A Murder on the Appian Way Read online

  At the grove of Libitina we entered Belbo into the registry of the dead. The cremators were very busy that day. Belbo was burned along with several others on a flaming pyre, and then his ashes were taken to a common grave. It seemed too small an end to such a robust life.

  Eco and I debated whether my family should go to his house, or his family should come to my house, so as to join our defenses. In the end, we decided to leave his household slaves at the house on the Esquiline, so as to guard the place, but to move Menenia and the twins into my house, which, once the door was repaired and strengthened, was arguably more defensible. The Palatine was dangerous, but there had been numerous fires and reports of atrocities on the Esquiline as well, and down in the Subura there was no semblance of order at all. Besides, my house had already been ransacked. There was no reason for the same looters to come back a second time.

  As is wont to happen in such circumstances, the air of crisis actually lent a comforting solidarity to the household. Bethesda, Menenia and Diana all worked together, seeing to the repair of the damaged furniture, making lists of the things that needed to be replaced, finding ways to keep the household fed when most of the markets were shut down and the rest were open for only a few unpredictable hours each day. The twins, Titus and Titania, sensing the gravity of the situation, were eager to help and behaved with a maturity beyond their seven years. I felt safer in the company of Davus and the other bodyguards, and it was good to have Eco beside me. But the ransacked house itself was a constant reminder of our vulnerability. Whenever I passed through the garden, I saw the Minerva lying broken on the ground. Whenever I passed through the vestibule, I remembered Belbo as we had found him. I felt his absence acutely. Sometimes I called his name aloud before stopping myself. He had been at my side every day for so long that I had come to take him for granted, like the air; and like the air, once he was gone I realized just how much I had needed him.

  One interrex gave way to the next, and the next, and there were still no elections or even the prospect of elections. How could there be, in such a state of chaos? Day by day and hour by hour the sentiment seemed to be growing that Rome needed a dictator. Occasionally the name of Caesar was mentioned. More often, and more vehemently, it was Pompey who was invoked, as if the Great One’s name were some magical incantation that could put all wrongs to right.

  Each day I thought that I might hear from Cicero again, but there were no more summons from Tiro, no hushed meetings with Milo and Caelius. I almost wished that Cicero would call for me, so that I could get some idea of what he and his circle were up to in the midst of the disorder.

  It was another who came calling for me instead.

  It was a cold, bright Februarius morning. Eco had gone to check on affairs at his house, so I was alone in my study. Despite the chill, I had opened the shutters to let in some sunlight and fresh air. Perhaps the many fires all over the city had at last been quenched; I could smell only a faint tang of smoke. Davus came into my study to say that a litter accompanied by a train of slaves was camped outside my front door, and that one of the slaves had a message for me.

  “A litter?”

  “Yes. Quite a grand vehicle. It has—”

  “Red and white stripes,” I said, with a stab of intuition.

  “Why, yes.” He raised his eyebrows and I was reminded, with a pang of sadness, of Belbo. Young Davus looked nothing like him, being dark and considerably more handsome than Belbo had ever been, but he was of the same size and bovine demeanor. He wrinkled his brow. “It looks familiar.”

  “Could it be the same litter we saw arrive at the house of Clodius, on the night of his death?”

  “I think it must be.”

  “I see. And there’s a slave with a message, you say? Show him in.”

  The man was typical of Clodia’s male servants, young and impeccably groomed with a striking profile and a muscular neck. I would have known who sent him even if Davus had not told me about the litter, for there was a hint of her perfume about his clothes. I had never forgotten that scent, with its blend of spikenard and costly crocus oil. He must have been a very favored slave to smell so strongly of his mistress.

  His status was confirmed by his haughty manner. He sniffed and peered about my study as if he were thinking of buying the house, not just delivering a message. “Well,” I finally said, “what does Clodia want from me, young man?”

  He gave me a dubious look as if to say, I can’t imagine, then smiled. “She requests the pleasure of your company in her litter.”

