Catilinarian executions and awaited a chance to bring him down on that charge.

Then Metellus Celer was called. He stood and said simply: "I withdraw my former opposition. Let Pompey have his triumph. Let the soldiers of Rome be honored." He sat amid a huge, collective gasp. Everybody knew it was all over. Even such a qualified vote meant that the whole clan of Caecilius Metellus was now behind the triumph.

After that, it was mere confirmation. Permission for Pompey's triumph passed with an overwhelming majority. Even Pompey's bitterest enemies voted in favor, rather than give the appearance of a futile resistance. After all, Celer had given them an out: the assertion that they were honoring the soldiers as a whole, rather than the general in particular. This little qualification was to have serious consequences they did not foresee at the time.

We all went out of the Curia in a mixed mood. Some were jubilant, others subdued. Everyone had a sense that some serious, irrevocable step had been taken and that the Roman state, tranquil for a number of years, was poised on the brink of another period of turmoil. When a leader of the aristocrats was willing to yield even an inch to Pompey, things were unsettled.

On the steps of the Curia, I all but collided with Lucius Licinius Lucullus, celebrated conqueror and enemy of Pompey. He seemed not at all put out by the vote and clapped me on the shoulder.

"Well, that's that, eh, Decius? I hate to see that swine riding in triumph down the Via Sacra, but it was a wise political move."

"A man with an armed legion outside the gates cannot be snubbed forever," I said.

"Exactly. There'll be no more business of note today, and all this has made me hungry. Come to my house for some lunch. Let's see who else could stand a bite." We descended the steps and found Cicero and Milo in conversation. Milo was wearing a splendid white toga, a sure sign that he was embarking on a serious political career.

"Cicero," Lucullus said, "come join me for lunch. You, too, Titus Annius. And I see Cato's sour face. Cato, you need feeding. Come with us."

Milo grinned hugely. "I shall be most honored, Lucius Licinius." Clearly, this was the first time he had received such an invitation. It was as good as a confirmation by the Censors. Cicero and Cato looked a little peeved.

"Lucius," said Cicero, "you're not going to throw a banquet again and call it lunch, are you?"

Lucullus was all offended innocence. "Now how could I do that? I've given my staff no such instruction. It shall be just the usual simple fare they set out for me every day."

These invitations were much sought after. The whole idea of lunch was rather new to Romans. We made a practice of starving ourselves all day. Dinner was not only the most important social occasion, but virtually the only genuine meal of the day.

By this time an album had been set up on the Rostra announcing the decree of the Senate, and there was much cheering from the populace. Everyone loved a triumph, and this one had been long anticipated. Heralds had been dispatched to Pompey's camp to tell him of the Senate's decision, but his toadies were already heading that way on fast horses.

By the time we reached the border of the Forum, Lucullus had picked up Celer, my father, both Consuls and a gaggle of others for his little impromptu luncheon.

"Prepare to be shocked," Cato said to me as we walked toward the Palatine. "Our host's taste for vulgar luxury has grown legendary. He outdoes the richest freedman in base, wretched excess."

"I'm looking forward to this!" I told him.

"On the other hand," Cato allowed, "he has not been utterly idle in his use of his wealth. He is building a library in imitation of the one at Alexandria, and he has brought cherry trees to Italy for the first time. He's established a cherry orchard near Naples and will make seedlings and cuttings available to all."

"That's indeed good news," I said, "about the cherries, I mean." For all our conqueror's strut, we still took a real delight in agricultural matters. Bringing a new melon to Italy would make your reputation as surely as conquering a new province.

"And his fishponds are extraordinary." Cato had to say these things so that he could endure the guilt of enjoying lunch. There should be a religion for people like Cato. Stoicism is simply not up to the task.

Milo came to join us and Cato walked away to talk with Cicero. His aristocratic soul rebelled at the thought of political adventurers like Milo. I never noticed that this bothered Milo in the least.

"Tell me about last night," Milo said. The story had been all over the Forum by first light. I sketched the details of Capito's murder, then told him about the alleged poisoning attempt.

"That may be my slave's wild imagination," I cautioned, "or an attempt to ingratiate himself with me."

"Best not to take chances where Clodius might be concerned. I'll leave that to you, but I'll see what I can find out about Capito's killer. I don't know of anyone who uses that two-blow technique. It reminds me of the way sacrificial animals are killed: a knock on the head and a cut throat."

"I'd thought of that, too. That's a two-man job, though."

"You like to snoop. Get one of the praetors to appoint you
iudex pedaneus
." This last was an official appointed to investigate crimes and disputes.

"I'm not on the list of names to be drawn from," I told him. "I won't be old enough for more than a year."

"That's unfortunate, but if Clodius is trying to poison you, you may not have much attention to spare for other matters."

The town house of Lucullus was the size of many country villas, an amazing thing in the tight-packed city. His staff of slaves and freedmen was rumored to number in the hundreds. That was not unusual for a country estate, but town houses were usually more modest. I gaped like any visiting foreigner at the fabulous statuary, the ponds and fountains, the spectacular gardens, where he had had full-grown trees brought in and planted.

A triclinium is supposed to accommodate nine dinner guests comfortably, with room to wedge in a few extras. The triclinium of Lucullus would have housed a full meeting of the Senate. I was told that this was one of several dining halls, and not among the largest. We flopped onto couches upholstered with pure silk and stuffed with down and precious herbs. The platter set before me was two feet wide, as thick as my thumb and made of solid silver.

The opening course was, as usual, eggs. But these had been wrapped in an incredibly fine foil of hammered gold. It seemed that we were to eat them foil and all. Cato fastidiously unwrapped his. The next course was suckling pigs. They had rubies for eyes.

"This is your modest afternoon repast, Lucius?" Cicero said.

"Yes, when I've nothing in particular to celebrate." He made a signal and musicians began to play. A troupe of beautiful Greek boys came in and began a Pyrrhic dance.

"Don't get him started," warned Hortalus, my father's colleague in the Censorship. "When he wants to show off, he brings out the gold table service. It's as massive as this."

"I was wondering what happened to that big golden statue of Mithridates you captured, Lucius," said Celer.

"Absurd!" Cato protested. "There was a time when only a single service was owned by the entire Senate, and it was passed from one member to another when foreign ambassadors were to be entertained." Cato always talked as if there were something special about being a small, poor city-state. The world was full of such places, and he never seemed to admire any of them.