A murder on the Appian way rsr-5 Page 3

  I could see at a glance that there was no love lost between the two sisters-in-law. Clodia and her brother had long been famous (or infamous) for their mutual devotion; there were many who thought they were more like man and wife than siblings. Where did that leave Clodius's real wife? What had Fulvia thought of the intimacy between her husband and his sister? From the look that passed between them, I gathered that the women had learned to tolerate one another, but not much more than that. Clodius had been the link between them, the mutual object of their affections as well as the cause of their mutual animosity; perhaps Clodius had also kept the peace between them. Now Clodius was dead.

  Quite dead, I thought, for beyond Fulvia I could see his corpse laid out on the long, high table. He was still dressed in winter riding clothes — a heavy, long-sleeved tunic cinched with a belt at the waist, woollen leggings, red leather boots. The filthy, blood-soaked tunic was torn open across his chest and hung in rags, like the streamers of a tattered red flag.

  "Come," whispered Clodia, ignoring the other women and taking my arm. "I want you to see." She led me to the table. Eco pressed close behind me.

  The face was undamaged. The eyes were closed and the bloodless Ups and cheeks were marred only by a few smudges of dirt and blood and a slight grimace, like that of a man suffering from a toothache or having an unpleasant dream. He looked uncannily like his sister, with the same finely moulded cheekbones and long, proud nose. It was a face to melt the hearts of women and make men prickle with envy, a race to taunt his scowling patrician colleagues in the Senate and win the adoration of the rabble. Clodius had been strikingly handsome, almost too boyish-looking for a man nearly forty. The only signs of his age were a few strands of grey at his temples; even these were mostly lost in his thick mane of black hair.

  Below the neck, his strong, lean body was elegantly proportioned with square shoulders and a broad swimmer's chest. A gaping puncture wound pierced his right shoulder. There were two smaller stab wounds in his chest, and his limbs were marked with numerous lacerations, scrapes and mottled bruises. More bruises ringed his throat, as if a thin cord had been tightened around his neck; indeed, had he shown no other wounds, I would have said that he had been strangled.

  Beside me, Eco shuddered. Like me, he had seen many dead bodies, but victims of poison or a dagger in the back present a less gory spectacle than did the corpse before us. This was not the body of a man who had died from quick and furtive murder. This was a man who had died in battle.

  Clodia took one of the corpse's hands in hers, pressing it between her palms as if she could warm it. She ran her fingers over his and wrinkled her brow. "His ring. His gold signet ring! Did you remove it, Fulvia?"

  Fulvia shook her head. "The ring was gone when they brought him. The men who killed him must have taken it, like a trophy." Again, she showed no emotion.

  There was a gentle rapping at the door. A group of slave girls entered with cloths folded over their arms. They carried combs, jars of unguents and pitchers of heated water that sent trails of steam into the air.

  "Hand me a comb," said Clodia, reaching out to one of the girls.

  Fulvia frowned. "Who sent for these things?"

  "I did." Clodia moved to the end of the table and began to comb her brother's hair. The teeth caught on a tangle of dried blood. Her face stiffened. She pulled the comb through, but her hands were shaking.

  "You sent for them? Then you can send them away," said Fulvia.

  "What do you mean?"

  "His body doesn't need to be bathed."

  "Of course it does. The people outside want to see him."

  "And they will."

  "But not like this!"

  "Exactly like this. You wanted your friends to see his wounds.

  Well, so do I. Everyone in Rome is going to see them."

  "But all this blood, and his clothes hanging from him like rags — " "We'll take off his clothes, then. Let the people see him exactly as he is."

  Clodia continued to comb, keeping her eyes on her work. Fulvia stepped towards her. She seized Clodia's wrist, snatched the comb and threw it on the floor. The gesture was sudden and violent, but her voice remained as impassive as her face. "Mother is right. This isn't your household, Clodia. And he wasn't your husband."

