John Roberts - Saturnalia

“Clodius will have the commons stirred up, and nothing buys back their loyalty like a good set of games,” I observed. “But it will be expensive.”

“You will be expected to contribute,” Father said. I should have kept my mouth shut.

“All of which is strictly secondary to the evening’s business,” Creticus said. “Decius, you know that Celer was poisoned, don’t you?”

“I knew that he was dead and that he didn’t die by violence, disease, or accident that anyone witnessed. People always suspect poison when a prominent man dies without visible cause, but there are a hundred illnesses that can kill without warning signs.”

“He was poisoned,” Creticus said flatly.

I released a sigh. I had been afraid of this. “And I can just guess who you suspect did it.”

“No need to guess,” Creticus said. “It was his wife, that slut Clodia. We want you to gather evidence so that we can bring charges against the bitch and have her executed or exiled.”

“You don’t quite understand how this works,” I said. “If I am to investigate, I will gather evidence then decide who the murderer is, if indeed he was murdered.”

“Whatever it takes,” Creticus said.

“It may not be Clodia,” I said.

“Who else could it be?” Father demanded.

“I have no idea, but no man ever became consul and commanded armies in the provinces without making plenty of enemies. He fought the Catilinarians and executed plenty of them. Their families will not have forgotten. He might have been dallying with the wrong man’s wife. Married to Clodia, I can well imagine that he sought female companionship elsewhere.”

Nepos snorted. “What man ever commits murder over a little trifling adultery? Celer’s enemies were not the sort to resort to poison.”

“Right,” said Scipio. “If he’d been decently attacked and cut down in the street, we could be certain that it was a political enemy behind it. Poison is a woman’s tool.”

“Why would she have killed him?” I asked. At this they all looked surprised.

“The woman is a murderess many times over,” Creticus said. “Why not?”

It was typical of these men. Murder was all too common in Rome, but they knew that a man would have a sound political or personal reason for resorting to the act. A scandalous woman, on the other hand, would kill because it was her nature to. And any woman whose name was bandied about in public was scandalous. Highborn Roman ladies were supposed to live anonymously.

“Very well. What is to be my authority?”

“We want this handled with discretion,” Creticus said. “After all, this is within the family. But if you encounter difficulty, you may say that you are acting for Scipio. As tribune, he will bring charges against the venefica .” He used the old word for witch poisoner.

“You understand that poisoning is perhaps the most difficult of all murders to prove?” I said.

“I’ve prosecuted and judged such cases,” Father said. “So has Creticus. Just bring us evidence for a credible charge and we’ll get rid of her.”

“Why did Celer marry her in the first place?” I asked.

“We needed an alliance with the Claudians at the time,” Creticus said. “What else?”

What indeed?

At the door of Father’s house, Hermes took a torch from the stand and began to light it from the doorside lamp.

“Don’t bother,” I told him. “There’s decent moonlight tonight.”

I preferred to avoid torches in Rome except on the inkiest nights. Their light is flickering and they destroy your night vision. An attacker need only throw a cloak over it or douse it with water and you are utterly blind until your eyes readjust. Besides, a torch draws attention.

We went outside and stood by the gate for a few minutes while our eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. After that, the streets were fairly negotiable. The moon was three-quarters full and almost straight overhead, casting her beams upon even the narrowest alleys.

“What did you learn?” I asked Hermes as we set out.

“Not much. Your father isn’t exactly chummy with his slaves.”

“But they hear things,” I said. “What do I keep you around for if not to pick up slave gossip?”

“Near as I can tell, the old man’s just like always. Doesn’t use the whip as much as he used to. Maybe he’s mellowing.” He paused. “There’ve been several of these late meetings where the staff were sent to the back of the house in the last few months.”

“That doesn’t mean much,” I said. “Not for political connivers like my family. Has there been talk about Metellus Celer? Or his wife, Clodia?”

“They say she poisoned him, but that’s just city gossip, not inside family information. Is that what this is all about?”

“Exactly. The family wants to punish Clodia and they are sending me out to dig up evidence.” I talked about these things openly to Hermes. Despite his criminal inclinations, he could be an invaluable help in my investigations and had a real feel for the work. This caused me some disquiet. Did Hermes have the instincts of an investigator, or did I have the instincts of a slave?

“This is your chance!” he said. “That woman’s been a sword hanging over your head for years. Now you can be rid of her for good.”

“I know. I ought to be rejoicing, but I’m not.”

“Why? Oh, well, she is the sister of Publius Clodius. It’ll give him one more reason to hate you.”

I shrugged. “That isn’t it. He can only kill me once, and he intends to do that as soon as possible. No, something else feels wrong about this business.” I brooded for a while, and we walked across the ghostly, moonlit Forum. Dead politicians glared down at us from their pedestals as if we were Gauls come back to loot the Capitol again. I paused.

“What is it?” Hermes asked.

“Something just became clear to me. Everyone seemed awfully cheerful in the streets and the Forum today.”

“I noticed. Is it because of Saturnalia?”

“No. It’s because the year is almost over and next year will be one of utter political chaos. I just realized that Romans like political chaos!”

“Maybe citizens do,” Hermes said.

“Don’t be mealy mouthed. Slaves love civil unrest more than anybody else. They can get away with a lot more then. When men can brawl in the streets, they don’t vent their anger by beating their slaves.”

“That’s what you know about it,” he said, but I had lost interest.

What I was wondering about was why they had recalled me from Rhodes. Certainly I had a reputation as an investigator, but any halfway competent iudex could come up with enough material of the sort that passed for evidence in a Roman court, where eloquence of denunciation was more important than proof of guilt. Maybe they just didn’t want to run afoul of a woman with Clodia’s reputation. Poisoning is not only difficult to prove, but it is also difficult to avoid.

Cato woke me far too early and Cassandra brought in my breakfast tray. My two aged house slaves were intrusive and officious as usual, but they were always good for a few days of cheerful service immediately after one of my returns from foreign parts. After that they would revert to their customary cranky selves.

“Are my clients outside?” I asked.

“No, they’ve not yet got word you’re back in town, Master,” Cato said. “You should send your boy to summon them.”

“Absolutely not!” I said. “I don’t want them calling on me in the mornings. The longer they’re in the dark, the better.” I took the napkin off the tray, revealing hot bread, sliced fruit, boiled eggs, and a pot of honey. Breakfast was one of those degenerate, un-Roman practices to which I was addicted.