The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits (18 page)

“You remember when we first went to Gaul and I acted as Caesar’s secretary?”

“Quite well,” he said. “You got in bad with all those officers and Caesar put you to desk work to get you away from them. And there was that German princess –”

“Quiet!” I whispered, knowing that Julia might be eavesdropping. “What I was getting at, is that Caesar
needed
a secretary because he had that strange affliction that makes it so difficult for a man to write. He wrote things backwards and transposed letters and so forth.”

He nodded. “You told me.”

“Well, I think I know who his secretary may have been in the last days of his life.”

“Why do you care about secretaries?”

“Shut up. Just because you’re a citizen and can’t be flogged doesn’t mean I can’t make your life miserable. Who was closest to Caesar in the last days? Aside from Calpurnia, I mean.

“Octavian?”

“No. I mean what man toadied up to him the closest? What man sucked up to him and kissed the hem of his toga and flattered him and laughed loudest at his jokes and wiped his –”

“Oh. You’re talking about Sallustius Crispus.”

“Exactly. He has volunteered to be Antonius’s secretary and librarian and I’ll wager he did the same for Caesar.”

“So what of it?”

“So tonight we are going to burgle his house.”

The smile that spread across his face warmed my heart.

That night we went out in dingy tunics and soft-soled Gallic shoes, prepared to skulk and steal. It wasn’t the first time we’d done this, although we never did it often enough to keep Hermes happy. He was a criminal by inclination and this made him a very valuable resource, because the times called for a great deal of criminality, some of it on my own part. As a senator and occasional magistrate I understood the importance of rule of law and good civic order, but many distinguished philosophers had told me that one ought always to avoid extremes, so I was not extremely law-abiding.

To approach the townhouse of Sallustius we crossed his huge and very beautiful gardens, which I could admire even in the gloomy night. “He bought himself some good taste to build this,” I commented in a whisper.

“He could afford it,” Hermes whispered back, “what with the way he squeezed Africa. Now be quiet.” Ordinarily I did
not take orders from Hermes, but in this activity he was my superior, and I followed his advice. A good thing I did because moments later we came upon a watchman. Before he could make a sound, Hermes was on him like a ghost and we left him under a myrrh-bush, gagged and trussed like a roasting hare with his own tunic and belt. We had to take care of two or three more in the same way before we reached the house. Sallustius was a distrustful man, for some reason. Soon we were at the east wall.

“How do you know we’ll find his study here?” Hermes said as we examined the wall.

“In order to catch the morning light,” I told him patiently. “Haven’t you been with me long enough to know that? You take care of personal and public business in the morning. The afternoon is for the baths and the evening is for eating, drinking and debauchery.” He acknowledged my greater mastery in this field. “You see that balcony? That’s where his study is. He’ll use the balcony to work outside in fine weather. I hope you didn’t forget the rope and grapples.”

Without a word he reached into his satchel and drew out the rope and the iron hooks. The leather pouch also contained small hammers and chisels, finely crafted prybars and exquisite mechanical spreaders, all made by an artisan in Alexandria. He was a Gaul, and Gauls are the finest ironworkers in the world. They know nothing of housebreaking, but this one had lived most of his life in Alexandria, where the art is appreciated. The tools had cost dearly, but I wanted Hermes to have the best, when he carried out the duties I assigned him.

Ordinarily, I did not go along on these little escapades, but this time I was the one who could recognize what I wanted. I had never been able to teach Hermes an appreciation for literary matters. Besides, I was bored.

With the deceptive ease of the true expert, Hermes cast the
hook up to the balcony, where it landed with the merest tick of sound. He drew it back slowly, coaxing its direction with little tugs, until it lodged firmly. “Got it,” he announced.

“You go up first,” I told him. “Make sure the room is empty. You know the rules: no noise, no blood, and don’t kill anyone who isn’t attacking you with a weapon.”

He went up the rope with a lightness and ease that was a pleasure to watch. He went over the balcony rail and into the room with no more noise than his own shadow. Moments later he was back at the railing, signalling me to come on up.

