Saturnalia (3 page)

I groaned. As a rule, foreigners come in three sorts. There are the comical ones, like Egyptians and Syrians. Then there are the ones who are both comical and scary, like the Gauls. And then there are the Germans, who are just plain terrifying.

“Surely the Senate isn’t sending Caesar into Gaul with a mandate to drive the Germans out?”

“By no means. I suspect that Caesar will first ensure that the Helvetii do not migrate into Roman territory. That is what has been feared for years. He cannot very well march to the Rhine and leave them at his back. I think he intends to crush the Helvetii, then wheel northeast and take on the Germans and their Gallic allies.” He gave me a self-deprecating smile. “Of course, that is just my theory. I am not a military man.”

Lisas dealt with the world from his embassy, but he knew how to interpret a map and he had a sound grasp of politics as it is played on a world scale. I did not doubt that he was very close to the truth of the situation. Roman territory did not extend to the Rhine, but for generations we had considered it our unofficial border. If the Germans crossed, it was a sign of hostility.

“Nobody ever gained great wealth fighting Germans,” I said. “Gauls are a wealthy people by comparison.”

“But one may win glory and a triumph,” Lisas pointed out. “And who was the last Roman to defeat the Germans?”

“Marius, of course,” I said. “At Aquae Sextiae and Vercellae.”

“And what is Caesar’s dearest wish except to be the new Marius? He has courted the
populares
for his whole career, always stressing that Marius was his uncle by marriage.”

“It makes sense,” I admitted. “But it amazes me that even a man like Caesar can believe that he has what it takes to beat the Germans! A few victories in Spain don’t amount to all that much. By the time Marius fought those battles, he’d all but built his legions from scratch and led them to victory for twenty years. You can’t just take charge of established legions as a new proconsul and expect that sort of performance and loyalty.” I knew as I said it that I was probably wrong. Everyone, myself included, had underestimated Caesar for years.

“Caesar has a genius for persuading the common people. Men don’t come any more common that legionaries. They are the most powerful force in the world, more powerful than politicians and consuls, more powerful than the Senate. Marius knew that and so did Sulla. Pompey never understood it, and so his sun is setting.”

As I took my leave of him, Lisas led me out by the arm. “Decius, my friend, as always I rejoice to see you, but I did not expect to see you until after the tribuneship of Clodius should expire at the end of next year.” He had given me some inside information, now he expected the favor to be returned.

“I must confess that I am surprised as well. I was recalled from Rhodes unexpectedly. It has something to do with Celer’s death.”

His eyes lit up with conspiratorial delight. “A most distinguished man. We were stricken with grief at his untimely
passing. Your family expects you to exercise your … unique talents in the matter.”

“I can’t imagine why else they want me here. I’m not a family favorite.”

“But you have a brilliant future before you,” he effused. “I am sure that, in a decade or two, you shall be the most prominent of all the Metelli. You must come see me often while you are in Rome. I may be able to help you. I hear things.” And, of course, he wanted me to pass on anything I might learn. It might be a fair trade.

I had little confidence in his predictions about my bright future. At that time the only way to achieve prominence in Roman life was through military glory or extreme longevity (Cicero, as always, was the exception). I detested military life and my prospects of reaching my fortieth year were exceedingly slim. Oddly, I actually have reached the distinction Lisas predicted so many years ago, although in a way neither of us could have dreamed. I am the only Caecilian of my generation still alive.

But he was wrong about Caesar. Caesar wasn’t interested in being the new Marius; he wanted to be the one and only Julius Caesar.

THE MEETING WAS HELD IN MY
father’s house. The
janitor
opened the door when Hermes knocked and we went inside. The old mansion was eerily quiet.

“The Master and the others are in the triclinium,” the aged gatekeeper informed me. “Your boy will have to stay in the back of the house with the other slaves.” That explained the quiet.

Hermes made a face. “I’ll just wait out front, in the street.”

“You mean in that tavern on the corner,” I said. “Get on in back.” He stalked off with ill grace. I could sympathize. The real reason he didn’t want to be exiled to the rear was that my father had no young, pretty slave girls in his town house.

