A Murder on the Appian Way Read online

  CRITICAL PRAISE FOR STEVEN SAYLOR’S

  ROMA SUB ROSA SERIES FEATURING

  GORDIANUS THE FINDER

  “Saylor puts such great detail and tumultuous life into his scenes that the sensation of rubbing elbows with the ancients is quite uncanny.”

  —The New York Times Book Review on A Murder on the Appian Way

  “Saylor rivals Robert Graves in his knack for making the classical world come alive. The puzzle is subtle, the characterizations vivid, the writing sublime—proof that the mystery can be a work of art.”

  —The Oregonian on The Venus Throw

  “A vivid and robust writer, Steven Saylor invests his books with exquisite detail and powerful drama.”

  —The Philadelphia Inquirer on A Mist of Prophecies

  “As always in Saylor’s historical fiction, the interaction between the powerful and the ordinary is a great strength, as is the evocation of an ancient city: he does here for Alexandria what he has already achieved for Rome … Saylor evokes the ancient world more convincingly than any writer of his generation.”

  —The Times (London) on The Judgment of Caesar

  “Saylor provides historically accurate portrayals while never losing grasp of a captivating plot. His mysteries evolve with intelligent turns and vivid imagination.”

  —The Seattle Times on Rubicon

  “Engrossing … Saylor’s understanding of the rich complexity of Roman life has a universal ring.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle on Catilina’s Riddle

  “Saylor’s scholarship is breathtaking and his writing enthralls.”

  —Ruth Rendall, The Sunday Times (London), on Last Seen in Massilia

  “Superb. From the exceptional attention to historical detail to development of character and plot, which is based on real history, it is a treat to read. All the action takes place in a time of great upheaval both in Rome and Egypt, and Saylor, an excellent scholar, makes the most of it.”

  —The Globe and Mail (Toronto) on The Judgment of Caesar

  “Saylor impeccabley re-creates life in Imperial Rome … an intriguing mix of historical accuracy and tense drama.”

  —St. Louis Post-Dispatch on Arms of Nemesis

  “Saylor’s evocation of ancient Rome is vivid and realistic. Within its compelling story, one tours Roman life from bottom to top in what is both good history and good mystery.”

  —The Austin Chronicle on Roman Blood

  “Saylor shows once again why fans of ancient historicals regard him as the leader of the field.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review) on A Mist of Prophecies

  “Saylor is skilled at spinning a tale out of unlikely historical sources … literate, humane, and dramatic.”

  —The Boston Globe on A Murder on the Appian Way

  MORE PRAISE FOR STEVEN SAYLOR

  “This [A Murder on the Appian Way] is the third of this witty, informed American writer’s crime novels of ancient Rome that I have devoured in two months.”

  —Caroline Gascoigne, The Sunday Times (London)

  “This [is a] wonderfully clever series.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “What Steven Saylor brings to his work are a profound knowledge of the history and culture of ancient Rome and a gift of storytelling only exhibited by those few who are born with it. His work can be enjoyed by all mystery readers regardless of whether they prefer cozies or hard-boiled crime fiction.”

  —Deadly Pleasure

  “Among the best historical series … and the best to use an ancient Roman background.”

  —Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

  “Part of the attraction … comes from watching lofty figures in history, tragedy, and Latin II behaving as nobly and sordidly as real people in daily life… . And Saylor is not the dry-as-dust type; he offers us sex, violence, duplicity, and a worldly acceptance of the varieties of human behavior—there’s an unpretentious lightness of touch in everything.”

  —The Boston Globe

  “You read Saylor because of the skill with which he brings an ancient world to life.”

  —Lambda Book Report

  A MURDER ON THE

  APPIAN WAY

  ALSO BY STEVEN SAYLOR

  A Twist at the End: A Novel of O. Henry

  Have You Seen Dawn?

