A slave’s lot is not a happy one in cases of this sort. They can only testify under torture, and a slave who voluntarily testifies against his master can look forward to a short and miserable life. I recalled that, after the killing of Clodius, Milo freed all the slaves who had been with him, ostensibly as a reward for saving him from Clodius (as if Titus Milo ever needed saving from anybody) but actually so that they could not be put to torture in the trial he knew was coming.
“Well, what did you learn?” I demanded impatiently.
“Three days ago, late in the evening, a slave came from the home of Caius Marcellus and told the slaves in Fulvius’s house that they were to gather whatever personal belongings they had there and return to their master’s house at once. Fulvius wasn’t there, and neither was anyone else.”
Three days ago meant the night before we had found Fulvius murdered. “You say a slave summoned them? Was it the steward?”
“No. She said it was one of Octavia’s staff, a man from her old household before she married Marcellus.”
“Were the other slaves part of Octavia’s staff or dowry?”
“From the way she talked, they were all Marcellus’s property. Do you think it’s important?”
“Hermes, in this case, nothing is too trivial to have significance. Octavia is neck deep in this matter, I’m sure of it. But that doesn’t mean she is playing the same game as her husband.”
The Greek sighed. “Sometimes I wish I were a playwright. This has the dimensions of high tragedy and the complications of low farce.”
“Yes, well, that’s politics for you,” I muttered, half distracted. We were getting near the Forum, and I drew a curtain aside to see what was ahead. There was certainly a lot of noise coming from that direction.
We had taken the most direct route from the ludus: across the Sublician Bridge and through the Forum Boarium, and along the Vicus Tuscus to where it crossed the Via Nova and ended between the Basilica Sempronia and the Temple of Castor and Pollux, near the western end of the Forum. Ahead and to our left I could see the greatest concentration of the crowd, and from that direction came the greatest noise.
“Is that the lady?” Asklepiodes asked.
“The one and only Fulvia,” I said with a sinking heart.
She was on the Rostra, a tiny form still clad in black, gesturing wildly. I saw white-clad men, most likely senators, trying to scale the platform, but other men were pushing them back. I wondered who, with the old gangs broken up, had the insolence to manhandle the Senate.
“I need to get closer,” I said.
“Get us up to the Rostra, lads!” Asklepiodes cried.
“Whatever you say, Doctor!” yelled one. “Let’s go!” And in a blur of flying fists and elbows, the crowd parted magically before us. Within what seemed like only seconds, we were before the railing of the Rostra, its age-darkened ships’ rams looming ominously above. In front and to both sides stood a cluster of senators, lictors, and other attendants trying to shout down the furious woman who harangued the mob from above. I now saw that the men who controlled access to the speaker’s platform wore military belts and boots.
“Oh, no!” I cried, appalled. “She’s got Caesar’s soldiers supporting her and laying hands on the Senate!”
Up on the platform, Fulvia was putting on an amazing show. Her pale hair streamed wildly, tears flowed down her swollen cheeks, her face was scarlet with rage, her mouth was drawn into a long, vertical rectangle, like that on a tragic mask. Also, her sheer, black clothing was in such disarray that she was in imminent danger of losing the upper half entirely.
“Slaves! Cowards! Spineless slugs!” she screamed. “How can you call yourselves Romans? They came to slaughter the man who would be your tribune! They feared him because they knew he would be the defender of your liberties! They fell upon him and now he lies at death’s door because he wanted to be your champion! How can you allow them to live?”
Cato made his way to the litter. Hermes and I stood outside, Asklepiodes remained within. The gladiators stood around us in a protective circle. They made way for Cato’s senatorial insignia.
“Quite a show, eh, Decius?” he said disgustedly. “Just when we had the City about cleaned up, this had to happen.”
“Does anybody know what’s going on?” I asked him.
“Just that Curio’s been seriously wounded. That wild woman got up on the Rostra and started screeching less than an hour ago. A pack of Caesar’s boys were here in the Forum, and they appointed themselves her bodyguard because Caesar’s told them Curio is his man and they were to vote for him. Now she has them so wrought up they’re putting violent hands on senators and lictors who are trying to silence her. How are we going to get this ugly mob calmed down?”