Steven Saylor - A murder on the Appian way

The bed was a beautiful thing carved from some dark, exotic wood, strewn with plump silk pillows and soft woollen blankets, and covered with a gauzy canopy. Bethesda would have deemed it too fine to sleep on. Diana would have adored it. Though I had planned to stay up for a while to sort out with Eco all that we had seen and learned that day, and intended only to test the bed to see how soft or hard it was, I must have fallen asleep only moments after putting, my head on a pillow and closing my eyes. When I next opened them, the room was bright with the cold light of morning.

I rose, sinking my toes into the plush wool rug, stretched myself smiled at the surprising lack of soreness in my buttocks and legs, drank from a ewer of cold spring water, relieved myself into the pot by the bed, pulled on my cloak and my shoes and finally stepped towards the light. It streamed through shutters drawn over a wide doorway on the southern side of the room. I pulled them back, stepped onto the spacious balcony, and stood astonished at the view. Of all the luxuries at Pompey's villa, surely this was the most unusual and offered the most enduring delight

Towards the west I was able to look down on the wooded hillside above the Appian Way, catching glimpses of the wide ribbon of road below. Beyond the road were the foothills, where shreds of mist still clung to treetops, and beyond the foothills a wide expanse of open plains and farmland extended to, the distant blue-green sea. Above all was the. deep blue bowl of the cloudless sky. If the day remained clear, the sunset from this vantage point would be extraordinary.

I turned and walked to the opposite side of the balcony with the morning light on my face and looked down onto a wood-encircled lake hidden from the lower world. Its placid surface, as smooth as polished silver, reflected the forested cone of Mount Alba. The sun had just risen from behind the mountain and for the moment seemed to be balanced on its highest peak.

"What a view!" said Eco, joining me on the balcony. When I gave a start, he laughed. "Relax, Papa! If we aren't safe in this house, we aren't safe anywhere. What a view," he repeated, turning his head from side to side to take it in. "Pompey seems to have a penchant for houses with a view, just as Fausta Cornelia has a penchant for getting caught…"

I took up the theme. "Just as Clodius had a penchant for making trouble and for acquiring real estate — "

"Often both at the same time."

"And as Milo has a penchant for social climbing," I went on, "and Cicero for winning impossible cases. Every man acts out of his own nature, and moves on a singular path towards his destiny."

"What's your penchant, Papa?"

"Trying to figure out the others! Not always a rewarding pursuit, or a pleasant one."

Eco sighed. "Things could hardly get more pleasant than this." "Yes, men like Pompey do know how to live." "I could get used to it."

"Best not to, Eco. We'll be out of here as quickly as possible. Aren't you missing Menenia and little Titus and Titania?"

He looked wistful. "Menenia never served me a meal like the cook made last night. Or gave me a massage like that shrivelled old bath attendant!"

"Men like Pompey own all the best slaves."

"Speaking of which, Papa, I had to rouse Davus from his bed before I came here. He's practically paralysed."

"The more muscles a man has, the more there are to ache." "Did a wise old Etruscan say that?"

"I doubt there was ever a wise old Etruscan who didn't know how to ride a horse. But Davus is young and supple. We'll see that he gets another good dose of riding today to work out the stiffness."

"Papa, you've never been one to torture a slave."

"Consider it the revenge of the old on the young. But it's time to start moving. First, we eat. Shall we see what the cook has come up with this morning to help you stop missing Menenia?"

Our bellies were warmed by freshly baked bread sprinkled with sesame seeds, a porridge of oats and honey, and a warmed compote of spiced apples. Davus joined us. Though the simple act of walking and sitting seemed to cause him considerable agony (manifested by grunts and grimaces), this did nothing to impair his appetite. He consumed as much as Eco and I combined.

I intended to take our horses and head out again on the Appian Way, but when the foreman discovered our destination he suggested that we walk instead. It seemed there was an ancient footpath that ran along the ridge that would take us directly to Clodius's villa. "It's considerably shorter," he explained, "and of course more discreet than being on the open road. Besides, it's much warmer today, thanks to all this sunshine, and the walk is quite beautiful. It will take you through the grove."

"The grove?"

"The sacred grove dedicated to Jupiter… or what's left of it."

"Yes, I think I should like to see that. Come, Eco. Well, Davus, it looks as if you're to be spared the agony of mounting a horse again, at least for the moment."

His smile of gratitude turned into a wince as he rose to his feet.

As Pompey's foreman had promised, the walk offered splendid views, especially on a day when the sky was cloudless and the visibility unlimited. The mountain peak brooded above us and the plain shimmered below, both equally remote. The hidden lake showed nothing of itself, only a perfect reflection of the sky. The sea was too distant to be heard, even as a whisper. The taciturn woods, as we passed into their shadow, blocked off all sight of the rest of the world except for fleeting sunlit glimpses.

I found myself bemused by the shade-dappled boulders strewn along the path, by the rustle of last autumn's leaves beneath our feet, by the canopy of gnarled branches above. I have always delighted in the beauty of the countryside, even though my one attempt at living there, on my farm in Etruria, had failed so utterly. That chapter of my life, like so many of those who participated in it, belonged now to the dead past.

As the path continued to descend, we came to a cleared place and the foundation of.a house. The outline of the various rooms could be seen amid the scattered debris of stone and old wood. There was little of any decorative value remaining, except for a few fragments of mosaic floors that had been damaged in removal and left where they were. There was also a marble statue of a female form, its head missing, that lay broken in pieces on the ground. I was reminded with a shiver of the fallen bronze Minerva in my own house. This goddess, I suspected, had been knocked over by careless workmen rather than angry looters, though the man to whom workers and looters alike had owed their allegiance was almost certainly the same. Living and dead, Clodius had left destruction in his wake.

I took time to wander through the ruins for a while, tracing the demarcations of halls and cubicles where my presence would never have been allowed when the house stood, trying to imagine the sounds, smells and shadows of the place. The Virgo Maxima had mourned for its rustic charm, gone now forever. I felt her presence in that place, her brittle humour and forthright bitterness, far more than I felt the presence of the goddess, who no doubt had abandoned the desecrated place as surely as the missing head of her broken statue.

Farther up the hill, through the trees, I could see the white columns and round roof of the circular Temple of Vesta-her original temple, as the Virgo Maxima had sternly reminded me. Even in daylight and at such a distance, the flame that burned eternally within could be seen by the lurid glow it cast on the smooth inner curves of the surrounding columns. The temple was unharmed and the land around it untouched. Even Clodius had not been impious enough to disturb the sacred flame.

We returned to the path and moved on.

The character of the woods began to change in some subde way. Even my irreligious son sensed it, and mentioned it before I did. It may be as Eco suggested, that the trees outside a sacred grove, having been felled and allowed to grow back many times over many generations, establish a character somehow different from the trees within the sacred precinct, which have never been brought down by any mortal, and have never been scarred by any flame except fire sent from heaven by Jupiter himself. Such sacred woods are different in many small ways — the distance between the trees and the quality of the light that enters between them, their relative ages, the kind and amount of foliage at their feet. However it may be, after a time it was clear to us all, even to city-bound Davus, that we had entered a place that was special to the god.