  “In her litter? What, does she expect me to go traipsing through the streets in a litter, at a time like this, with all that’s going on?”

  “If it’s your safety you’re concerned about, don’t worry. Where else could you possibly be safer?”

  Certainly not here, he seemed to suggest, looking over my shoulder and through the open shutters at the broken Minerva in the garden. And he was probably right. It was the Clodians who were rioting; they all knew Clodia’s litter; they would scarcely attack their idol’s sister. Besides that, her retinue probably included some of the biggest and fiercest gladiators in the city. Indeed, where else could I possibly be safer than skimming across the Palatine in Clodia’s litter—unless, of course, we ran into a gang of Milo’s men out looking for trouble …

  On the other hand, considering the circumstances—anarchy in the streets, rival gangs waging virtual civil war, a looming dictatorship, an uncertain future—it was probably not a good idea to consort with Clodia at the moment. Eco would surely have advised me against it, but Eco was not there, and I was tired of hiding in my house, playing passive spectator to a city spinning out of control. So long as Cicero had taken me into his confidence, however suspicious the circumstances, I had felt that I had access to special knowledge. The privilege of knowing more than other men reassured me; it gave me a sense of control and power, whether real or not. Now I felt cut off, adrift, more anxious than if I were deliberately courting a danger that I at least comprehended. A meeting with Clodia promised a glimmer of privileged information. I couldn’t resist.

  The chance to be close to Clodia again had nothing to do with it, I told myself. The opportunity to recline next to her in her litter, cocooned in the aura of her perfume, close enough to feel the heat of her body …

  “Davus, tell your mistress that I’ve been called away on a small errand. I don’t expect to be away long, but if I am I’ll send a messenger.”

  “You’re going out, Master?”

  “Yes.”

  “I should go with you.”

  “You’ll hardly be needed,” said Clodia’s slave, giving Davus a disparaging look. I suppose Davus looked puny to him compared to Clodia’s red-haired giants.

  “I suspect the fellow’s right, Davus. I’d rather you stayed here to look after the house.”

  I followed the slave through the vestibule and out of the house. Under the cold sun the red and white canopy of the litter was dazzling. The air was almost still with only a hint of a breeze, but the fabric was so delicate that the stripes wavered and brushed against one another like trembling serpents. The red-haired gladiators surrounding the litter drew themselves to attention. One of the bearers rushed to put down a block of wood before the entrance to the litter, to serve as a step. Before I could do it myself the curtains were parted from within. The slave girl who opened them moved aside and nodded toward the place where I was to sit, next to her mistress, but all I saw were Clodia’s eyes. Her famous eyes: Catullus, in one of his love poems, had said they glittered like emeralds; Cicero, in the speech which had nearly destroyed her, had said that Clodia’s eyes flashed like sparks from a whetted blade. Her eyes could seduce, or scandalize; her eyes could also weep. They glittered now with tears. I wondered if she had ever stopped crying since her brother died.

  She turned her face away. In any other circumstances I might have thought the movement was calculated to show off the striking profile of her forehead and the line of her nose. H
er lustrous dark hair hung down, unpinned for grieving. Her gown was black, as were the cushions around her. The corner seemed to swallow her up in darkness, except for her face and throat, which were a luminous, creamy white.

  I slipped into the litter beside her. She reached for my hand, still averting her eyes. “Thank you for coming, Gordianus. I was afraid you might not.”

  “Why, for fear of the streets?”

  “No, for fear of your Alexandrian wife.” Her lips compressed into the barest smile.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Clodius’s house.” The smile grew rigid. “Or to Fulvia’s house, I suppose I should say.”

  “What for?”

  “You must remember, when I invited you into the house on the night he died—I had a premonition that we might need you, sooner or later. I was right. It’s Fulvia who needs you.”

  “Really? I seem to recall that your sister-in-law was less than pleased with my presence in the mourning room.”

  “Things change. Fulvia is a pragmatist. You happen to be the man that she needs right now.”

