John Roberts: The King Of Sacrifices

Illuminated, the room was about the size of a typical triclinium although decorated in a manner rarely encountered in dining rooms. First, there was the altar. Altars are common enough in Roman houses, usually dedicated to ancestors or the guardian genius. This one was not the usual sober, square block of white marble. It was in the shape of a huge, coiled serpent, black in color, and it stood before a statue of a crocodile-headed Egyptian deity. I recalled that his name was Sobek. Like so many of those addicted to foreign cults, Tubero liked to mix them promiscuously. In a wall-niche was a bronze hand from which sprung a small human figure as well as a number of tiny animals and other symbols. It is called, I believe, a Sabazios hand, and is emblematic of some disgusting foreign sect or other. There were many other such talismans: a deformed human skull, a mummified baboon, a basket full of colorful, polished stones. Beside a brazier, now cold, stood a bronze bowl heaped with frankincense. And, of course, there was the body.

The late Aulus Gratidius Tubero lay on his back amid the considerable disarray of his toga. Upon his features sat a perfectly corpselike expression, which is to say, no expression at all. There was a great deal of blood. The whole floor was sticky with it. Whatever wound had brought about such an effusion, it was not visible. I crouched by the body, pulling up my clothes a little to keep them out of the blood. Even above the smells of blood and incense I detected the sour reek of wine.

"Remove his toga," I ordered the slaves. They just rolled their eyes fearfully. They were afraid, like most of us, of the contamination that comes of touching the dead before the proper rites are performed. I rose on creaky knees and took a handful of the incense. "I am a pontifex," I said truthfully, "and I can carry out the lustrum," lying through my remaining teeth this time. I sprinkled the yellow crystals over the body while mumbling unintelligibly. "There," I said. "He is purified. Now do as I say."

Without further protest, one of the slaves lifted the toga, rolling the corpse over on his belly. The pale back was striped with furrows like that of a chastised slave. The stripes were nearly vertical, slanting very slightly from the right buttock to the left shoulder. They formed shallow gouges and lay atop older stripes. They were not sufficient to account for all the blood. I glanced at the toga. It was liberally smeared with blood, but not soaked.

"Turn him over," I ordered. They rolled him onto his back. "Ah, here's the fatal wound," I said as the slaves backed away in horror. Tubero's genitals were entirely missing.

The soles of my sandals made sticky sounds as I examined the room in greater detail. The statue of Sobek stood upon a circular base, but the base stood upon a square patch of floor that was free of blood. I ran a hand along the Egyptian god's arm and came away with a deposit of dust. A similar test of the coiled-snake altar proved it to be clean. I left the shrine and found the wife of Gratidius standing outside.

"You found him like this?" I asked her.

"Yes," she said. "That is, the slaves located him when he was not to be found in his bed this morning." She spoke as if this were not an uncommon occurrence.

"Why did you notify the First Citizen instead of one of the praetors?"

She looked uncomfortable. "Well, because that woman was with him last night. Julia, the First Citizen's daughter."

"I see. And this was not the first time?"

"I have heard gossip. They frequented the same licentious parties. But this was the first time he brought her into my house.” She packed a lot of venom into those last two words.

"When did she arrive and when did she leave?"

"She arrived a little after sunset. I did not see her. I kept to my own quarters for the whole evening. I did not want to set eyes on her. It is difficult to believe that she is the child of the savior of the Republic." I had grown so accustomed to this sort of twaddle that I no longer even winced at it.

"By the way," I said, "please accept my congratulations upon your new patrician status. I do not believe your husband's tragic demise will affect that."

"You are too gracious," she said, preening.

"It is unfortunate that he never got to be invested as Rex Sacromm.''

"Oh, yes. That would have been a wonderful privilege." She sounded utterly indifferent. This was a distinction she would not miss. As wife of the Rex Sacrorum she would have endured as many taboos as he. She would have become all but a prisoner in her own house, lest she glimpse some forbidden sight, like a black dog or a man working at his trade.

"I’ll take my leave now, but I wish to speak with your steward."

The man was a Greek in his middle years and I knew at once 1 would get little from him. He had the look of one who knew how to keep the secrets of the household. I spoke with him as he accompanied me to the door.

"Did you admit the lady Julia yesterday evening?"

"I did, Senator. That is, the porter admitted the lady and the master."

"And when did she leave?"

"I did not see her leave. I questioned the porter but he must have been asleep. I shall have him flogged soundly." Like all good and trustworthy retainers he could lie with a perfectly straight face.

"As you will. I do urge you to search your memory, though. It may be that you and the rest of the staff shall be called to testify in court, and slaves can only testify under torture."

He shrugged. "One endures what one must."

I walked away, wondering why the worst masters always seemed to have the best slaves. I have always striven to be an exemplary master, and my slaves have always been lazy good-for-nothings.

My weary feet took me back to the house on the Palatine, where the clinking men conducted me to Livia.

"I need to speak with Julia," I informed her.

"Is it truly necessary?"

"Absolutely."

"Very well then, if you must." She guided me to a wing of the sprawling but ostentatiously austere mansion where the various children of the family had their quarters. Julia sat in a spacious room, carding wool by the light of the late afternoon sun. This is what Octavius expected Roman wives to do, however high their birth. Even Livia pretended to card, spin and weave wool. I suppose she might have directed her slaves at the work, when she could spare the time.

"Julia," Livia said. "I believe you know the distinguished Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus. He is Iudex investigating the murder of Gratidius Tubero and needs to speak with you." With that, Livia took a chair and watched me with gorgonlike intensity.

"Have we your leave, Madame?" I asked. "I would prefer to confer in privacy."

"That would not be proper," Livia insisted. "Julia is a widow of a patrician family."

"I believe my venerable years constitute sufficient chaperone."

"Not if half of what is said about your past is true." Nonetheless, she rose. "I do, however, trust your well-demonstrated sense of self preservation." She left, her spine rigid with indignation.

"It's so refreshing," Julia said, "to see someone with the nerve to defy her."

"I am old," I said. "I won't live much longer whatever I do. You, on the other hand, infuriate her regularly. You are very young and have to live in the same house with her."

"It's not courage," she said. "It's desperation." I had to sympathize. I always rather liked Julia. She was a spirited, intelligent young woman forced to adopt the false Stoicism of the Julio-Claudian house and marry for the sake of political alliances.

"You may have carried your independence a little too far this time. Gratidius Tubero is dead and you seem to be the most likely suspect. I hope you can convince me otherwise."

"How did he die?" I told her and her fair skin turned even paler.