John Roberts - The Year of Confusion

I found Caesar inside, and Cleopatra was with him, which came as no surprise to me, having seen the crowd of exotics loitering about outside. Caesar, uncharacteristically, was seated and looked rather drawn.

“Well, Decius Caecilius,” Caesar said when he saw me, “I hope you have brought me some good news. I could use some.”

At that moment some things began to fit together in my mind. They did not give me anything complete, but it was as if some bricks had been added to what was still a very incomplete wall. I must have looked strange because Cleopatra said, “Well? Can you not speak?”

Caesar raised a hand. “Patience. The gods are speaking to him. It happens sometimes. I’ve seen this before.”

“Caius Julius,” I said at length, “I think that in, oh, two days, I shall have the answer to these murders.”

“That is oddly imprecise, but if you have the killer for me, I shall be content.”

Cleopatra looked at me sharply. “You are certain of this?”

“I am,” I assured her. Actually, I had no such confidence, but I was not about to admit it in front of her. I smiled as if I knew something that she didn’t. I always hate it when people do that to me and was gratified to see her look of discomfiture. It might mean something. Or perhaps not. Everyone has something to hide and a person like Cleopatra has more than most.

“I’m sending the astronomers back to Alexandria,” Caesar said. “They’ve been here long enough.”

“I rejoice to hear it,” I assured him. “I’d hate to lose Sosigenes. The rest I don’t care much about.” As we spoke I noticed a man hovering in the background, beneath one of the interior arches. He was a tall, thin man, coiffed and bearded in Greek fashion. Beside him was a boy who carried a large, leather-covered chest slung from his shoulder. I knew the man well, as he had worked on me upon occasion in Gaul. He was Caesar’s personal physician.

The two showed no further interest in me so I took my leave of them and walked back out to the Forum with much to ponder about. Having made my boast, I now had to deliver. Caesar would be very displeased should I fail to hand him the killer on the day following the next. Not only the killer, but some sort of comprehensible explanation for what had been going on.

Hermes found me in the tavern near the old Curia where we ate frequently. It enjoyed a fine view of the ancient building, the meeting-place of the Senate since the days of the kings. At that time it was still gutted, its upper facade black-smudged, the marks of the rioting that followed the funeral of Clodius.

How like Caesar, I thought, to erect his immense basilica to his own glory practically next door while the most sacred of our ancient assembly-places stood derelict for want of someone to pony up the cash for restorations, forcing the Senate to meet in the Theater of Pompey. Maybe it was another way for him to display his contempt for the Senate. Or maybe he planned some unthinkably vast and elaborate new Curia, one that would outshine anything built by Pompey.

Hermes plunked himself down and began helping himself to my lunch. “Domitius drops by the messengers’ tavern from time to time.”

“I thought so. Men who share a profession or specialized skill usually like to get together with their fellows to talk shop. What do the others know about him?”

“He regales them with stories of Cleopatra’s house. They love to hear about the extravagances that go on in that place.”

“Everybody does. Anything else?”

“Lately he’s been working for someone else as well. Someone he calls ‘the easterner’ or ‘the star man.’”

“Polasser!” I said, thumping the table with my fist. “Worked for him, all right, but he set him up to be murdered.”

“Maybe he’s the killer,” Hermes suggested.

“I thought about that, but somehow I doubt it. I didn’t get a good long look at him, but I don’t think he had the hands and arms of a wrestler. Pure runner, that’s all. Did you get anything else?”

“Just that he hasn’t been by for more than ten days, which they think odd. I didn’t press it. They already thought I was being suspiciously snoopy, even though I was buying the drinks.”

“A conscientious lot,” I said. “Most men will sell you their mothers as long as you keep the free wine flowing.” I told him of my little meeting with Caesar and the queen of Egypt.

“So maybe he really is sick,” Hermes mused.

“Or maybe Cleopatra is just being oversolicitous of his health and insists on having a physician present, and Caesar would trust nobody but that Greek. It’s like her. Still, he didn’t look all that well. Not really sick, but lacking in his usual vigor, like that day in the Senate when he was so undiplomatic with Archelaus.”

“Do you think Caesar will live long enough to take his expedition to Syria?”

“If King Phraates has any brains at all,” I said, “he’s sacrificing to Ahura-Mazda right now that he will not.”

It was barely midafternoon when we set out for Callista’s. Respectable gatherings always began early. Only disreputable ones went on after dark. Of course, this party was going to move to one of the most dissolute households in Rome. I mentioned this strange juxtaposition to Julia as we were carried off.

It annoyed me that she insisted that I ride in the big litter she reserved for the most pretentious occasions, as if my own feet would no longer carry me. She thought it was beneath my dignity to walk after the sun was low over the rooftops. Of course, the ostentatious conveyance wasn’t for the visit to Callista’s, for which her everyday litter was adequate. It was for the trip to Cleopatra’s.

Not that everyone was riding. Two of Julia’s girls were trailing us, along with Hermes and a couple of my rougher retainers, men handy with their fists and with bronze-studded truncheons tucked into their cinctures. Anything could happen.

We found a small mob in the street outside Callista’s house, and more gathered in the courtyard. There were litters like ours and slaves and attendants and bodyguards more numerous and rougher-looking than mine.

“That’s Servilia’s litter!” Julia said as we were carried into this carnival. “And there is Atia’s!”

“This should prove to be an interesting evening,” I said as the bearers set us down on the pavement of the courtyard. I got out and helped Julia from the elegant but awkward vehicle. As I did this I gazed around the courtyard. Callista’s servants circulated, carrying trays of refreshments for the attendants who had to wait without. Greater houses than this one might not have bothered.

I hoped that the presence of these scheming women might add interest to what promised to be a dull evening. Much as I esteemed the company of Callista, I had never been able to abide the droning lectures of philosophers, and I had endured many such, as Julia had dragged me around from one learned gathering to another. She had a wholly lamentable taste for such high-toned, edifying entertainments, whereas I much preferred a good fight or chariot race.

Hermes nudged me. “Look who’s here now.”

The litter that entered the courtyard was unmistakable. It was Fulvia’s. The bearers were her usual matched Libyans with their outlandish, colorful costumes and their hair dressed in innumerable plaits. First to emerge was Antonius himself. The lady herself emerged, dressed, so to speak, in a gown of Coan cloth that resembled smoke drifting about her voluptuous little body.

“She’s holding up well for her age,” Julia observed.

“So she is. Shall we go in? It’s getting a bit crowded out here.”

Echo met us at the door and conducted us inside, with Antonius and his wife right behind us. The inner courtyard, with its small, tasteful fountain and pool, had been set with numerous chairs and couches. At a dinner party there would have been couches for nine, but there was no such customary limitation on salons like this. The women crowded together near the fountain to gossip and sound one another out while the men gathered in a corner to commiserate. I was headed that way when Antonius came up to me.