Steven Saylor - A murder on the Appian way

"Neither does anyone else, apparently. Virgo Maxima, I thank you for your indulgence."

She regarded me kindly. "People should remember the past, and past favours."

"They should; and would more often, I imagine, if they could spend less time fretting about the future."

"A mystery woman!" said Eco, when we were back on our horses. "The Virgo Maxima?"

"No, Papa! The woman who came to her with Clodius's ring." "Not too mysterious, from the look of things." "You think it was Fausta Cornelia?"

"Who else? Rather vulgar of Milo, to send his wife off to the nearest religious establishment to brag about what he'd done. Unless it was Fausta's idea, which I suppose is more likely. Women of her social standing have a certain sense of how to mark the auspiciousness of an occasion. She probably wanted to offer sincere thanks to Vesta for looking after her household, and incidentally to indulge in a little blasphemous gloating."

"But why conceal her identity? She never seems to bother about hiding anything else."

"You mean her affairs?"

"I said it before: the woman has a penchant for getting caught. Not the secretive sort by nature."

"Perhaps she hid her identity thinking to conceal her husband's role in the incident"

"Is that credible? The next day the whole world would be talking about Milo's part."

"Ah, but this was only shortly after the battle, Eco. Everything must have still seemed very much up in the air. Something awesome had occurred, overwhelming yet also exhilarating. Clodius, dead at last! Cause for jubilation-but also for fear. How will the world react? Will there be some terrible retribution? Can the crime still be concealed? Discretion is advised, but for something so extraordinary, there must

be an act of pious thanksgiving. So while her husband regroups, Fausta slips away to the nearby House of the Vestals. She gloats over Clodius's death — but in disguise. Where is the mystery?" "I suppose you're right, Papa…"

"I only wonder where Clodius's ring ended up. The decent thing would be to return it to his widow by an anonymous courier. Somehow I imagine it on a shelf with Milo's old wrestling trophies, where he can take it down to fondle and gloat over whenever he's had a bit too much wine."

"Possession of the ring would make for a damning piece of evidence."

"As would the Virgo Maxima's tale, if she could say that it was Fausta who came to her. But the ring is missing, and all the Virgo Maxima can tell us with certainty is that an unknown woman came to the House of the Vestals — a mystery woman, as you say. I think Fausta Cornelia may be cleverer than her husband."

"Didn't we know that already? She keeps fooling him over and over."

"Or making a fool of him, anyway. And here we are, back at the shrine of the Good Goddess. I don't see Felicia about, do you? Perhaps she took my advice and headed south already."

"More likely she's gone home for the day. The sun's getting low, Papa. What next?"

"I'd hoped to make it to Clodius's villa today, but we probably don't have time."

"I think we've accomplished quite a lot for one day, Papa."

"We found out more than I expected to. Yes, I think it's time to find Pompey's villa and come to rest."

The way to Pompey's place was easy to find. A pair of stone pylons chiselled with the letter M (for Magnus) marked the turnoff. A long, winding road led up to the ridgetop. It was not paved but was excellently graded and maintained, and shaded by a canopy of towering oaks. Here and there statues of woodland beasts adorned the route or could be glimpsed in open meadows. I had the feeling not so much of entering the woods as of passing through a park.

The villa itself was a long, two-storey building that sprawled along the ridge, the red tiles of its roof making it visible from a great distance amid the stony grey-green and umber winter landscape around it. As we entered the forecourt a slave appeared almost at once to help us dismount and to take our horses. Another slave must have run to alert the foreman, for even before Davus's mount had disappeared into the stable, the door of the main entrance opened and a tall, sturdy-looking man with greying hair and a look of authority stepped out to greet us. When I produced the letter of commission which Pompey had given me, the man hardly glanced at it.

"Yes, we've been expecting you," he said.

"How can that be?"

"The master sent a messenger a couple of days ago saying we should look for you."

"But I met your master only last night."

The man gave me a wry look. "The master has a way of knowing what a man will do before the man himself knows."

"Your master was very confident of my cooperation."

"I suppose he was," said the foreman, with a look that implied and why not? "These are your companions?"

"My son and my bodyguard."

"No one else? This is your entire party?" He peered at the road behind us.

"I prefer to travel discreetly."

"There's safety in numbers."

"Not always," I said, dunking of Clodius.

"Ah, well, I prepared the villa for a larger party," sighed the foreman, evidently disappointed that his master's foresight had fallen down at details. He clapped his hands. "Well, then, your stay shall be all the more comfortable. Feel free to sleep in a different room every night and eat several meals a day. The idea seems to please this one." He raised an eyebrow at Davus, who returned a crooked smile as he reached back to rub his saddle-weary rump.

In the city, Pompey was known for his lack of ostentation, as a man who cared little for the gaudy ornaments of wealth, but there was nothing spartan about his villa on Mount Alba. Perhaps, like many politicians, he maintained a stern, sober guise in the city but allowed himself to put on a more festive and pleasure-loving face in the seclusion of the countryside. Or perhaps the luxurious amenities to be found at every turn were put there solely for visitors, such as myself Many a rich man keeps his country villas not as private retreats but for the entertainment and lodging of others.

The bathing rooms in our wing were lit by skylights above and by a row of tiny windows at eye level, through which I caught glimpses of the twilit sea on the far horizon; we had risen high enough on the mountain to see the coast. The walls and floors were decorated with ornately patterned tiles whose subtle grey-blues and moss greens duplicated the colours of the distant, darkening sea. The three pools were kept at perfect temperatures for taking the cold, warm and hot plunges; I went through all three several times, feeling my saddlesore body grow more and more relaxed. As the natural light began to fade, lamps were brought; the reflection of their orange flames danced upon the water. A wizened, toothless old slave with remarkably strong hands gave us massages. I insisted that Davus be given a thorough massage as well, considering that he was likely to be even staffer than myself the next day. Even the towels we were given were inordinately thick and luxurious. No day could have had a sweeter ending.

Our dinner was served in a heated room near the baths, where the same furnaces which heated the water also sent warmed air through vents in the floor. The quality and variety of the meal was remarkable, especially a course of little pies filled with wild game and onions.

Our sleeping chambers were located above the baths, yet another clever way of making the most of the heat generated by the furnaces and the steam. The furniture was mostly of Eastern design and manufacture; the gold-painted chairs with tasselled red pillows were a bit elaborate for my simple tastes, as were the madly patterned hangings which covered the doorways. Pompey had spent many years in the East and had apparently developed an appreciation for the florid styles and delicate craftsmanship to be found in those lands he had conquered or pacified, where such booty was his for the taking.