  Roma: The Novel of Ancient Rome

  Roma Sub Rosa Consisting of:

  Roman Blood

  The House of the Vestals

  A Gladiator Dies Only Once

  Arms of Nemesis

  Catilina’s Riddle

  The Venus Throw

  A Murder on the Appian Way

  Rubicon

  Last Seen in Massilia

  A Mist of Prophecies

  The Judgment of Caesar

  The Triumph of Caesar

  A MURDER ON THE

  APPIAN WAY

  STEVEN SAYLOR

  Minotaur Books

  New York

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A MURDER ON THE APPIAN WAY. Copyright © 1996 by Steven Saylor. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Map copyright © 1996 by Steven Saylor

  ISBN-13: 978-0-312-53968-9

  ISBN-10: 0-312-53968-1

  First Minotaur Books Paperback Edition: April 2009

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To those who taught me history,

  Beginning with Iva Cockrell,

  and at the University of Texas at Austin,

  Professors Oliver Radkey, M. Gwyn Morgan,

  Richard Graham, and R. David Armstrong

  CONTENTS

  A NOTE ON NAMES

  A NOTE ON THE HOURS OF THE ROMAN DAY

  MAP

  PART ONE

  Riot

  PART TWO

  Road

  PART THREE

  Rex?

  PART FOUR

  Ring

  Author’s Note

  A NOTE ON NAMES

  For the names of certain historical figures in these pages, I have used familiar literary forms rather than the more authentic Latin. While their contemporaries never referred to Marcus Antonius as “Marc Antony,” or to Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus as “Pompey the Great,” these traditional versions carry such a magic that it seemed pedantic to resist them.

  A NOTE ON THE HOURS

  OF THE ROMAN DAY

  The ancient Romans did not number their hours as we do, in twelve-hour segments before and after midday, but rather beginning at daybreak, so that when a Roman spoke of the first hour of the day, he meant, quite literally, the first hour of daylight; and the first hour of the night was the first hour of darkness. The following table roughly approximates the equivalent hours of the day, as drawn from the historical sources and used in A Murder on the Appian Way:

  7 A.M.

  THE FIRST HOUR OF THE DAY

  8 A.M.

  THE SECOND HOUR OF THE DAY

  9 A.M.

  THE THIRD HOUR OF THE DAY

  10 A.M.

  THE FOURTH HOUR OF THE DAY

  11 A.M.

  THE FIFTH HOUR OF THE DAY

  NOON

  THE SIXTH HOUR OF THE DAY

  1 P.M.

  THE SEVENTH HOUR OF THE DAY

  2 P.M.

  THE EIGHTH HOUR OF THE DAY

  3 P.M.

  THE NINTH HOUR OF THE DAY

  4 P.M.

  THE TENTH HOUR OF THE DAY


  5 P.M.

  THE ELEVENTH HOUR OF THE DAY

  6 P.M.

  THE TWELFTH HOUR OF THE DAY

  7 P.M.

  THE FIRST HOUR OF THE NIGHT

  8 P.M.

  THE SECOND HOUR OF THE NIGHT

  9 P.M.

  THE THIRD HOUR OF THE NIGHT

  10 P.M.

  THE FOURTH HOUR OF THE NIGHT

  11 P.M.

  THE FIFTH HOUR OF THE NIGHT

  MIDNIGHT

  THE SIXTH HOUR OF THE NIGHT

  1 A.M.

  THE SEVENTH HOUR OF THE NIGHT

  2 A.M.

  THE EIGHTH HOUR OF THE NIGHT

  3 A.M.

  THE NINTH HOUR OF THE NIGHT

  4 A.M.

  THE TENTH HOUR OF THE NIGHT

  5 A.M.

  THE ELEVENTH HOUR OF THE NIGHT

  6 A.M.

  THE TWELFTH HOUR OF THE NIGHT

  Men were eager to win office and even employed bribery and assassination to do so, but such was the state of affairs in the city that elections could not be held. With no one in charge, murders occurred practically every day.

  —Dio Cassius, Roman History, XL, 48

  The Appian Way, which was made by Appius Claudius Caecus and honors his name, extends from Rome to Capua, a journey of five days. Its breadth is such that two wagons going in opposite directions can easily pass one another. This road is one of the noteworthy sights of the world, for the stones are so finely cut, leveled and fitted together, without mortar of any sort, that the unbroken surface appears to be not a work of man, but a wondrous phenomenon of nature.