  “For what?”

  “She’ll explain that to you herself. But this is what I ask from you: anything that you discover about my brother’s death—tell me, please.” She turned her eyes on me then, and squeezed my hand. “I know you believe in the truth, Gordianus. I know how much it matters to you. It matters to me, as well. If only I could know for certain how Clodius died, who killed him, and why, then perhaps I could finally stop weeping.” She managed another faint smile and let go of my hand. “We’ve arrived.”

  “Already?” The ride had been so smooth that I had scarcely known we were moving at all.

  “I’ll wait here until you’re ready to leave, and then take you home again.”

  The slave girl pulled back the curtains for me. The block of wood awaited my step. The great forecourt of Clodius’s house was empty except for several men guarding the terraces and the gate. One of Clodia’s gladiators accompanied me up the steps. The massive doors opened inward as if a gust of divine wind preceded me.

  A slave accompanied me through the halls and galleries and up a flight of stairs to a room I hadn’t seen before. It was at a corner of the house, with open windows that commanded a view of Palatine rooftops and the great temples on the Capitoline Hill beyond. The walls were stained with a bright green wash and decorated with blue and white borders in a geometrical Greek design. It was a bright, cheerful room, airy and light.

  I saw Sempronia first. She sat in a chair close by the windows, wrapped in a red blanket to ward off the chill. Her long gray hair was still worn down for mourning, but it was gathered by a pin at the nape of her neck and hung straight behind her, touching the floor. The look she gave me was almost as cold as the air from outside.

  Fulvia stepped in front of the windows. The light streaming in was so bright that I saw her only as a tall, narrow silhouette. As she stepped closer the veil of shadow over her features slowly dissolved. She was as I remembered her, plainer than Clodia but striking in her own fashion, younger and with something very shrewd about her eyes. She sat in the chair beside her mother. As there were no other chairs in the room, I remained standing.

  Fulvia looked at me appraisingly. “Clodia says you’re clever. I suppose she ought to know.”

  I shrugged, not sure whether to respond to the compliment or the insinuation.

  “I understand that you’ve paid some calls on Cicero recently.” She fixed her eyes on me.

  “Not in the last few days.”

  “But since my husband’s murder.”

  “Yes, on a couple of occasions. How did you know?”

  “Let’s just say that I inherited my husband’s eyes and ears.”

  And his calculated manner as well, I thought. She was all in black, to be sure, but I saw no other signs of mourning. Had her hysterical outburst before the crowd in the forecourt that night been purely for show, or was it a genuine release of the anguish that she otherwise held in check? She certainly seemed controlled at the moment. Clodia was more like the grieving widow, I thought, and Fulvia more like the impassive heir, wasting no tears as she took on her husband’s mantle.

  “You’re trying to figure me out,” she said. “Don’t bother. And I won’t try to figure you out. Your business with Cicero is your own affair. I won’t ask you to do anything that compromises whatever relationship you have with him. Or with Milo, for that matter.” I raised my hand to object, but she went on. “Everyone knows that Milo was responsible for my husband’s death. That’s not what I want you to find out for me.”

  “What, then?”

  For the first time there was a glimmer of discomfort on her face—a slight wrinkling of the forehead, a trembling of the lips. “There’s a certain man, a friend of my husband. An old friend of mine as well, actually. He’s approached me, offering his services when the time comes to prosecute Milo. I could use his help, his … support. But …”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m not sure that I can trust him.”

  “Can you tell me his name?”

  “Marc Antony.” She raised an eyebrow. “You know him?”

  “No.”

  “But the look on your face—”

  “I know his name, yes. One of Caesar’s men—oh yes, now I remember. Our paths crossed that very night. As I was leaving your house, he was on his way here. He happens to know one of my sons. We exchanged a few words.”

  “Only a few?”

  “Let me think. He asked me if the rumor was true. About Publius Clodius. I told him it was.”

  Sempronia rustled her blanket. Would her daughter ever acquire such a hardened face?

