John Roberts - A Point of Law

Her use of the word was not lost on me. “You don’t approve of Caesar’s sending his soldiers here? They are citizens, after all.”

“When I married Caius Claudius I cut my ties with the Julian family. Like my husband and his brother, I perceive Caesar as a potential tyrant.”

“But I understand he contemplates adopting your brother.”

“I barely know my brother. I haven’t seen him since he was an infant.” She shook her head. “Forgive me. I forget my manners. Please come in, Senator.”

Hermes remained in the atrium. It was just a few paces to the peristyle, where the statues surrounding the pool ran to figures like Camillus, Cincinnatus, and various ancestral Claudians. Not quite as lively as Fulvia’s decor. We sat and a slave brought the obligatory watered wine and small loaves. I took enough to satisfy etiquette and determine that the wine was excellent, even though I couldn’t identify it.

“Is it possible that I may help you?” she asked.

“Possibly. I am investigating the death of a man named Marcus Fulvius. You may have heard that he was accusing me of corruption, and that I am a suspect in his murder.”

She shook her head. “I don’t follow City gossip.”

“Admirable. I’ve learned that he was living in a house owned by your husband, a property near the Temple of Tellus. Might you know anything about the man?”

“Like most men of quality, my husband owns a great deal of property both urban and rural. I suppose he must have a hundred residential properties within the old walls alone, and a great deal more outside and across the river. I know very little about them, and I doubt he does. His stewards manage all that for him. State business takes up all his time and energy.”

“Service to the Senate and People is a demanding calling. Among his holdings, does he by chance number any estates in Baiae?”

“Why do you ask?” The question was blunt, and her look was direct.

“This man Fulvius was from Baiae, recently arrived in Rome. I wondered if he might be a family client of your husband.”

“I know of no family named Fulvius among my husband’s clientela . I believe the Fulvias are in some way connected to the Claudia Pulchri, but not to the Claudia Marcella.”

“I see. Do you know if your husband has dealings with the Tribune of the People, Marcus Manilius?”

“I don’t know the man, but my husband stands firmly with the optimates and I can hardly imagine him having anything to do with a tribune. Those jumped-up peasants have brought the Republic to the brink of ruin. Sulla should have abolished the office when he had the power to.”

“I see I’ve troubled you needlessly,” I said, rising.

“I am truly sorry I couldn’t help you, Senator. I do hope you don’t think me rude.” Her smile was like the smile carved on a statue.

“Not at all. I’ll just see if I can locate your husband, our future consul. If I miss him, please extend my regards when he returns home.”

“I’ll be sure to do so.”

I collected Hermes and we left the house.

“Did you catch all that?” I asked him.

“Every word. I didn’t think they made Roman matrons like that anymore.”

“They don’t. I’m sure almost everything she said was a lie.”

“That’s a relief. A Roman woman who doesn’t follow City gossip-it’s like saying the sun comes up in the west.”

We found a tavern at the base of the Palatine where the soldiers were celebrating among admiring citizenry and took seats outside. The immense bulk of the Circus Maximus reared its arches skyward just a few paces away. An overworked girl brought us a pitcher and cups. It wasn’t like the wine served in a great house, but it was adequate.

“What have I taught you about criminal investigations, Hermes?”

“Everyone lies.”

“Exactly. What must the investigator do?”

“Sort through the lies to find the truth?”

“That’s only part of it. One of the biggest mistakes you can make is to assume that everyone is lying for the same reason. Sometimes they’re covering themselves; sometimes they’re covering for other people. But sometimes they’re hiding something you aren’t even looking for. The fact is just about everyone is guilty of something , and when someone like me comes snooping around they reflexively assume that they’re the target and try to hide their guilt.”

“It gets confusing.”

“Nothing that can’t be solved by a first-class mind and a little inspiration,” I assured him. I took another sip of inspiration and pondered for a while. This called for another sip. It really was inferior wine, not nearly as fine as the unknown vintage Octavia had served-

Abruptly, a god (or my special muse) visited me. In moments like this I have a special radiant, or perhaps stunned look. After awhile I noticed that fingers were waving in front of my face.

“Decius,” Hermes was asking, “are you still there?”

“Let’s order some food,” I said. “I’m going to need a little fortification.”

Mystified, he fetched flat bread, sausage, and preserved onions from the food counter and brought it to the table. I wasn’t really hungry, but I put it away like a starving legionary.

“What’s this all about?” Hermes wanted to know.

“We’re going to visit the Brotherhood of Bacchus.”

He blinked. “The wine merchants?”

“Exactly.”

“You intend to get drunk and stay that way until this is all over?”

“A splendid idea, now that you suggest it, but not my intention.” I was absurdly pleased with myself.

Hermes shrugged, knowing what I was like in this mood. “Whatever you say.”

We left the tavern, rounded the northern end of the Circus, and turned left along the river. This district was devoted to the river trade, a great sprawl of wharves and warehouses with few temples or public buildings. Among the latter was the huge porticus of the Aemilian family, where a great deal of the river trade was conducted informally.

The warehouse of the Brotherhood of Bacchus stood between the porticus and the river. In the little square between the buildings stood one of my favorite statues in all of Rome. It depicted, about twice life-size, the god Bacchus. He stood in the conventional pose of a Greek god, but this was the Italian Bacchus, not the Greek Dionysus. He was portrayed as a handsome young man, but his features were slightly puffy and pouch eyed, his fine, athlete’s body a little potbellied, his smile a bit silly. He looked like Apollo gone to seed. In one hand he held aloft a huge cluster of grapes. In the other, a wine cup. The cup was tilted and the sculptor, with marvelous skill, had depicted a tiny bit of wine slopping over the rim. His pose was a trifle off-balance, his garland of vine leaves just the tiniest bit askew.

“There stands a real Roman god,” I said to Hermes. “None of that stuffy, Olympian solemnity about him.”

We passed the god and went inside. The interior was cavernous, with massive, wooden racks stretching off in all directions, holding thousands of clay amphorae from every district of the world where grapes grow. The racks were labeled by district and year. Everywhere, slaves in pairs, stripped to loincloths, carried amphorae here and there, bringing them from the boats tied up to the wharf outside or from the racks to wagons waiting in the street out front. Each pair carried a pole on their brawny shoulders, the amphora suspended from the pole by ropes passed through the thick handles molded to each side of its neck. The slaves accomplished this seemingly awkward task with wonderful celerity and skill.

A fat man wearing a toga spotted my senator’s stripe and hustled over. “Welcome, Senator. What may the Brotherhood of Bacchus do for you? I am Manius Maelius, steward of the Brotherhood, at your service.”