  Eco tugged at my sleeve. I nodded. It was time to take our leave. I bowed my head in deference to the corpse, but the gesture went unnoticed; Clodia and Fulvia stared at one another like tigresses with flattened ears. The slave girls scattered nervously as we made our way to the door. Before I left the room I turned and. took a last look at the women, and was struck by the tableau of Clodius dead upon the table, surrounded by the five females who had been closest to him in life, their ages spread over the range of a lifetime — his little daughter, his niece Metella, his wife Fulvia, his sister Clodia, his mother-in-law Sempronia. I thought of the Trojan women mourning Hector, with the attendant slave girls for a chorus.

  The brightly lit outer room seemed like another world, with its fretfully pacing men in togas and hushed masculine voices. The atmosphere was just as tense, but of a different nature — not of mourning but of crisis and confusion, like a military camp under siege or a desperate gathering of conspirators. The room was more crowded than before. Important newcomers had arrived, and with them their retinues of freedmen and slaves. I recognized several well-known senators and magistrates of the populist stripe. Some stood in pairs, quietly conversing. Others were gathered in a circle, listening to a wild-eyed man with unkempt hair who kept striking his palm with his fist.

  "I say we mount an assault on Milo's house tonight," he was saying. "Why wait? It's just a stone's throw away. We'll drag him into the street, set the place on fire and tear him limb from limb."

  I whispered into Eco's ear, "Sextus Cloelius?"

  Eco nodded and whispered back, "Clodius's right-hand man. Organizes mobs, stages riots, breaks arms, slits noses. Not afraid to get his hands dirty."

  Some of the politicians nodded at Cloelius's suggestion. Others scoffed. "What makes you think that Milo would dare to come back to the city, after what he's done?" said one. "He's probably halfway to Massilia by now."

  "Not Milo," said Cloelius. "He's boasted for years that he'd kill Publius Clodius one day. Mark my words, he'll be down in the Forum tomorrow to brag about it. And when he shows his face, we'll slaughter him on the spot!"

  "There's no point in a slaughter," said the handsome, elegantly dressed young man I had noticed on the way in, Clodius's nephew Appius. "We'll press for a trial instead."

  "A trial!" cried Cloelius, exasperated. There was a collective groan.

  "Yes, a trial," insisted Appius. "It's the only way to expose the bastard and his friends along with him. Do you think Milo alone was behind this? He hasn't the wits to stage an ambush. I smell Cicero's bloody maw! Uncle Publius's enemies didn't kill him on a whim. It was cold, calculated murder! I don't want just revenge; a knife in the back could accomplish that I want to see these men discredited, humiliated, jeered out of Rome! I want the whole city to repudiate them, and their families with them. That means a trial."

  "I hardly think it's a matter of choosing whether to stage or not stage a slaughter," said a calm, shrewd-looking young man at the edge of the crowd.

  "Gaius Sallust," Eco whispered in my ear. "One of the radical tribunes elected last year."

  Heads turned. Having gained the group's undivided attention, Sallust shrugged. "Well, what makes you think we can control the mob one way or the other? Clodius could, but Clodius is dead. There's no telling what will happen tomorrow, or tonight for that matter. A slaughter? Perhaps a bloodbath. We'll be lucky if there's enough organization left in Rome to stage a trial."

  At this there was another round of groaning and scoffing, but no one challenged outright what Sallust had said. Instead they turned uneasily away and resumed their argument without him.

  "A trial!" Appius insisted.

  "A riot first!" said Sextus Cloelius. "The mob
won't settle for anything less. And if Milo dares to show himself, we'll chop off his head and carry it through the Forum on a stick."

  "Then the mood of the city will surely swing against us," argued Appius. "No. Uncle Publius understood the way to make use of the mob — as a dagger, not as a bludgeon. You're wrought up, Sextus. You need some sleep."

  "Don't tell me how Publius used the mob," said Cloelius. "Half the time, I was the one who plotted his strategies for him."

  Appius's eyes flashed. They reminded me of Clodia's eyes, glittering and green like emeralds. "Don't try to rise above your station, Sextus Cloelius. Save your vulgar rhetoric for the mob. The men in this room are a little too sophisticated for your style of blustering."

  Cloelius opened his mouth to answer, then turned and stalked off.

