John Roberts - The Year of Confusion

“You are hopelessly naive. The woman is evil.”

“What of that? I’ve known a great many evil women in this city.”

“So you have,” she said ominously. It had been the wrong thing to say. She rose. “I am going to the evening ceremony at the Temple of Vesta. After that, I am joining Servilia and some other ladies for dinner and gossip. I’ll see if I can get anything useful from Servilia.”

“Excellent,” I said, happy for the change of subject. “If you see Brutus while you’re there, see if you can pump him about this transmigration of souls stuff. Something about what he’s been saying doesn’t add up.”

“I’ll do that. This has been a long day for you two. Don’t go out carousing. Get to bed early and look into the gymnasiums first thing in the morning.” She went out, followed by two of her serving girls.

“Between Julia and her uncle,” I said, “throwing in this mysterious assassin and the conspiracy that seems to surround him, I’m at a loss to know who terrifies me more.”

The next morning we set out to make the rounds of the gymnasiums. As Julia had said, Rome had only a few at the time. Recently the First Citizen has tried to revive interest in Greek-style athletics, but back then Roman men usually exercised at the baths, or went to the Field of Mars for military exercises like drilling and javelin-throwing or to the ludus for sword practice. The gymnasiums were patronized mainly by Greeks or people from Greek-influenced parts of the world.

The first we tried was located just outside the Lavernalis Gate, at the southwestern extremity of the city. It was always easier to find spacious, inexpensive land outside the walls than within, so if you needed generous grounds, that was where you went. Your place was likely to be destroyed if an enemy invaded, but that hadn’t happened for a generation, not since the Social War in Sulla’s day.

This one was located in a pleasant grove of plane trees and tall pines. In its forecourt was a fine statue of Hercules, the patron of athletes. A large field to one side offered facilities for those sports requiring space: running, the discus, and the javelin. Inside, it consisted simply of a long exercise yard floored with sand, where men and boys went through a number of exercises under the supervision of instructors. Here they vaulted, wrestled, and tossed the heavy ball.

In one corner a pair of burly men practiced pugilism. For sparring they wore leather helmets and their forearms were thickly wrapped with leather. Their hands were wrapped in padding as well. In a real bout their hands would be wrapped in hard leather straps, perhaps featuring the bronze caestus. They were finishing their bout as we came in, the trainer separating them with his staff. They removed their helmets and one of them wore the small topknot that identified a professional boxer.

It was easy enough to separate the Romans from the Greeks and would-be Greeks. The former wore loincloths and sometimes tunics while exercising. The latter worked out naked. The head trainer, carrying a silver-topped wand, saw us and approached.

“How may I help you, Senator?” He was sixty if he was a day, but as lean and hard as a legionary recruit after his first six months in the training camp, and he moved with an athlete’s springy grace. He made me ashamed of myself. I made a mental note to go to the ludus or the Field of Mars every day from now on until I was in good shape and the flab was gone from my waist. Julia was right.

“We are looking for an outstanding runner, a man about twenty-five to thirty years of age, medium height, dark hair, spare build. He is probably a native Roman.”

“Except for the Roman part you’ve described most of the best runners I know. Some are younger, of course.”

“This one is exceptionally good at vaulting while running full speed,” Hermes put in.

“That narrows it.” He scratched in his grizzled beard. “A couple of years back a man trained here for a while. Ran like the wind and loved cross-country racing. That calls for lots of vaulting, of course. He answered your description, too. A Roman. What was his name, now? Domitius, that was it, Caius Domitius.”

The man had been using the praenomen Caius, not that it meant much, but it was a possibility. “Do you have any information on him?” I asked. “Any records?”

He shook his head. “If he’d been a member who paid by the year or the month we’d have some record of him, but he just came in and paid by the day for use of the facility. Half the men who come through here are day users.”

Hermes had been scanning the athletes in the yard. “Did he work with a particular trainer?”

“He mostly worked out alone, like most cross-country runners, but I know he worked with at least one for technique drill. Let me see.” He whistled loudly and all activity stopped. Everyone looked puzzled as he crossed the yard, calling the trainers to him. When they were gathered he talked to them in a low voice.

“He doesn’t seem very curious about these questions,” Hermes noted.

“He’s a foreigner,” I said. “Ionic Greek, by his accent. Aliens are usually reluctant to delve too deeply into what looks like Roman trouble.”

The head trainer returned with another man, this one small and thin, the classic build of the long-distance runner. He was sandy-haired and had blue eyes, his skin deeply tanned.

“This is Aulus Paullus. He worked with the man you are asking after.”

The euphoniously named man nodded. “What do you need to know, Senator? I’m afraid I can’t tell you a lot. He wasn’t here long.” His accent was pure Latium: from the district around Rome. I took this as a good sign.

“First off, was the man a real Roman?”

“Talked like he was born within the pomerium , which is unusual for a long-distance runner. They’re usually from the rural areas or work as messengers for the big estates. City boys more often train for the dashes. You have to be able to endure a lot of pain to be a distance runner.”

“Yes, we urban people are soft and degenerate,” I agreed. “Do you have any idea of his status? Was he born free or a freedman?”

He thought about that for a while. “He spoke well, when he spoke at all. I think if he was born a slave, he must’ve been schooled with the master’s children.”

“But he didn’t speak much?” I asked.

“Mostly he was saving his wind for running.”

“Do you know if he competed in any of the major games?” Hermes asked. I should have thought of that.

“If you mean the Olympics or the Isthmian or any of the great ones in Greece, I don’t think so. Everyone who competes in those brags about it for the rest of his life, and Domitius never mentioned it.”

“There was a time,” the head trainer said sourly, “when only full-blooded Hellenes could compete in the great games. Now Romans can compete.”

“There was a time,” Hermes said, “when foreigners couldn’t be Roman citizens, too. Times change.”

“Let’s stick to the subject at hand,” I admonished.

“Sorry, Senator,” the head trainer said.

“Did he mention competing in games around here?” I pressed on.

“He said a couple of times a year he went south to run in the Greek games at Cumae. Most of the Greeks in Italy live down south. Didn’t mention taking home any prizes, though.”

“Are there any such games held at or near Rome?” I asked.

“None that feature cross-country running,” the head trainer said. “There’s an informal meet held at the Circus Flaminius on the calends of every month. Nothing official, no prizes or palms or wreaths awarded, but most of the serious athletes attend, to keep in practice for the major games. But the running events are all of the stadium sort. No long-distance races.”