John Roberts - The Year of Confusion

We conferred for a while with the neighbors to either side and across the street. Nobody had seen or heard anything. All remembered some “foreigners” living there a few months previously, something that might or might not be significant. Much of the Trans-Tiber district catered to the river trade and there were many resident foreigners living there. It would not be at all unusual for such people to rent a house while its owner was away. On the other hand, we had the odd foreigners the sailor had told us of. Was there a connection between the two and this house?

The sun rose, the day grew warmer, and we headed back toward the City proper. Halfway across the bridge I sat on the coping and began to think. “What do we know about Curio?” I mused.

“He was a politician like a hundred others,” Hermes said. “He was rowdier than most, good with crowds, and an extremely popular tribune of the plebs. For a little while he was more popular than Caesar or Pompey, but that’s common with tribunes. While they’re in office the people love them for their public works and the laws they whip up enthusiasm for. Usually their popularity fades as soon as they step down from office.”

“That’s how I remember him. His father was Caesar’s deadly enemy, a strong supporter of Pompey and the aristocratic faction. For a while it looked like the younger Curio would follow the same path.”

“But he ran up huge debts endearing himself to the voters,” Hermes said. “Not unlike others.” He grinned when he saw me wince. “But worse than most. Rumor had it that he was more than two and a half million denarii out of purse.”

“So what made him come over to Caesar’s side? I remember that Caesar covered his debts, which was no small thing, but he trumped up some sort of charge to desert the optimates and join the populares. ”

“Maybe you should ask Sallustius.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to be any more obligated to him than I am already. Besides, it may be nothing. The man’s been dead for a couple of years now, fighting King Juba in Africa.”

“Old Juba,” Hermes mused. “There was bad blood between him and Caesar, so I guess it was his way of getting revenge. What was his grudge? Didn’t Caesar insult him publicly?”

I chuckled at the memory. “He certainly did. It was just before Caesar left for Spain. He was representing a client of his, a Numidian nobleman, in a case before the praetor peregrinus. The old king, Heimpsal, claimed this noble as a tributary, and the man disputed it and went to Caesar for aid. Heimpsal sent young Prince Juba to represent his side of the case. Caesar got a bit carried away in his defense and he grabbed Juba by the beard and dragged him all over the court.” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course the court found in favor of the king after such a display, but Caesar smuggled his client out to Spain with him.”

“We’re used to rough-and-tumble in our courts,” Hermes noted, “but that sort of thing is a mortal insult to royalty.”

“Well, Caesar was young then, but it’s no wonder Juba was just waiting to do him a bad turn. He went over to the aristocrats as soon as they set up shop in Africa.”

“So a few days ago wasn’t the first time Caesar roughed up a foreign representative publicly.”

I thought about that. “It was different. Caesar was a young politician on the make, not dictator of Rome. Juba was just another prince. We’ve never made much over foreign princes, since their fathers breed so many of them and nobody gets royal honors in Rome. Archelaus is an ambassador, and we always observe the diplomatic niceties. Usually, anyway.” I thought about it for a moment. “At any rate, Juba is dead.”

“How did that happen?” Hermes wanted to know.

I had to think about it. Those were eventful years, packed with incident. There were powerful personalities and men had died in peculiar ways.

“Curio was victorious at first. He was a brilliant man, and he had a flair for military affairs as well as for politics, but he and his army were ambushed by one of Juba’s generals. Curio decided to die fighting rather than surrender. When Caesar showed up in Africa, Juba went to join Publius Scipio, but Scipio was defeated and Juba fled with Petreius. When their defeat was inevitable, they decided to fight in single combat. That way the loser would have an honorable death and the winner could commit suicide to avoid capture by Caesar. Petreius won and promptly killed himself.”

Hermes shook his head. “I’ll never understand nobles and royalty.”

“Personally, I’d have surrendered as soon as I knew Caesar was anywhere near. That’s probably why I’ll never be entrusted with command of an army.”

“Well, the day is young. What next?”

“I hate this,” I said.

“Hate what?”

“All this scurrying about, cornering people and asking questions, while all the time the killer or killers go calmly about their business, killing and torturing people as if I didn’t worry them at all. As if I didn’t even exist.”

“It’s probably just as well,” he said. “If they were worried about you they’d probably kill you, too.”

“They might yet. I would love to take some sort of direct action instead of merely reacting to what’s already been done.”

“We can’t do a thing until we have a firm suspect,” Hermes pointed out.

“I still haven’t looked over Archelaus’s staff on the via Aurelia,” I said. “It’s not far away and I want to arrive unannounced.”

We walked along one of the roads that go northeast through the Trans-Tiber. It ended at the western end of the Cestian Bridge, which connects the Tiber Island to the west bank. This area housed a great many river bargemen, and we heard every accent and dialect to be found along the navigable length of the Tiber from Ostia almost to the Appenines.

The via Aurelia begins at the Cestian Bridge. Like all our highways it was lined with tombs, though it wasn’t nearly as crowded with them as the far older via Appia. There were also some stately villas, most of them owned by equites who wanted to avoid the crowding of the City proper, especially in summer, while staying close to Rome and the exhilarating activity described by Callista. Aristocrats generally had their estates much farther from the walls.

We paused and took a breather at a small but exquisite temple dedicated to Diana and a priest there told us that the embassy from Parthia resided at a villa no great distance away, and that we should take a small side-road flanked by two herms. The villa was at the end of the road.

We found the road a short time later. The herms were draped with garlands of holly leaves, the greenest foliage to be found at that time of year. It pleased me to see these rustic devotions kept up. City people were getting more and more out of touch with their rural roots. We passed between them with a nod of acknowledgement.

The villa was old-fashioned, a rather modest house surrounded by a number of outbuildings, most of them converted into residences. There was some small commotion in the house as we approached and a well-dressed man emerged, holding a small, silver-topped staff. He looked Greek but dressed Roman. Another Bithynian, no doubt.

“Ah, Senator, welcome,” he stammered. “We were not expecting so distinguished a visitor.”

“You weren’t? Didn’t Archelaus send word to expect me?”

“I’ve had no communication from across the river in a few days. I am Themistocles, steward to Archelaus. How may I be of service?”

“I am on an investigation for the dictator,” I told him. “I need to inspect the personnel of your mission. Please be so good as to summon them.”

Now he looked alarmed. “I had heard that my master’s interview with Caesar did not go well. Surely he will not take action against us?”