  There was a tense silence, broken by Sallust. "I think we're all a little wrought up," he said. "I'm going home to get some sleep." A large coterie of retainers shuffled out of the room with him, leaving more space for those who remained to carry on with their pacing and gesticulating.

  "We should do likewise," I said, nudging Eco. "I need my sleep. Besides, it's as Sallust says: there's no telling what may happen in the streets tonight. We should be home with our families behind barred doors."

  The gladiator who had escorted us earlier had been keeping an eye on us. As we moved towards the door he joined up with us and insisted on showing us out. He turned back only when he had delivered us into the protection of Eco's bodyguards on the landing outside the secluded side entrance.

  We descended the steps to the street. The crowd gathered outside the forecourt of Clodius's house had grown even larger. Men stood in groups, arguing, like their leaders inside the house, over what should be done, only in louder voices and cruder language. Other men stood alone and openly sobbed, as if their own brother or father had been murdered.

  I meant to walk straight on, but the crowd was like a force, an undertow at my feet that held me back. Eco was content to stay and observe, and so we lingered, fascinated by the torchlight, the floating bits of conversations, the shifting mass of humanity, the mood of uncertainty and dread.

  Suddenly the great bronze, doors to Clodius's house swung open with a double clang. A hush of anticipation rippled through the crowd. Armed men appeared first. They descended the steps in a cordon, preceding and flanking the men in togas who carried the body of Clodius upon a long, flat bier.

  A groan rose from the crowd at the first glimpse of the body, followed by a great rush forwards. The bier was set down on the steps, tilted upward so that Clodius could be seen. We were caught in the crush. The crowd in the forecourt compressed, and those in the street were pulled in behind them, as if sucked into a vortex. Eco gripped my hand as we were carried through the gates and into the forecourt, like flotsam on a flood. His bodyguards struggled to stay close, shoving and pressing against us. I was jabbed in the ribs by the point of a knife concealed inside the tunic of the bodyguard beside me, and considered the mad irony if I should be accidentally gutted by the weapon of a man intending to protect me.

  We came to a stop. The crowd was packed into the forecourt like grains of sand in a bottle. Through the reek of the torches, I had a clear view of Clodius propped up on his bier, surrounded in death as he had always been in life, by armed guards. To either side of the bier stood the men who had carried it. Among them I recognized Appius and Sextus Cloelius.

  Clodius had been stripped of his bloody garments and retained only a loincloth around his hips. The puncture at his shoulder and the wounds in his chest had been cleaned, but only to show them clearly; there was still plenty of gore and blood smeared across his pale, waxy flesh. His hair, I noticed, had been lovingly combed and untangled. It was pushed back from his face, as he had worn it in life, but a stray tendril had fallen forwards over one eye. To look at his face alone, one might have thought that he was merely asleep and frowning because the hair was tickling him, and that he might at any moment reach up to push it away. To see him naked under the stars on such a cold night made me shiver.

  Around us men moaned, cursed, wept, stamped their feet, shook their fists, buried their faces in their hands. Another tremor of apprehension rippled through the crowd as Fulvia appeared on the steps.

  Her arms were crossed over her chest, her head bowed. Her long, dark hair hung straight down, merging with the long black line of her gown. Hands reached towards her from the crowd, but she seemed oblivious of these gestures of comfort. She stood for a long moment beside her husband's body, staring at it. Then she lifted her face to the sky and let out a cry of anguish that turned my blood cold. It was like the cry of a wild beast rending the cold night air; if any still slept on the Palatine, surely it woke them. Fulvia tore at her hair, lifted her arms to heaven and threw herself across her husband's body. Her nephew and Sextus Cloelius made a fumbling attempt to restrain her, then stepped back in awe as she shrieked and beat her fists against the bier. She framed the corpse's face with trembling hands and pressed her face to her husband's, covering his cold lips with a kiss.

