A Murder on the Appian Way Read online

  But as I say, all these considerations came as afterthoughts. At the time, panic reigned.

  Eco and I sensed the danger at the same moment, even though there was nothing yet to see. He reached for my arm. I reached for his. His bodyguards turned outward in a ring and reached for the daggers hidden in their tunics.

  Eco pressed his mouth to my ear. “Whatever happens, Papa, stay close to me!”

  More easily said than done, I thought, as bodies pressed together and were wrenched this way and that, like links of armor being tested by a smith. To be caught in such a crowd must be something like the sensation of drowning in rough waters. A sea of bodies is a solid, writhing thing that presses back against you, struggling, like you, to stay alive.

  The noise became deafening—oaths, curses, screams, grunts, sudden high-pitched wails and guttural, choking sounds. The fuller and his slave were suddenly next to me. He was yelling, to no one in particular, “I knew this would happen! I knew it!”

  Suddenly there was a break in the crowd nearby, like a rip through a piece of cloth. The Clodians broke through. Wild-eyed men with upright daggers in their fists rushed toward me. Their lips were drawn back, their teeth clenched. They growled like dogs.

  Eco’s bodyguards seemed to have vanished, along with Eco. The panicked crowd was at my back, like a solid wall; I could no more melt into it than I could melt into stone. “That one!” cried one of the attackers, pointing with his knife. “Get the bastard!” He rushed toward me.

  I braced myself, fighting the impulse to turn away. I have always promised myself that I would not end up as one of those corpses discovered with wounds in the back. I stared at the man’s face, trying to look into his eyes, but his wild gaze was fixed on something beyond me. He veered past me, his knife whistling a shrill note a finger’s-width from my ear. His friends followed, shoving me out of the way. From the corner of my eye I saw flashing daggers rise into the air one after another, like long-necked birds craning skyward.

  I pressed myself into the fleeing crowd, trying to merge again into its anonymity, trying not to watch. An even stronger impulse compelled me to look back.

  The daggers rose and fell, rose and fell. They were met by other daggers. Streamers of blood shot upward like screams congealing in the frosty air. In the midst of the turmoil I saw the man I had taken for a banker. He was the one the Clodians had rushed to attack. His cordon of bodyguards had been breached and decimated. The slaves who fell defending him were crumpled in a mass around him, their bloodstained bodies trapping his legs so that he could not flee. The Clodians circled him like vultures, their knives like pecking beaks. They stabbed him again and again. As he twisted and writhed, his mouth gaping in a soundless scream, greedy hands reached to snatch the silver necklace from his throat and pull a bag of coins from inside his toga.

  His assailants circled him once more and then moved on, like a whirlwind. By some miracle the banker remained upright. His eyes and mouth were wide open in astonishment, his toga covered with blood. Suddenly one of his assailants rushed back and quickly, skillfully, like a dutiful slave caring for his master’s accouterments, took the man’s hand and slipped the gold signet ring from his finger.

  The thief might have left it at that, but having come back to finish his business he seemed determined to strike a final blow. He slipped behind the stupefied banker and raised his dagger high, gripping it with both hands. I cringed and braced myself as if the blow were aimed at me.

  But I never saw it fall. A strong hand gripped my shoulder and spun me around. I faced a hulking young man with glinting eyes and a grimly set jaw. At the bottom edge of my sight I saw flashing steel and knew he held a dagger.

  I have faced the prospect of imminent death on several occasions in my near-sixty years. It always seems to provoke the same chain of thoughts in my head. You fool, I always think—because it seems that such situations could always, somehow, have been avoided or at least postponed—you fool, this is the end of you at last. The gods have lost interest in the little story of your life. You no longer amuse them. You shall now be snuffed out like a guttering lamp …

  It is always the same: the names of my loved ones echo in my head. I hear the sweet sound of my father’s voice, which I have not heard for many, many years. And sometimes, in such moments, and this was such a moment, I see the face of my mother, who died when I was very young, and whose face I can otherwise never quite recall. I remembered it vividly in that instant, and knew that my father had been right when he had told me, as he had often done, that she was beautiful, very beautiful …

  But of course a part of me knew that I was not yet destined to die, and understood at once when the hulking young man, in a gruff, desperate voice, said, “Thank Jupiter I found you! The master is furious! Come on!”

