Steven Saylor - A murder on the Appian way

A groan rose from the crowd at the first glimpse of the body, followed by a great rush forwards. The bier was set down on the steps, tilted upward so that Clodius could be seen. We were caught in the crush. The crowd in the forecourt compressed, and those in the street were pulled in behind them, as if sucked into a vortex. Eco gripped my hand as we were carried through the gates and into the forecourt, like flotsam on a flood. His bodyguards struggled to stay close, shoving and pressing against us. I was jabbed in the ribs by the point of a knife concealed inside the tunic of the bodyguard beside me, and considered the mad irony if I should be accidentally gutted by the weapon of a man intending to protect me.

We came to a stop. The crowd was packed into the forecourt like grains of sand in a bottle. Through the reek of the torches, I had a clear view of Clodius propped up on his bier, surrounded in death as he had always been in life, by armed guards. To either side of the bier stood the men who had carried it. Among them I recognized Appius and Sextus Cloelius.

Clodius had been stripped of his bloody garments and retained only a loincloth around his hips. The puncture at his shoulder and the wounds in his chest had been cleaned, but only to show them clearly; there was still plenty of gore and blood smeared across his pale, waxy flesh. His hair, I noticed, had been lovingly combed and untangled. It was pushed back from his face, as he had worn it in life, but a stray tendril had fallen forwards over one eye. To look at his face alone, one might have thought that he was merely asleep and frowning because the hair was tickling him, and that he might at any moment reach up to push it away. To see him naked under the stars on such a cold night made me shiver.

Around us men moaned, cursed, wept, stamped their feet, shook their fists, buried their faces in their hands. Another tremor of apprehension rippled through the crowd as Fulvia appeared on the steps.

Her arms were crossed over her chest, her head bowed. Her long, dark hair hung straight down, merging with the long black line of her gown. Hands reached towards her from the crowd, but she seemed oblivious of these gestures of comfort. She stood for a long moment beside her husband's body, staring at it. Then she lifted her face to the sky and let out a cry of anguish that turned my blood cold. It was like the cry of a wild beast rending the cold night air; if any still slept on the Palatine, surely it woke them. Fulvia tore at her hair, lifted her arms to heaven and threw herself across her husband's body. Her nephew and Sextus Cloelius made a fumbling attempt to restrain her, then stepped back in awe as she shrieked and beat her fists against the bier. She framed the corpse's face with trembling hands and pressed her face to her husband's, covering his cold lips with a kiss.

Around us the mob raged like churning water. I thought of what the tribune Sallust had said: No one controls such a mob; it takes on a will of its own. It can maim or kill a man without meaning to and for no purpose at all, crushing the life out of him or trampling him underfoot. I grabbed Eco and by some feat of will we managed to push our way back through the gate. The crowd that overflowed the courtyard now filled the street as far as the eye could see. All up and down the block, houses were lit up as brightly as day with anxious-looking guards posted on the roofs. I pressed on, forcing a way through the crowd while Eco and his bodyguards struggled to keep up.

At last we passed beyond the edges of the crowd. I never slowed my gait until we rounded a corner and found ourselves on an empty, darkened street. I stopped to catch my breath, and Eco did the same. His hands were trembling. I realized that I was shaking, too.

Hearing only my own breath and the pulse in my temples, I didn't notice the approaching footsteps. But the bodyguards did. They stiffened and drew themselves around us. Men were coming up the darkened street, heading in the direction of Clodius's house. As they passed,their leader signalled for them to stop. He peered at us in the dim starlight. His face was in shadow, but I could see that he had curly hair and a prominent nose, and a strong physique beneath his cloak. After a moment he stepped away from his bodyguards and approached us.

"Do you come from Clodius's house?"

"Yes," I said.

"Is it true, what they say?" "What do they say?" "That Clodius is dead." "It's true."

The man sighed. It was a quiet, gentle sigh, very different from the raging laments we had just left behind. "Poor Publius! It's the end of him, then, for good or ill. All over." He cocked his head. "Don't I know you?"

"Do you?"

"I think so. Yes, I'm sure of it." "Can you see in the dark, citizen?"

"Well enough. And I never forget a voice." He hummed to himself, then grunted. "You're Meto's father, aren't you? And this is Meto's brother, Eco."

"Yes." I tried to get a better look at him. I could make out his rugged features — the strong brow, the flattened boxer's nose — but I still didn't recognize him.

"You and I met last year," he said, "briefly, when you came to visit Meto in Ravenna. I serve under Caesar, too." He paused for a moment. When I gave no sign of remembering, he shrugged. "Well, then, what's happening around the bend? That glow in the sky — not a house on fire?"

"No. Just a great many torches."

"There's a big crowd gathered at the house?"

"Yes. They've come to see the body. His wife, Fulvia — "

"Fulvia?" He spoke the name with an odd intensity, as if it had a secret meaning for him.

"She grieves. You might be able to hear her from here."

He sighed again, a deep, rich sigh. "I suppose I should see for myself Farewell, then, Gordianus. And you, Eco." He rejoined his companions and moved swiftly on.

"Farewell — " I said, still unable to remember his name. I turned to Eco.

"As he said, Papa, we met him last year, at Caesar's winter headquarters up in Ravenna. A bit modest, the way he says, 'I serve under Caesar, too.' One of the general's top men, according to Meto. We were barely introduced. I'd forgotten about it myself I'm surprised he remembers us. But then, the man's a politician, of course. He's been back in Rome for several months, running for office. I've seen him in the Forum, canvassing for votes. You must have seen him, too."

"Have I? What's his name?"

"Marc Antony."

Over breakfast, Bethesda and Diana demanded to know everything. I tried to soften my description of Clodius's corpse in deference to their appetites, but they insisted on all the gruesome details. The wrangling of the politicians was of less interest to them, but they listened attentively to my impressions of the famous house and its furnishings, and they were especially curious about Clodia.

"Can it really be four years since the trial of Marcus Caelius?" Bethesda blew gently on a spoonful of hot farina.

"Almost."

"And to think we haven't had a glimpse of Clodia in all that time."

"Not surprising, really; we hardly move in the same exalted circles. But I don't think anyone's seen much of her. The trial took something out of her. She seemed a changed woman to me."

"Really? It sounds like she made quite a show of inviting you into the very heart of her brother's grand house, as if she were doing you a great favour, making you feel privileged and special. She wants something."

"Really, Bethesda, the woman was distraught."

"Was she?"

"I told you, she could hardly keep from weeping." "To weep is one thing. To be distraught is another." "I don't follow you."

"No?" Bethesda sat back from the table. "Be careful of the farina, Diana. You'll burn your tongue."

Diana nodded absently and gulped down a heaping spoonful "What do you mean, Bethesda? About Clodia?"