John Roberts - Saturnalia

“I know why Caesar wanted to be pontifex maximus, ” I said. “His mother put him up to it. Aurelia just wanted to have every woman in Rome, even the ladies of the highest-ranking households, come to her and abase themselves.”

She punched me in the ribs. “Stop that! As usual, there was gossip. People speak more freely at Saturnalia than at other times. A lot of it was about Clodia.”

“Everyone assumes she poisoned Celer?”

“Of course. But there was more. It seems to be common knowledge that she is the brains behind her brother’s rise to political power. They are wildly devoted to one another; everyone knows that. She may do most of his thinking for him as well.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” I said. “Clodius certainly isn’t the brightest star in the Roman firmament.”

“Then,” she said, leaning close and being conspiratotial, “if someone wanted to eliminate Clodius without bringing the wrath of Clodius’s mob down upon him, wouldn’t it make sense to get rid of Clodia?”

“I thought you were of the opinion she is guilty,” I said.

“I’m trying to think like you, dolt!” Another punch in the ribs. “Now pay attention. By poisoning Celer, somebody hoped not only to eliminate him as an enemy, but to bring Clodius into disgrace as well, possibly to eliminate him entirely by getting the sister upon whom he depends sentenced to death by the state as a venefica . Even if Clodius is capable of handling his own career, the disgrace would be devastating. Does this plan eliminate a few suspects from your list?”

“It does that,” I admitted. “If Clodius was one of the real targets, then somebody wants to cut Caesar’s support in the City out from under him while he’s in Gaul.” I glanced at her suspiciously. “You didn’t brew this up just to make your uncle look innocent, did you?”

“I only search for truth and justice,” she said, with lamblike innocence. Then her eyes went wide with alarm. “Those men over there!”

I looked around, expecting assassins. “Where? Is someone after us? Me, I mean?” I reached into my tunic and grasped the hilt of my dagger. I could see no northern thugs or Marsian louts.

“No, idiot! Those two old slaves over there. They belong to my grandmother, and they’re looking for me.” She drew her veil aside and kissed me swiftly. “I have to run back. Be careful.” Then she was up and away, around a corner of the temple.

For a few minutes longer I sat on the portico of the temple, basking in the light of the sunny morning. With most of the litter of the holiday swept up and carted away, the Forum was almost back to its customary state of majestic beauty, and the eye was not distracted by the usual swarming crowds. Rome at its most beautiful, though, can be a strange and dangerous place.

I decided that there was one person I ought to talk to, although I dreaded the prospect. I had no excuse to procrastinate, save my own cowardice. On the other hand, I consider cowardice to be an excellent reason to avoid danger. It has saved my life many times. But time was pressing and this was one thin possibility and it had to be pursued. With a sigh of resignation I got up from the bench, descended the steps of the little temple, and began the walk around the base of the Capitol to the Field of Mars and the Circus Flaminius.

It was just about noon when I reached the warren of stalls and tents. There were not as many as there had been three days before. Could it really have been only three days? It hardly seemed possible. Many of the vendors had disposed of all their wares during the holiday and had returned home for more. Others had ended their business season and would not be back until spring.

I half-hoped that Furia would not be there either. On the lengthy walk I was forced to face my fear. It wasn’t just that she was a woman of great presence who was a little too handy with a knife-I had confronted murderous females before without trepidation-no, I was forced to admit it was because she was a striga. Educated, aristocratic Roman I might be, but my roots were buried deep in the soil of Italy, like those of an ancient olive tree. My peasant ancestors had cowered in fear of such women, and their blood was more powerful in my heart and veins than the mishmash of Latin and Greek learning in my brain.

I saw the tent of Ascylta but I walked past it without a glance. For all I knew I might put the woman in danger by speaking with her out here. I had the uncomfortable but familiar feeling of being watched from every booth and tent entrance I passed. Among these people, I was a marked man.

Then I stood before the arch curtained by Furia’s familiar hangings. I took a deep breath, summoned up an expression of fake courage, pushed the curtains aside, and strode in.

Furia glared up at me beneath the brim of her odd headdress. “I didn’t expect to see you snooping around here again.”

“So you did not. You did not expect to see me alive at all, at least not with eyes in my head.”

“Those incompetent fools!” She calmed herself and put on a faint smile. “Still, I notice that you aren’t here with a crowd of lictors to arrest me. Not having much luck with your law-enforcing peers, are you?”

I crouched so that our eyes were on the same level. “Furia, I want some answers, and I won’t leave this booth until I have them.”

“Do you really believe I will betray my religion?” she said.

“I won’t ask you to. I need to catch a murderer. It is the death of Quintus Caecilius Metellus Celer I am investigating, but the same killer murdered Harmodia. She was the leader of your cult, was she not? Don’t you want to see her avenged?”

“She has been!” Her eyes were as steady on mine as those of a bronze statue, and about as informative.

“I don’t understand.”

“There is much you don’t understand, Senator.”

“Then let’s talk about what I know. I know that Harmodia was selling poison to a Greek physician named Ariston of Lycia. Some months back she sold him a slow-working concoction you veneficae call ‘the wife’s friend.’ ” At the name her eyes widened fractionally. I had managed to surprise her. “It was this poison that killed Celer. Not long after he died, Harmodia was murdered by a killer who wanted to hide his tracks. Within a very few days the physician was dead as well, supposedly by accident; but we know better, don’t we, Furia?”

“Harmodia was foolish!” she said. “She dealt too much with that Greek. It is one thing to sell a woman the means to get rid of a husband who beats her or a son an easy way to dispose of the rich father who takes too long to die. What are such people to us? But the Greek was an evil man. He killed those who entrusted themselves to his care. Even worse, he sold his murdering services to others.”

It seemed that even poisoners had their own code of ethics, and Ariston had overstepped the boundaries.

“Why do you say that Harmodia has already been avenged?” I asked her.

“The Greek killed her.”

“Are you certain of that?”

“Of course. He was a great and respectable man.” These words were spoken with the withering sarcasm possible only to an Italian peasant or Cicero on one of his best days. “He could not afford to let Harmodia expose him, so he killed her.”

“Was Harmodia blackmailing Ariston? Did she demand money in return for her silence?”

Furia stared at me for a long time. “Yes, she did. I told you she was foolish. And she was greedy.”

“How did she expect to expose him without attracting the awful punishment meted out to a venefica?”

Furia actually chuckled. “She was no Roman politician. She did not threaten to accuse him in the assemblies. She would simply let his deeds be known to many people in many places. He never told her who he was poisoning, but we have our ways of learning such things. She would be far away before he could implicate her.”