  Around us the mob raged like churning water. I thought of what the tribune Sallust had said: No one controls such a mob; it takes on a will of its own. It can maim or kill a man without meaning to and for no purpose at all, crushing the life out of him or trampling him underfoot. I grabbed Eco and by some feat of will we managed to push our way back through the gate. The crowd that overflowed the courtyard now filled the street as far as the eye could see. All up and down the block, houses were lit up as brightly as day with anxious-looking guards posted on the roofs. I pressed on, forcing a way through the crowd while Eco and his bodyguards struggled to keep up.

  At last we passed beyond the edges of the crowd. I never slowed my gait until we rounded a corner and found ourselves on an empty, darkened street. I stopped to catch my breath, and Eco did the same. His hands were trembling. I realized that I was shaking, too.

  Hearing only my own breath and the pulse in my temples, I didn't notice the approaching footsteps. But the bodyguards did. They stiffened and drew themselves around us. Men were coming up the darkened street, heading in the direction of Clodius's house. As they passed,their leader signalled for them to stop. He peered at us in the dim starlight. His face was in shadow, but I could see that he had curly hair and a prominent nose, and a strong physique beneath his cloak. After a moment he stepped away from his bodyguards and approached us.

  "Do you come from Clodius's house?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Is it true, what they say?" "What do they say?" "That Clodius is dead." "It's true."

  The man sighed. It was a quiet, gentle sigh, very different from the raging laments we had just left behind. "Poor Publius! It's the end of him, then, for good or ill. All over." He cocked his head. "Don't I know you?"

  "Do you?"

  "I think so. Yes, I'm sure of it." "Can you see in the dark, citizen?"

  "Well enough. And I never forget a voice." He hummed to himself, then grunted. "You're Meto's father, aren't you? And this is Meto's brother, Eco."

  "Yes." I tried to get a better look at him. I could make out his rugged features — the strong brow, the flattened boxer's nose — but I still didn't recognize him.

  "You and I met last year," he said, "briefly, when you came to visit Meto in Ravenna. I serve under Caesar, too." He paused for a moment. When I gave no sign of remembering, he shrugged. "Well, then, what's happening around the bend? That glow in the sky — not a house on fire?"

  "No. Just a great many torches."

  "There's a big crowd gathered at the house?"

  "Yes. They've come to see the body. His wife, Fulvia — "

  "Fulvia?" He spoke the name with an odd intensity, as if it had a secret meaning for him.

  "She grieves. You might be able to hear her from here."

  He sighed again, a deep, rich sigh. "I suppose I should see for myself Farewell, then, Gordianus. And you, Eco." He rejoined his companions and moved swiftl
y on.

  "Farewell — " I said, still unable to remember his name. I turned to Eco.

  "As he said, Papa, we met him last year, at Caesar's winter headquarters up in Ravenna. A bit modest, the way he says, 'I serve under Caesar, too.' One of the general's top men, according to Meto. We were barely introduced. I'd forgotten about it myself I'm surprised he remembers us. But then, the man's a politician, of course. He's been back in Rome for several months, running for office. I've seen him in the Forum, canvassing for votes. You must have seen him, too."

  "Have I? What's his name?"

  "Marc Antony."

  III

  Over breakfast, Bethesda and Diana demanded to know everything. I tried to soften my description of Clodius's corpse in deference to their appetites, but they insisted on all the gruesome details. The wrangling of the politicians was of less interest to them, but they listened attentively to my impressions of the famous house and its furnishings, and they were especially curious about Clodia.

  "Can it really be four years since the trial of Marcus Caelius?" Bethesda blew gently on a spoonful of hot farina.

  "Almost."

  "And to think we haven't had a glimpse of Clodia in all that time."

  "Not surprising, really; we hardly move in the same exalted circles. But I don't think anyone's seen much of her. The trial took something out of her. She seemed a changed woman to me."

  "Really? It sounds like she made quite a show of inviting you into the very heart of her brother's grand house, as if she were doing you a great favour, making you feel privileged and special. She wants something."

  "Really, Bethesda, the woman was distraught."

  "Was she?"

  "I told you, she could hardly keep from weeping." "To weep is one thing. To be distraught is another." "I don't follow you."

  "No?" Bethesda sat back from the table. "Be careful of the farina, Diana. You'll burn your tongue."