  The fellow was one of Eco’s young bodyguards, of course. In my confusion I had not recognized him.

  Eco had retreated behind a nearby temple, where a lean-to shed attached to the plain rear wall offered a degree of concealment. We could still be seen from two directions, since the shed was open at either end, but the spot was at least more defensible than standing in the open.

  “Papa! Thank the gods Davus found you!”

  “Never mind the gods. Thank Davus.” I smiled at the sturdy young fellow, who grinned back at me. “What now?”

  Eco peered out glumly. There was nothing and no one to be seen except blank walls which cast back the echoes of the rioting mob. “I suppose we could stay here. Not a bad spot to make a stand, though there’s no knowing what we might come up against.”

  “Should we make a run for it?”

  “Maybe. To your house or mine?”

  “Mine’s closer,” I said. “But we’d have to cross the Forum somehow, and I imagine there’s more chance of the riot spreading up that way, toward Milo’s house.” I felt a chill as I thought of my wife and daughter alone at the house, with only a barred door and Belbo to protect them.

  “To my house then, Papa?”

  “No. I have to get back to Bethesda and Diana.”

  He nodded. The sound of the riot seemed to grow louder, though it might have been only a trick of the acoustics. Suddenly two figures appeared from around the corner of the temple. We ducked into the shadows.

  From their plain tunics, the two appeared to be slaves. They rounded the corner so fast they bumped into each other and almost fell. The taller one saw the shed and pointed. “There! We could hide there!”

  The shorter, stockier one saw the shed and rushed toward it, pushing his companion out of the way. They were almost like comic slaves out of Plautus, except that in a play they would be fleeing a just beating from their master, not a bloody riot.

  “Jupiter’s balls!” said the taller one, hurrying to catch up. “You needn’t push me down, Milo!”

  “And you needn’t shout my name out loud, you idiot! Come on, before someone sees us.”

  Milo was inside the shed before he realized it was occupied. The first thing he saw were four daggers pointing toward him as Eco’s bodyguards advanced. Caelius, coming up from behind, bumped into him and knocked him forward. Milo’s eyebrows shot up and he bared his teeth in a grimace as he tripped forward and very nearly impaled himself on the nearest dagger. Caelius, glimpsing steel, skittered back and peered wide-eyed into the shed.

  “Draw back!” said Eco, calling off the bodyguards. “These two won’t hurt us.”

  Milo scanned the faces confronting him and stopped at mine. “Gordianus? Is that you? Cicero’s man?”

  “Gordianus, yes. Cicero’s man, no. And you’re Milo, though who would know it to look at you? Where’s your toga?”

  “Are you joking? The mob is going after anybody in a toga. They’re all a bunch of cutthroat slaves and thieves, killing and robbing every citizen they come to. I threw off my toga the first chance I got. Thank Jupiter I was wearing this tunic underneath.”

  “You took off your ring of citizenship as well,” I said, looking at his
bare finger.

  “Yes, well …”

  “I see that Marcus Caelius followed your inspiration.” I shook my head. Two of the most powerful men in Rome were deliberately posing as slaves, and behaving like slaves as well. I suddenly had to laugh.

  “Stop that!” said Milo.

  “Sorry. It’s the tension of the moment.” But I started laughing again, and was soon joined not only by Eco but by Eco’s slaves. Even Caelius, always ready to see the absurdity in any situation, barked out a laugh.

  “But where’s your retinue, your bodyguards?” I said.

  “Slaughtered. Scattered. Who knows?” said Milo.

  “I don’t suppose that could be them?” I said, all laughter dying from my voice. A group of dagger-wielding men had just appeared from around the corner.