Besides my father, there were three Caecilians gathered
in the triclinium, all of them named Quintus, my family not being imaginative in the way of names: Creticus, with whom I had served in foreign lands several times, and now the most prominent of the clan, a former consul and a pontifex; Nepos, who had been praetor the previous year, and an adoptive Caecilian who went by the ringing name of Quintus Caecilius Metellus Pius Scipio Nasica, was a pontifex and was serving as Tribune of the People that year. The rest of the distinguished men of the clan were away from Italy that year.

We exchanged curt greetings. The usual wine and refreshments were absent. There was not so much as a pitcher of water in the room. These men were here for serious business.

“I’m surprised to see you still in Rome, Nepos,” I said. “I thought you were given Sardinia.”

“I passed on it,” he said. “Vettius took it instead.” Nepos was a tall, soldierly man, who alone among our clan leaders supported Pompey. This was tolerated because that way, should Pompey become dictator, at least one of us wouldn’t be executed or exiled, and the family would keep most of its lands.

“I can sympathize,” I told him. “I wouldn’t accept Sardinia if I won it at dice.”

Creticus made a face. “You’ve not changed, Decius. You’re an utter political moron. Nepos stays in Rome because he’s going to stand for consul next year.”

“That explains a lot,” I said. “A proconsular province beats Sardinia any day. What’s up for grabs?”

“Barring a foreign emergency, he’ll be assigned Nearer Spain,” Father said. Nobody suggested that Nepos might be defeated or that, barring emergency, he would fail to secure the desired province. When the Caecilia Metella settled on one of their own for consul, he got it. And Spain had been
Metellan territory for almost two hundred years. We had been governing there for so long that it was a major power base, second only to our Italian lands.

“Next year will be a bad one,” Creticus pointed out. “It will be Clodius against Cicero, and a tribune can do real damage. We’ll need to have as much influence as possible the year after to undo whatever’s been done. Scipio will stand for curule aedile as well.”

Scipio nodded. He was a pale, distinguished man of about thirty-five. “As aedile I will be celebrating my father’s funeral games. I intend to give a gladiatorial display of special magnificence.” His adoptive father, the elder Metellus Pius, had died four years earlier. It had become customary to delay funeral games until an heir held the aedileship, in charge of the public spectacles. That way he could discharge his civil and filial duties at the same time and win popularity for higher election. When Caesar was aedile he set incredibly high standards of spectacle outlay.

“Clodius will have the commons stirred up, and nothing buys back their loyalty like a good set of games,” I observed. “But it will be expensive.”

“You will be expected to contribute,” Father said. I should have kept my mouth shut.

“All of which is strictly secondary to the evening’s business,” Creticus said. “Decius, you know that Celer was poisoned, don’t you?”

“I knew that he was dead and that he didn’t die by violence, disease, or accident that anyone witnessed. People always suspect poison when a prominent man dies without visible cause, but there are a hundred illnesses that can kill without warning signs.”

“He was poisoned,” Creticus said flatly.

I released a sigh. I had been afraid of this. “And I can just guess who you suspect did it.”

“No need to guess,” Creticus said. “It was his wife, that slut Clodia. We want you to gather evidence so that we can bring charges against the bitch and have her executed or exiled.”

“You don’t quite understand how this works,” I said. “If I am to investigate, I will gather evidence
then
decide who the murderer is, if indeed he was murdered.”

“Whatever it takes,” Creticus said.

“It may not be Clodia,” I said.

“Who else could it be?” Father demanded.

“I have no idea, but no man ever became consul and commanded armies in the provinces without making plenty of enemies. He fought the Catilinarians and executed plenty of them. Their families will not have forgotten. He might have been dallying with the wrong man’s wife. Married to Clodia, I can well imagine that he sought female companionship elsewhere.”

Nepos snorted. “What man ever commits murder over a little trifling adultery? Celer’s enemies were not the sort to resort to poison.”

“Right,” said Scipio. “If he’d been decently attacked and cut down in the street, we could be certain that it was a political enemy behind it. Poison is a woman’s tool.”

“Why would she have killed him?” I asked. At this they all looked surprised.

