John Roberts - The Year of Confusion

“I think so. I’m not well read, but I’ve heard a bit about great and ambitious men, and we’ve encountered a few of them. Most are very concerned with their greatness and reputation and how they will be remembered.”

“I knew some food and wine would do you good,” I commented. “Continue.”

“Some of them, especially as they grow older, turn to oracles and fortune-tellers to reassure themselves that their fame will live forever. Marius and Sertorius were famous for it. Pompey, too.”

“Excellent. Now connect that to our current investigation.”

“Caesar may be consulting astrologers.”

“On the day Polasser was killed, Cassius hinted that he was seeking a horoscope for Caesar. He didn’t speak the name, but he could hardly have meant anyone else, and it was Polasser he wanted to consult with.”

“Caesar also showed up with Servilia at the house of Callista,” Hermes pointed out. “Do you think Callista may be involved somehow?”

“I would hate to think that, but it has crossed my mind, I confess. She knows all the Greek astronomers, all sorts of people attend her salons, not just intellectuals but politicians and wealthy parvenus and foreigners of all sorts. It’s an excellent venue for carrying out a conspiracy.”

“But a conspiracy to do what?” Hermes asked.

“That I haven’t figured out yet.”

Then he surprised me. “So where does all of this come together?”

“Eh?”

“Where do all the paths cross? Where is-what is the word? — where is the nexus?”

“That is an excellent question. There may be more than one. There is the Tiber Island, for instance. Both murders occurred there. And there is the house of that odd foreign woman. A lot of the women involved went there.”

“Maybe we should talk to her.”

I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of it first. “Splendid idea. Let’s go call on her.”

From where we were, the shortest way across the river was to take the Aemilian Bridge, which leads to the via Aurelia, the highway that goes north along the coast of Latium and Etruria. Once over the bridge we turned left, away from the via Aurelia and into the sprawl of the Trans-Tiber district, and thence up the slope of the Janiculum.

The crest of this “Eighth Hill of Rome” was the site of a fort erected in the old days to guard against attack by our old enemies, the Etruscans. The fort had long since fallen into ruin but its great flagpole still stood, flying its long, red banner. By ancient tradition, the banner was to be lowered at the approach of an enemy. More than one politician had forestalled a vote or closed a court by having a confederate go up the Janiculum and lower the flag. At an opportune moment, the politician would point to the hill and proclaim that the flag was not flying. By ancient custom all official business had to halt while the citizens assembled in arms, even though they knew that there could not be a hostile army within a thousand miles.

Slowly, new houses were encroaching upon the slopes of the hill. It had been so long since a foreign army had attacked Rome that people had little fear of building outside the walls, and land here was much cheaper than within the City. Some imposing homes now stood on the Janiculum, mostly those of wealthy equites and foreigners, as an address outside the pomerium was considered unfitting for patricians and consulars.

We climbed until the buildings thinned out and found a fine, new house that looked as if it had to be the one Julia had described. It was surrounded by new and very expensive plantings. The formal garden was as impressive as Julia had intimated, with numerous fruit trees planted in huge tufa pots. I wondered how the inhabitants got water so high up, as the Trans-Tiber was not served by a great aqueduct in those days.

“I know land is cheap here, compared to the City proper,” Hermes noted, “but somebody has spent substantially on this place.”

“My own thought,” I concurred. “This woman is not the sort who tells fortunes in the Forum for a few copper asses. ”

We went to the door and Hermes knocked. To my surprise, Ashthuva herself opened it. I knew it had to be Ashthuva, as Julia’s description had been so thorough. Briefly, I wondered why someone so obviously prosperous had no doorkeeper for this task, but the woman herself had a way of driving all lesser thoughts from a man’s mind.

In my life I had encountered many beautiful women, some of them exotic in the extreme, but I had never beheld one quite like this. Her regularity of feature and glowing, tawny skin were astonishingly set off by the dots and lines of color painted on her forehead, cheeks and chin. The gown, or rather wrapping, as Julia had described it, was gold this day, covering her as securely as an Egyptian mummy, but with tantalizing glimpses of flesh here and there. The huge red navel jewel was in place. But most enticing of all was her perfume, which Julia for some reason had not mentioned. It was an amalgam of flowers and spices and something indescribable, just below the level of consciousness, but not above the level of the testes, which this fragrance sent into an uproar.

“Yes, Senator?” the woman said in a voice so furry that it constituted a full-body caress. She placed her hands together, scarlet nails pointed upward just below her chin, and performed that serpentine bow Julia had described as wonderfully graceful, and that I perceived as unutterably lascivious. I had never seen every part of a woman’s body in such enticing motion except among certain supremely accomplished Spanish dancers of the sort that were frequently forbidden by the censors to enter Rome lest they endanger public morals.

“Ah, well, I am Senator Metellus and I-ah, that is to say-” I had been more articulate in the presence of German chieftains bent upon my torture and slow death.

“Good lady,” Hermes said, no less stimulated than I, but in better control of himself, “the senator is engaged in an investigation on behalf of the dictator. We must ask you a few questions, if we may.”

“Of course. Please come in.” We passed within and like Julia I smelled fresh paint and new plaster. The decorations were astrological and clearly had been done by artists trained in the Greek tradition; I saw no Chaldean or Egyptian influence.

We followed her and the rear view was as maddening as the front. Hermes’ eyes popped and his breathing became labored. I nudged him in the ribs, but I had no cause to pride myself upon my self-control. I found that I had to adjust the front of my toga for the sake of decency.

She led us to a room Julia apparently had not seen. It was illuminated, amazingly, by a skylight composed of a framework of lead strips in which were secured hundreds of small panes of colored glass. They formed no recognizable picture, but they seemed to be arranged in some subtle pattern I could not quite make out. It shed an unsettling light.

“Please be seated, gentlemen,” she said in a way that turned that commonplace phrase into something sublimely seductive. There was no proper furniture, but the floor was nearly covered by heavily stuffed cushions, colorfully dyed. We collapsed with unseemly haste. Fragrant herbs were included in the stuffing of the cushions. It seemed that no sensual refinement went overlooked in this household.

“Please excuse me while I go see to your refreshment.” When she was gone Hermes turned to me.

“Did Julia mention that this woman is like some sort of Syrian fertility goddess?”

“No, but that was an all-female group that night. Maybe her magic only works on men.” But I remembered that Callista had said Ashthuva had exercised seductive tactics upon her.

Moments later the woman was back with a tray of delicacies and a pitcher. We had just eaten, but the formalities had to be observed. The snacks seemed to be an amalgam of meats, fruit, vegetables, and eggs, chopped and mixed so that nothing was recognizable, fried and served on tiny squares of crisp, unleavened bread. It was highly seasoned and I found it delicious. The wine was excessively sweet and I judged it to be Syrian. Might that be where this woman was from?