  “Oh, Jupiter’s balls!” Caelius groaned. He and Milo shoved their way through the shed and fled out the other side. I followed with Eco and his bodyguards bringing up the rear. Behind us I heard a clash of steel and turned to see one of the pursuers stagger and fall, clutching his chest where Davus had wounded him. At the sight of one of their own gushing blood, the brigands lost heart and fell back.

  Caelius and Milo had disappeared. We found ourselves at the edge of the riot, amid the scattered bodies of the wounded and dead. The paving stones were slick with blood. Smoke belched from the entrance to the Temple of Castor and Pollux. Next door, atop the House of the Vestal Virgins, the Virgo Maxima and her priestesses had gathered on the roof and were watching the scene below with expressions of horror and outrage.

  “Come! This way!” I said, pointing to the paved walkway between the two buildings. It took us to the base of the Palatine Hill and onto the Ramp. Others were ahead of us, fleeing up the long sloping path like refugees from a sacked city. I thought I glimpsed Caelius and Milo far ahead, traveling at a breakneck pace and knocking people out of their way right and left.

  I was completely out of breath before I reached the top of the Ramp. Eco saw my distress and signaled to his bodyguards to help me along. They seized my arms and practically carried me the last few steps. We hurried across the street, toward my house.

  Suddenly, ahead of us, from out of one of my neighbors’ houses, a group of armed men burst into the street. Their leader clutched a handful of jewelry—strands of pearls and silver links dangled from his grubby fingers. In his other hand he held a dagger dripping blood. The door behind him had been knocked from its hinges.

  “You there!” he shouted at us. Though he was some distance away I smelled wine and garlic on his breath. Garlic for strength, an old gladiator’s trick; wine to fortify his courage. He had a red face and ice-blue eyes. “Have you seen him?”

  “Seen who?” I gestured to the bodyguards to give the party a wide berth but to keep moving forward.

  “Milo, of course! We’re going from house to house searching for him. When we find him we shall crucify him for killing Clodius.”

  “Searching for Milo, are you?” said Eco. He was looking at the fistful of stolen jewelry; the sarcasm in his voice made me cringe.

  The thief held up his hand and shook it. “What, these? Who ever said that justice should be free, eh? We deserve our payment, don’t we? As much as these rich folk deserve their pretty things.” He made such an ugly face that I thought he was about to come after us with his dagger. Instead he threw the handful of jewelry at our feet. The silver clinked against the paving stones and the strand of pearls burst. Pink and white baubles bounced everywhere like bits of hail. The men behind him yelled and cursed.

  “Who cares?” he shouted. “There’ll be plenty more where that came from.” He turned and led his raiding party down the street away from us, toward the next house.

  My heart began to pound in my chest. If they were headed in the opposite direction, that meant they had already been to my house …

  My head felt light. I blinked at oily spots before my eyes. Confronted with the possibility of my own death, a part of me always reacted with skeptical resignation. Facing the possibility of something terrible happening to Bethesda and Diana, I felt an overwhelming dread.

  Eco understood. He clutched my hand and squeezed it. As we approached the house I looked for signs of fire or smoke and saw none. Then I saw the double doors of the entrance. They were standing wide open. The lock had been broken. So had the bar, which lay across the threshold broken in two pieces.

  I stepped into the vestibule, which seemed very dark after the daylight outside. Rushing forward, I tripped over something large and solid. Eco and Davus helped me up. “Papa—” said Eco.

  I hurried on. “Bethesda! Diana!”

  No one answered. I ran from room to room, only vaguely aware that Eco and his men followed after me. Couches and chairs had been knocked over. Cabinets lay on their sides with their doors open.

  In my bedroom, the sleeping couch had been senselessly ripped open and the stuffing pulled out in handfuls. A pool of something dark and slick shimmered on the floor in front of Bethesda’s dressing table. Blood? I shuddered, close to tears, then realized that it was only unguent from a broken jar which had fallen to the floor.

  There was no one in the kitchens, no one in the sleeping quarters. Where were the slaves?

  I hurried on to Diana’s room. The door of her wardrobe stood open and her clothes were scattered all over the floor. The little silver box where she kept her few pieces of jewelry was gone. I called her name. There was no answer.