  —Procopius, Gothic Wars, V, 14

  “Stop quoting laws to us. We carry swords.”

  —Plutarch, Life of Pompey, X, 2

  PART ONE

  RIOT

  1

  “Papa! Wake up!”

  A hand gripped my shoulder and shook me gently. I pulled away and felt cold air on the back of my neck as the blanket slid away. I snatched it back and snuggled against it, burrowing for warmth. I reached for Bethesda, but found only a warm vacancy where she should have been.

  “Really, Papa, you’d better wake up.” Eco shook me again, not quite so gently.

  “Yes, husband,” said Bethesda. “Get up!”

  What sleep is as deep as the sleep of a cold Januarius night, when the sky is a blanket of lowering clouds and the earth shivers below? Even with my son and wife yammering at me, I slipped back into the arms of Morpheus as easily as a boy slipping into a bottomless, downy bed of goose feathers. It seemed to me that two magpies were chattering absurdly in a tree nearby, calling me “Papa” and “Husband.” They swooped down, fluttered their wings, pecked me with their beaks. I groaned and waved my arms to fend them off. After a brief battle they retreated into the frosty clouds, leaving me to dream in peace.

  The frosty clouds burst open. Cold water splashed my face.

  I sat upright, sputtering and blinking. With a satisfied nod, Bethesda placed an empty cup beside a flickering lamp on a little table against the wall. Eco stood at the foot of the bed, gathering up the blanket he had just pulled off me. I shivered in my sleeping gown and hugged myself.

  “Blanket thief!” I mumbled grimly. At that moment it seemed the foulest crime imaginable. “Stealing an old man’s rest!”

  Eco remained impassive. Bethesda crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow. By the dim lamplight the two of them still looked suspiciously like magpies.

  I closed my eyes. “Have pity!” I sighed, thinking an appeal to mercy might gain me just one more blissful moment of sleep.

  But before my head reached the pillow, Eco gripped my shoulder and pulled me upright again. “No, Papa! It’s serious.”

  “What’s serious?” I made a desultory attempt to shake him off. “Is the house on fire?” I was irretrievably awake now, and grumpy—until I realized who was absent from the conspiracy to wake me. I looked around the room, blinking, and felt a sudden thrill of panic. “Diana! Where is Diana?”

  “Here, Papa.” She entered the room and stepped into the circle of light. Her long hair, let down for the night, hung loose over her shoulders, shimmering like black water under starlight. Her eyes—the almond-shaped, Egyptian eyes inherited from her mother—were slightly swollen with sleep.

  “What’s the matter?” she said, yawning. “What are you doing here, Eco? Why is everyone up? And what’s all the noise from the street?”

  “Noise?” I said.

  She cocked her head. “I suppose you can’t hear it very well, here at the back of the house. You can certainly hear it from my room. They woke me up.”

  “Who?”

  “People in the street. Running. With torches. Yelling something.” She wrinkled her nose, which she does when she’s puzzled. Seeing the blank look on my face, she turned to her mother, who stepped toward her with embracing arms. At seventeen, Diana is still enough of a child to appreciate such comforting. Meanwhile, Eco kept to one side, wearing the glum expression of a messenger in a play who bears ill tidings.

  I finally realized that something must be truly, terribly wrong.

  A short time later, I was dressed and walking at a fast clip through the dark streets at Eco’s side, together with his four bodyguards.

  I turned my head anxiously as a group of stern-looking young men came running up from behind and passed us. Their torches cut through the air with a whoosh. Our shadows danced crazily up and down the street, growing huge as the torches passed close by and then dwindling like wraiths into the darkness as the torchbearers left us behind.

  I tripped against an uneven paving stone. “Numa’s balls! We should have brought torches ourselves.”

  “I’d rather my bodyguards keep their hands free,” said Eco.

  “Yes, well, at least we have enough of those,” I said, eyeing the four formidable young slaves who surrounded us, one ahead, one behind, one to each side. They had the look of trained gladiators—stiff-jawed, flinty-eyed, alert to every movement in the street around us.