I tried to keep in good condition, since I might be called to war at any time and life in Rome frequently called for agility and a fast pair of feet, but I was puffing and wheezing by the time I scrambled awkwardly over the balcony rail.

Hermes’ teeth flashed white in his face. “You’re getting old.”

“You’ll know the feeling soon enough,” I assured him. “Now, let’s get some light in here.” Hermes tiptoed out to find a lamp while I waited and got my breath back. The place was new and smelled of fresh wood and plaster, with a subtle, unmistakable tinge of papyrus.

A few minutes later Hermes was back with a small lamp, the sort that are used to illuminate stairways. With it he lighted some of the many elaborate lamps that stood by the reading table and soon I had enough light to read. I told Hermes to stand by the door and catch anyone who might interrupt me.

The library was a fine one, befitting a rich sycophant with literary pretensions. Its walls were decorated with portraits of the great writers of Greek and Latin, with pride of place going to Caesar himself. Great racks of cubbyholes held hundreds of scrolls. But I knew what I was looking for would be in a prominent place, easily accessed, since they would constitute the materials for the wretch’s latest project.

Sure enough, I found them stacked on a writing desk beneath a window next to the balcony door: a whole stack of scrolls bearing Caesar’s own seal. I began going through them. By the scrolls stood a stack of recent notes written by Sallustius for future reference. I tossed them to the floor, except for a single sheet.

First I separated the documents by handwriting. Some of them I recognized as my own, written by me when I served as Caesar’s secretary in Gaul. Others were written in various hands, a few in Caesar’s own wretched scrawl. Using the sheet I had retained, I found the ones in Sallustius’s own writing. These would be the most recent, written in the last months before Caesar’s death. Tags on the ends of two small scrolls identified them as Caesar’s will.
Two
wills?

“Somebody coming!” Hermes hissed.

“Gag him,” I said, absorbed in the contents of the two little scrolls. I ignored the minor scuffle behind me, unable to believe what I was reading. In time I turned to see Hermes holding a dagger at a man’s throat. The fellow’s eyes bulged like a toad’s, which was rather fitting.

“Good evening, Sallustius,” I said pleasantly. The toad-eyes darted about, saw what I had been examining and he wilted. “Now, if I allow you to live will you speak in pleasant, conversational tones and not wake the slaves?” The dagger point scraped his neck and he nodded gingerly. I signalled Hermes to let him go.

“Metellus, this is low even for you,” Sallustius said, without much heat. “You’ve been accused of all sorts of vile behaviour, but I didn’t know housebreaking was one of your practices.”

“No help for it. I knew what had to be here and just now there’s no legal means available to get you to cough these up, so extra-legal measures were called for. I knew where to look
when Antonius all but served you up on a platter this afternoon.”

He rolled his eyes. “That lunkhead! What tipped you?”

“He said he was writing a biography of Caesar. The very idea was ludicrous, but I knew that something had to have put the idea in his head. He said you’d volunteered to handle his papers and you fancy yourself a historian, therefore, you must have the relevant documents, including
both
wills. You wrote them at Caesar’s dictation, didn’t you?”

“Of course. Including the one that
wasn’t
read at Piso’s house.”

“How did you accomplish that? Piso was executor. Was he in on this?”

“Of course not! He never saw it. I copied it out and Caesar appended his seal. I was to deliver it to Piso and tell him it superseded the other.”

“Why didn’t you?” I demanded.

“Because Caesar was dead before the ink had a chance to dry. I wrote it down in the early hours of the Ides.”

I marvelled at the document, chuckling. “My Julia just has to see this. Sallustius, you are going to be my guest tonight. You will escort us out the front door and we’ll have a little drink while I decide what to do with you. Hermes, gather up all these papers.”

“Do with me? Metellus, you are going to do whatever will keep you safe, and that means keeping your mouth shut and leaving me strictly alone.” It pains me to say it, but the man wasn’t entirely without intelligence or courage.

