John Roberts - A Point of Law

“I am surprised you are still alive,” I told him.

“It was dark, and I think they had been indulging in wine more heavily than I. They got in each other’s way, and I am handy with my fists. I’ve trained as a boxer all my life. I like it better than swordplay. They probably thought they had killed me. These two physicians, with the best of intentions, have striven to finish the job. Each insists his methods are foolproof.”

“A poultice of herbs is always the best for such wounds,” the Syrian said, heatedly. “With a proper prophylactic spell, it unfailingly halts the bleeding and protects from infection.”

“I fear that my esteemed colleague,” Asklepiodes said affably, “is more conversant with headaches and menstrual cramps than with wounds. A thorough washing with boiled, sour wine and a tight compress to hold the edges of the laceration together will protect the wound, promote quick healing with minimal scarring, and reduce the danger of infection.”

“Asklepiodes has my vote,” I said. “He’s put a mile of stitches in my hide, and I’m still here.”

“And now,” the Greek said, “I can do no more here, so I bid you all good day. Just change the dressing every day, and you should have no more trouble.”

Curio thanked him, and, as he left, I saw him whisper something to Hermes. The young man nodded.

“I’m sorry that Fulvia got so overwrought,” Curio said. “But I was a frightening sight, and she’s an excitable woman.” He looked at the heap of bloody clothes on the floor and shook his head. “My best toga and tunic. They look like someone mopped the floor of a slaughterhouse with them.”

“I imagine Fulvia has plenty of men’s clothes you can wear. Clodius liked to affect workingmen’s garb, but I know that he had decent clothes that he wore to banquets and Senate meetings.”

“I suppose so.” Curio seemed unhurt except for the head wound.

“So who do you think they were?” I asked. “Such assaults seem to be all the fashion lately.”

“Do you mean, do I think they were the same ones who killed Fulvia’s brother? I doubt it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because those men would have done a better job of it. They made sure Fulvius was very thoroughly dead, then they dragged his corpse all the way to the basilica steps. There was a certain amount of planning, determination, and skill involved there. No, I imagine it was somebody with a personal grudge. I’ve made enemies like the rest of us.”

Fulvia came in, now decently gowned, her hair dressed, and the facial evidence of her recent fury reduced by cosmetics to a slight puffiness around the eyes. It spoke well for the efficiency of her slaves that they had wrought such change in so short a time.

“Why, Caius,” she said to Curio, “you look much better than I had expected.”

“Please don’t sound so disappointed, my dear. I told you before you stormed out that it was not all that serious.”

“But you men always talk like that! Clodius used to come home bleeding like the loser at a munera and tell me that the barber nicked him. I’ve seen men with their guts hanging out insisting they were merely scratched. I thought I’d probably find you dead when I got back here!”

“You got yourself freshly made up and dressed in your finest first, though, didn’t you?” he noted.

“Don’t try my patience!” she was beginning to get wrought up again.

Curio stood and took her in his arms. “Now, now, let’s not get excited. It’s all just the little hazards of life in Rome these days. Things will quiet down after the election.” He looked at me and made a significant gesture of the eyebrows, indicating the door.

“Well, all seems under control here,” I said. “I’ll just take my leave of you. Curio, congratulations again on your survival. Fulvia, thank you for a wonderful entertainment this morning. It will be long remembered.”

I beat a hasty retreat, Hermes following close on my heels. As we left the house, he touched my arm.

“Before he left, Asklepiodes said you’re to meet him at the altar of Hercules.”

“I saw him speak in your ear. Let’s go learn what he’s discovered.”

The altar of Hercules was on the western side of the Forum Boarium, near the Sublician Bridge. There we found the physician lounging at his ease, still in his litter, with his bearers squatting all around it. The gladiators had apparently been dismissed. The old cattle market, besides selling livestock and meat, was the business place for some of Rome’s best food vendors, and Asklepiodes had availed himself of their wares while he waited for me.

“Ah, Decius, good. I did not think you would tarry long. Have a seat and help me finish this excellent lunch. You too, Hermes. I bought enough for five men.”

I climbed into the litter and relaxed on the cushions. Hermes remained standing outside. Between Asklepiodes and me lay a platter of flat bread two feet wide, heaped with street-vendor delicacies, the best to be had. I took a skewer of tender quail grilled over charcoal and Hermes picked up a river fish caught that morning and steamed in a wrapping of pickled vine leaves.

“You are being even more generous than usual today, old friend,” I told him. “I will not forget it. Now, what were you able to deduce from Curio’s wounds? Did they tell you something significant about his attackers?”

“There was only one wound,” he said, “and it told me a great deal indeed. Your friend Curio was not attacked. The wound was self-inflicted.”

Hermes pounded me on the back, as I choked on delicious quail meat. Asklepiodes looked upon the effect of his pronouncement with deep satisfaction. There were times when I would have liked to strangle him. He handed me a cup of excellent Falernian, and I forgave him.

“Explain,” I said, when I could speak again.

“When I arrived-and this was only a short time before your own advent upon the scene-Curio lay on that bed, his hands clasped to his bloody head, writhing about like a condemned man being flogged with chains. He and that Syrian quack were astonished and alarmed when I showed up. When I went to examine the wounded man, the Syrian tried to restrain me forcibly. Luckily, my medical specialty being what it is, I know a great deal more about force than he.”

I nodded, remembering his many demonstrations of homicidal technique, some of which had left marks on me for weeks.

“I called for a basin and cloth, something oddly missing from the room, and cleaned Curio’s head. His attitude changed swiftly. He began to make light of the wound and say that Fulvia’s physician was being entirely too excitable, that he was no more than stunned by the blow to his head. Are you aware of something called the ‘coward’s blow?’ ”

“I think I’ve heard it mentioned among the sporting crowd. Something to do with throwing a fight, isn’t it?”

“It comes from the early days of pugilism. In the earliest times, boxers were amateurs-aristocratic athletes like the other contenders in the Olympics and the rest of the Greek games. But, in time, there arose a class of professional pugilists, and people began to bet heavily on the outcome of the fights, even as they do today. Various ruses were developed to rig the outcome, and one of these was the coward’s blow.

“Any scalp wound bleeds freely. The skin is stretched thin as vellum over the skull and is plentifully supplied with blood vessels. There is a spot”-he tapped a place on his own pate, about five inches above his right eyebrow-“which, when nicked, guarantees an especially generous effusion of blood. By prearrangement, one boxer would aim a punch at his opponent’s head. The other would duck in the usual fashion but not quite enough. The tip of one of the caestus spikes would open a cut on that spot, and the blood would flow as from an upended bucket. The prearranged loser would drop as if slain, and the wagers would be paid. As an added bonus, once the place has been spiked a few times, all that is needed to reopen it is a tap, so the ruse can be repeated endlessly, always before a new audience.”