  I came to my study. The scroll cases were empty. They had plucked every scroll from its pigeonhole, probably looking for hidden valuables. Having found none, they had at least left my scrolls and writing instruments intact. Of what use were such things to thieves? Everything lay in piles on the floor, scattered but undamaged, the scrolls still tightly rolled and tied with ribbons.

  Then I caught a whiff of something foul. I wrinkled my nose and followed the smell to the corner of the room. Someone had defecated on the floor and then used a torn piece of parchment to wipe himself. I carefully picked up the scrap by a corner to see what it was and read a few lines:

  Father, what wretchedness is on us now!

  I mourn for you still more than for the dead.

  Poor Antigone! Poor Euripides!

  I stepped from my study into the garden at the center of the house. The bronze statue of Minerva, which I had inherited from my dear friend Lucius Claudius along with the house, which had been his pride and joy and mine, which had elicited the envy of Cicero himself, had been pulled from its pedestal. Did they think to find some secret treasure chamber beneath it, or did they act out of sheer, wanton destructiveness? The bronze should have survived the fall, but there must have been some hidden flaw in its casting. The virgin goddess of wisdom lay broken in two pieces.

  “Papa!”

  “What, Eco? Have you found them?”

  “No, Papa. Not Bethesda or Diana. But in the vestibule—you should come and see for yourself …”

  “See what?”

  Before he could answer, a voice from the sky called both our names. I looked up and saw Diana peering over the edge of the roof. My throat constricted and I almost sobbed with relief.

  “Diana! Oh, Diana! But what—how did you get up there?”

  “The ladder, of course. Then we pulled it up after us. And then we kept out of sight and stayed quiet. The thieves never even knew we were here.”

  “Your mother as well?”

  “Yes. She wasn’t afraid to climb the ladder at all! And the slaves, too. It was my idea.”

  “And a brilliant idea it was.” Tears welled in my eyes until Diana became a blur.

  “And look, Papa! I even thought to save my jewelry box.” She held it proudly before her.

  “Yes, very good. Go get your mother now,” I said, impatient to see with my own eyes that Bethesda was safe. “Tell Belbo to come, too.”

  Eco spoke softly in my ear. “Papa, come to the vestibule.”

  “What?”

 
“Come.” He took my arm and led me there.

  When I first rushed into the house, I had tripped over something large and heavy. The thing I had tripped over was a body. Eco’s men had rolled him onto his back and pulled him into the light.

  Belbo’s face, normally so bovine and amenable, was frozen in a grimace of fierce determination. In his right hand he clenched a dagger with blood on it. The front of his pale tunic was spotted with great blossoms of red.

  He had died just inside the broken door, defending the breach, striving to keep them out. His dagger testified that he had inflicted at least one wound, but he had taken many more.

  The tears which I had been holding back, which I had begrudgingly released in my relief at seeing Diana, now came in a blinding flood. The simple, cheerful man who had been my loyal companion for twenty-five years and the protector of my loved ones, who had saved my life more than once, who had always seemed lit from within by a steady flame which nothing could extinguish, lay lifeless at my feet. Belbo was dead.

  PART TWO

  ROAD

  10

  The looting and burning went on for days.

  Rome was utterly without order. Fires broke out or were deliberately started all over the city. A haze of smoke settled into the valleys between the seven hills. Teams of slaves and hired freedmen, their clothes and faces smeared with soot, rushed from crisis to crisis.

  I heard women screaming in the night, hoarse cries for help, the clash of steel against steel. There were wild rumors of every sort of outrage—rapes, murders, kidnappings, children trapped in houses and burned alive, men hung upside down by their feet at street corners, beaten to death with clubs and left hanging like trophies.

  The day after Belbo was killed, Eco and I braved the streets to deliver his body to the necropolis outside the city walls. Two of my household slaves pulled the cart bearing his corpse. Eco’s bodyguards flanked our procession. Though we passed several gangs of looters, no one disturbed us. They were too busy plundering the living to bother with the dead.