  “And how did Antony react?” said Fulvia.

  “It was dark. I could hardly see his face. But his voice was rather wistful, as I recall. He said something like, ‘Ah, it’s all over, then. The end of Publius, for good or ill.’ Then he went on his way.”

  Fulvia gazed out the window at the distant Capitoline. It was Sempronia who answered. “He ended up here. But Fulvia was in no condition to see him, or anyone. Antony spent some time talking with the other men in the anteroom and then left. So we know that Antony was here in Rome that night.”

  “Yes,” said Fulvia, keeping her eyes on something far away. “But where was he earlier that day?”

  “Are you saying that you believe he had something to do with your husband’s death?”

  Fulvia didn’t answer. Sempronia clutched at the red blanket. “The fellow tried to murder Clodius with his bare hands only a year ago!”

  Fulvia returned from wherever her thoughts had taken her. “My mother exaggerates.”

  “Do I?”

  “What’s this about?” I said.

  “You never heard the story?” said Fulvia. “I should have thought it would have made the rounds, such a juicy bit of gossip. Perhaps for once the people concerned managed to keep their mouths shut. There was no cause for scandal, just a dispute between two old friends, nothing more.”

  “It would have been considerably more if Antony had succeeded!” said Sempronia.

  “But he didn’t,” insisted Fulvia.

  “Perhaps you should explain,” I said.

  Fulvia nodded. “It happened out on the Field of Mars last year, on one of the election days that ended up being canceled. All the candidates were present, haranguing their supporters. I’m told there was the usual milling about, some scuffling, men with moneybags offering last-minute bribes, a few minor skirmishes. You know what it’s like. I mean, being a man, you must have been to elections and seen for yourself. Perhaps you were there that day.”

  “No. Actually, the last time I voted in a consular election was ten years ago, when Catilina ran.”

  Sempronia was suddenly interested. “You voted for Catilina?”

  “No. Actually, I voted for a fellow with no head called Nemo.”

  The two women regarded me curiously.

  “It’s a very long story.
Never mind. No, I wasn’t there on the day you’re talking about. But I can picture the scene. What happened?”

  “Antony and my husband had words,” said Fulvia. “As I understand it, the exchange began in a friendly manner, but it didn’t end that way. Publius was always a bit vague as to who said what to whom.”

  “But we know how it turned out,” said Sempronia, with equal parts of disdain and amusement in her voice, “with Antony drawing his sword and chasing Publius from one end of the Field of Mars to the other.”

  “Where were your husband’s bodyguards?” I asked.

  “Those particular bodyguards?” said Fulvia. “I don’t know where they were that day, but I know where they are now—off working in the mines.” There was a glint in her eyes that made her look, for that instant, almost as hard as her mother. “Anyway, Publius got away unscathed.”

  “Except for his dignity!” said Sempronia. “Ducking into a cabinet under a stairway in some rat-infested warehouse on the river—like a cowering slave fleeing from his master’s whip in some second-rate comedy.”

  “That’s enough, Mother.” Fulvia turned her flinty gaze to Sempronia. The test of wills between the two of them was almost palpable, like the grating sound of a blade against a whetting stone. Sempronia visibly relented, sinking back beneath her red blanket. Fulvia, protector of her dead husband’s dignity, sat upright. What sort of man had Clodius been, to contend with the two of them on a daily basis, and with his sister thrown in for good measure? No wonder he had thought himself worthy to run the city, if he had learned to keep control of his own household.

  “What was the nature of this quarrel between your husband and Antony?”

  “I told you, I never really knew what started the incident.”

  “But surely you have some idea.”

  Fulvia became distant again, gazing out the window. Was this oscillation between harsh clarity and withdrawal calculated to keep me off balance, or was it simply her nature, or a kind of malady induced by the shock of her husband’s murder? “You needn’t be concerned with such specifics, Gordianus. All I want is to find out whether Marc Antony played any part whatsoever in what happened to Publius on the Appian Way.”