  Good bodyguards are expensive to purchase and expensive to feed. My daughter-in-law Menenia had complained each time Eco added another to their household, saying the money would be better spent on kitchen slaves or a better tutor for the twins. “Protection comes first,” Eco would tell her. “It’s the times we live in.” Sadly, I had to agree.

  My thoughts settled on Eco’s wife and children, whom he had left in his house over on the Esquiline Hill. “Menenia and the twins …” I said, walking faster to keep up with him. My breath made clouds in the air, but at least the pace kept me warm. Even as fast as we were walking, another group of men came up from behind and passed us, their torches sending our shadows into headlong flight.

  “They’re safe. I had a new door put on the house last month. It would take an army to break it down. And I left my two biggest bodyguards to look after them.”

  “Just how many bodyguards do you own nowadays?”

  “Only six—the two at home, and the four with us.”

  “Only six?” I still had only Belbo, whom I had left behind to look after Bethesda and Diana. Unfortunately, Belbo was really too old to be an adequate bodyguard any longer. The other household slaves could hardly be expected to put up much of a fight, if something truly terrible were to happen …

  I tried to push such thoughts from my mind.

  Another group of men came rushing up from behind us. Like us, they carried no torches. As they passed in the darkness, I noticed Eco’s bodyguards grow tense and reach inside their cloaks. Strangers without torches in their hands could be carrying something more dangerous, like daggers.

  But the group passed without incident. Up ahead, someone flung open the shutters of an upper-story window and leaned out. “What in Hades is going on tonight?”

  “They’ve killed him!” cried one of the men ahead of us. “Murdered him in cold blood, the cowardly bastards!”

  “Killed who?”

  “Clodius! Clodius
is dead!”

  The shadowy figure at the window was silent for a moment, then let out a long, ringing laugh that echoed in the cold night air. The group ahead of us came to an abrupt halt.

  “Trouble!” said Eco. I nodded, then realized the hushed remark was a signal to his bodyguards. They tightened their ranks around us. We pressed on at a faster pace.

  “So where—” gasped the man at the window, barely able to speak for his laughter, “where is everybody headed in such a hot rush? To a celebration?”

  The group in the street erupted in angry shouts. Some raised their fists. Others stooped over, searching for rocks. Even on the Palatine Hill, with its immaculate streets and elegant houses, there are loose stones to be found. The man at the window kept laughing, then suddenly yelped. “My head! Oh, my head! You filthy bastards!” He slammed his shutters on a hail of rocks.

  We hurried on and turned a corner. “Do you think it’s true, Eco?”

  “About Clodius being dead? We’ll know soon enough. Isn’t that his house, straight ahead? Look at all the torches gathered in the street! That’s what brought me out tonight—we could see the glow reflected off the clouds. Menenia called me up on the rooftop to see. She thought the whole Palatine Hill must be on fire.”

  “So you thought you’d come see if your Papa was singed?”

  Eco smiled, then his face turned grim. “On the way, down in the Subura, I saw people everywhere in the streets. Gathered at corners, listening to speakers. Huddled in doorways, talking in low voices. Some ranting, some weeping. Hundreds of men heading for the Palatine, like a river rushing uphill. And all saying the same thing: Clodius is dead.”

  The house of Publius Clodius—his new house, for he had purchased the place and moved in only a few months before—was one of the city’s architectural marvels, or monsters, depending on one’s point of view. The houses of the rich on the Palatine Hill grow larger and more ostentatious every year, like great preening animals devouring the little houses around them and displaying ever more sumptuous coats. The coat of this particular beast was of many-colored marble. By the glow of the torches in the street one could see the glimmering sheen of the marble veneers and columns that adorned the outer terraces—polished green Lacedaemonian porphyry, Egyptian red marble mottled with white dots like the pelt of a fawn, yellow Numidian marble with red veins. These terraces, set into a hillside and planted with roses stripped bare by winter, surrounded the gravel-paved forecourt. The iron gate that normally barred entrance to the court stood open, but the way was completely blocked by the mass of mourners who filled the court and spilled out into the street.