“The woman is a murderess many times over,” Creticus said. “Why not?”

It was typical of these men. Murder was all too common in Rome, but they knew that a man would have a sound political
or personal reason for resorting to the act. A scandalous woman, on the other hand, would kill because it was her nature to. And any woman whose name was bandied about in public was scandalous. Highborn Roman ladies were supposed to live anonymously.

“Very well. What is to be my authority?”

“We want this handled with discretion,” Creticus said. “After all, this is within the family. But if you encounter difficulty, you may say that you are acting for Scipio. As tribune, he will bring charges against the
venefica
.” He used the old word for witch poisoner.

“You understand that poisoning is perhaps the most difficult of all murders to prove?” I said.

“I’ve prosecuted and judged such cases,” Father said. “So has Creticus. Just bring us evidence for a credible charge and we’ll get rid of her.”

“Why did Celer marry her in the first place?” I asked.

“We needed an alliance with the Claudians at the time,” Creticus said. “What else?”

What indeed?

At the door of Father’s house, Hermes took a torch from the stand and began to light it from the doorside lamp.

“Don’t bother,” I told him. “There’s decent moonlight tonight.”

I preferred to avoid torches in Rome except on the inkiest nights. Their light is flickering and they destroy your night vision. An attacker need only throw a cloak over it or douse it with water and you are utterly blind until your eyes readjust. Besides, a torch draws attention.

We went outside and stood by the gate for a few minutes while our eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. After that, the streets were fairly negotiable. The moon was three-quarters
full and almost straight overhead, casting her beams upon even the narrowest alleys.

“What did you learn?” I asked Hermes as we set out.

“Not much. Your father isn’t exactly chummy with his slaves.”

“But they hear things,” I said. “What do I keep you around for if not to pick up slave gossip?”

“Near as I can tell, the old man’s just like always. Doesn’t use the whip as much as he used to. Maybe he’s mellowing.” He paused. “There’ve been several of these late meetings where the staff were sent to the back of the house in the last few months.”

“That doesn’t mean much,” I said. “Not for political connivers like my family. Has there been talk about Metellus Celer? Or his wife, Clodia?”

“They say she poisoned him, but that’s just city gossip, not inside family information. Is that what this is all about?”

“Exactly. The family wants to punish Clodia and they are sending me out to dig up evidence.” I talked about these things openly to Hermes. Despite his criminal inclinations, he could be an invaluable help in my investigations and had a real feel for the work. This caused me some disquiet. Did Hermes have the instincts of an investigator, or did I have the instincts of a slave?

“This is your chance!” he said. “That woman’s been a sword hanging over your head for years. Now you can be rid of her for good.”

“I know. I ought to be rejoicing, but I’m not.”

“Why? Oh, well, she is the sister of Publius Clodius. It’ll give him one more reason to hate you.”

I shrugged. “That isn’t it. He can only kill me once, and he intends to do that as soon as possible. No, something else
feels wrong about this business.” I brooded for a while, and we walked across the ghostly, moonlit Forum. Dead politicians glared down at us from their pedestals as if we were Gauls come back to loot the Capitol again. I paused.

“What is it?” Hermes asked.

“Something just became clear to me. Everyone seemed awfully cheerful in the streets and the Forum today.”

“I noticed. Is it because of Saturnalia?”

“No. It’s because the year is almost over and next year will be one of utter political chaos. I just realized that Romans
like
political chaos!”

“Maybe citizens do,” Hermes said.

“Don’t be mealy mouthed. Slaves love civil unrest more than anybody else. They can get away with a lot more then. When men can brawl in the streets, they don’t vent their anger by beating their slaves.”

“That’s what you know about it,” he said, but I had lost interest.

What I was wondering about was why they had recalled me from Rhodes. Certainly I had a reputation as an investigator, but any halfway competent
iudex
could come up with enough material of the sort that passed for evidence in a Roman court, where eloquence of denunciation was more important than proof of guilt. Maybe they just didn’t want to run afoul of a woman with Clodia’s reputation. Poisoning is not only difficult to prove, but it is also difficult to avoid.