John Roberts - Saturnalia

“That is just one of the rumors. I was speaking of the things I actually do. The truth is, it doesn’t take much to be a scandalous woman in Rome; and if you are guilty of one impropriety, then you must be capable of anything.”

I shook my head. “Clodia, what you say is true enough of Sempronia and the elder Fulvia and a few others. They are just unconventional and have a taste for low company and are public about it. I happen to know from personal experience that you are capable of murder.”

She held my gaze for a few seconds, then lowered her eyes. “I had no reason to poison Celer. He wasn’t a bad husband, as such things go. He didn’t pretend that our marriage was anything more than a political arrangement, and he allowed me to do as I pleased. After the third year, when he was satisfied that I was not going to bear him any children, he no longer objected to any men I cared to see.”

“He was a model of toleration.”

“We would have reached an amicable divorce soon anyway. He was looking for a suitable woman. I wouldn’t have killed him for his property. He left me nothing, nor did I expect him to. I had no reason to kill him, Decius.”

“At least now you’re not pretending that you don’t care whether I believe you.”

“It isn’t that I prize your good opinion. Do you know the punishment for venificium? ”

“No, but I’m sure it’s something awful.”

”Deportatio in insula,” she said, her face bleak. “The poisoner is taken to an island and left there, with no means of escape. The island chosen is always exceedingly small, without population or cultivated plants, and with little or no freshwater. I made inquiries. Most last only days. There is a report of one wretch who lasted several years by licking the dew from the rocks in the morning and prying shellfish up with her bare fingers and eating them raw. She was sighted by passing ships for a long time, howling and raving at them from the waterline. She was quite a horrid sight toward the end, when her snaky white hair almost completely covered her.” She was quiet for a few moments, sipping at her Massic.

“Of course,” she added, “that was just some peasant herb woman. I would not wait to be carried off. I am a patrician, after all.”

I stood. “I will see what I can do, Clodia. If someone poisoned Celer, I will find out who it was. If I find that it was you, that is how I will report it to the praetor.”

She managed a very small, tight smile. “Ah, I can see that I’ve snared you with my feminine wiles again.”

I shrugged. “I’m not an utter fool, Clodia. When I was a child, like most children, I burned myself on a hot stove. That taught me to be wary of hot stoves. But while I was young I still burned myself through incaution. Now I am careful of approaching even a cold stove.”

She got up laughing. Then she took my arm and led me from the room. “Decius, you are not as adept at striking down your enemies as a hero should be. But you may just outlive them all.”

Hermes met me at the door and an aged janitor let us out. Apparently the beautiful youth was just for show. This one wore a plain bronze neck ring and wasn’t even chained to the doorpost. As usual I refused a torch, and we stood outside for a few minutes, allowing our eyes to adjust. In a sense, Clodia’s words have proven to be prophetic. I have outlived all of my enemies but one. The problem is, I outlived all my friends but one as well.

“Did you learn anything?” I asked Hermes as we made our way back toward the Subura.

“There’s hardly a slave in the place who was there when Celer died. Clodia didn’t like his slaves because they weren’t pretty enough, and she sent them off to his country estates. Most of them she bought since he died. Some of her personal slaves were there at the time, but it was like the two of them lived in different houses and their staffs didn’t mix much.”

“Well, you can’t expect slaves to speak readily about a murder in the house.”

“Can you blame them?” Hermes asked. “I think they’re happy that Clodia is the suspect, because if she weren’t, it might be one of them. Then every slave in the house might be crucified.”

Rome has some truly barbarous laws, and that is one of them.

The moonlight was tolerable and the route was familiar. We would simply work our way downhill to the Suburan Street and thence continue downhill into the valley between the Esquiline and the Viminal, where my house lay. I was steady enough, having moderated my intake of wine for a change. In such a place and in such company I knew better than to incapacitate myself. I wasn’t truly worried about being poisoned, not much.

It was not terribly late. Here and there people wended their way home from late parties, their torches winking like lost spirits among the narrow alleys and tall apartment buildings. A fat man passed by us, weaving, supported on each side by a slave boy. An ivy wreath sat askew on his bald head, and he sang an old Sabine drinking song. I envied someone who could carouse so carelessly these days.

An odd religious procession passed by, with much wailing and clashing of cymbals and tootling of flutes. It might have been a wedding or a funeral or a premature celebration of the coming solstice. Rome is full of foreign religions and strange little cults.

Everywhere people were working late into the night decorating their houses and public squares for Saturnalia, hanging wreaths, painting over the malediction graffiti on the walls, and replacing them with good-wish slogans, heaping small offerings before neighborhood shrines, even washing down the streets.

“That’s a marvel worth traveling all the way from Rhodes to see,” I commented.

“The decorations?” Hermes asked.

“No. Clean streets in Rome. I …” That was when I noticed we had followers.

“Well, it’s only for one day.” Back then, Saturnalia was celebrated for only a single day, not for three, as recently decreed by the First Citizen. “I’m looking forward to … what’s wrong?”

“Eyes front, keep on walking as you were,” I ordered him. “We’ve acquired some admirers.” My hand went inside my tunic and gripped my dagger. I chided myself for not carrying my caestus as well. A metal-reinforced punch is a great help in a street fight, and it is always unexpected.

The question was: What did these men want? I knew there were at least two. Did they want to rob me? Kill me? Or were they just out for some fun? All three were reasonable expectations. Any well-dressed man was a target for thieves, especially after dark. I was engaged in a rather murky investigation involving a number of people who seldom hesitated to kill anyone they found inconvenient. And there were always those amusement seekers who found the sight of blood and teeth on the street infinitely pleasing. Ordinarily, thieves and bullies were easily discouraged by the prospect of armed resistance. Hired killers might take more persuading.

“I see two,” I remarked. “Do you see any more?”

Furtively, Hermes glanced around. “Not much light. It’s the two behind us, isn’t it? The ones pretending to be drunk?”

“That’s right.” Somehow, sober men can seldom imitate drunks convincingly, unless they are trained mimes.

“No, I don’t see any others.”

“Good.” We were nearing my home. “When we get to the shrine of Ops on the corner, I want you to dash ahead and get the gate open. Be ready to shut and bar it behind me when I come through.”

“Right,” he said, relieved that I wasn’t asking him to stand and fight.

As we neared my house the two “drunks” behind us began to walk more quickly, losing their wobbly gait in the process. The moment we passed the corner shrine, Hermes broke into a sprint and I hurried after him, considerably hampered by my toga. I would have cast it aside, but a good toga is ruinously expensive. Besides, the cumbersome garment is not without its uses in a brawl. I almost made it to my gate before they caught up to me. When I sensed they were within arm’s reach, I whirled, unwilling to risk a knife in my back as I went through the gate.