“That’s to be seen. Let’s go.” And so we went out through the darkened streets of Rome to my house in the Subura.

“Brutus!” Julia all but shrieked. “He left everything to Brutus! I can’t believe it! He adopted Octavian!”

“Caesar had a way of changing his mind,” Sallustius said,
holding a silver goblet that held heated wine with a dash of vinegar, just the thing to take the edge off a chilly night in April.

“And,” I said, “there are those old stories that he fathered Brutus. Caesar and Servilia were quite close, you know.”

“Nonsense!” she said. “He’d have had to father Brutus when he was only fourteen years old! It’s not –” she looked at us, but we just looked back with that expression of bland innocence we always give to our women. “I still don’t believe it!”

“You don’t have to,” I assured her. “This was not to be the last will, surely. One day it was Octavian, the next Brutus, probably Antonius soon enough. He was a calculating man and he wanted all his cronies to keep guessing who would receive his favour. It bound them to him.”

“But how would they know?” she asked.

I looked at Sallustius. “Oh, I think he had reason to believe that word would get whispered in the right ears.” He studied the decoration on my wall. Not as splendid as his own, of course.

Now Julia glared at him. “So you went to Antonius and told him about the second will, and he bribed you to keep it secret.”

“Bribed me?” he said, offended. “I am already as rich as he is. I wanted all of Caesar’s papers for my biography.”

“To which Antonius graciously assented, since he can barely read. Sallustius, you’ll have to talk to Octavian if you want to use them for your work. They’re going to him, as I agreed.”

“Metellus,” he said, “Antonius greatly preferred the earlier will, because he knew he could dominate a callow boy like Octavian. And Caesar adopted the boy. But if you let it be known that Caesar favoured Brutus above Antonius, he’ll regard you as his mortal enemy.”

“Let me worry about that. As for you, Sallustius, I advise you to retire from political life and stick to your scribbling. We’re about to have another round of squabbling warlords, and to them such men as you are eminently disposable. One or another of them will denounce you just to lay hands on your wealth. Now be off with you.” With a sour look he slunk from my house. He took my advice, too.

“What are we going to do with this?” Julia said, shaking her head at the will. “We can’t let the world know that Caesar willed everything to his own murderer.”

“Nor shall we,” I said, pouring myself another cup with great satisfaction. “Tomorrow, I will go to the house of Antonius again, and this time I will burn that document in front of him. Not to keep your uncle from looking like a gullible fool, but to save my own neck. It’s all he wants, anyway. He never had any use for the other papers and this will put him in my debt once again. That could come in handy, soon. Let Octavian have them.”

Besides, I knew that the little nobody would never amount to anything.

These things happened in the year 710 of the city of Rome, during the unconstitutional rule of the
Magister Equitum
Marcus Antonius.

T
he roar of the crowds followed Claudia as her procession wound its way down the Via Sacra, past the Temple of the Divine Julius into the Forum. Hardly the quickest route to Arlon’s house – but, by Jupiter, it was the one that would attract the most attention! She’d hired the best for today. Jugglers, tumblers, musicians and dancers, with a stilt-walker to bring up the rear. But that was only half of the story.

“My dear child.”

Claudia had been buffing her fingernails in the peristyle when the priest burst in, his long white robes billowing in his wake.

“You do realise that only brides on their wedding day are entitled to wear the orange veil?”

“So?” she had asked, without glancing up.

“So this is
sacrilege
!” he exploded, as much at her disdain as the religious outrage. “I cannot allow it.”

Claudia examined her cuticles, buffed again, then, satisfied with the shine, adjusted her pendant, checked her pearl ear-studs and picked up the small, battered bowl from the marble bench beside her. Finally, she tossed the veil nonchalantly over her head.

“This dye isn’t orange,” she said levelly. “It’s flame.” She watched the priest’s eyes narrow in fury before adding cheerfully, “The valance which veils the top of my litter is orange.”