Saturnalia(35)

“Listen,” I told him, “I am engaged upon an important investigation …”

“For which consul, praetor, tribune, iudex, investigative committee, or other authorized person or body? Or have you, perhaps, a special commission from the Senate?”

Trust a fussy bureaucrat like Ulpius to ask questions like that. I was so accustomed to talking my way around such embarrassing inquiries that I had to think for a moment before I remembered that I actually had official backing, of a sort.

“I am acting for the tribune Quintus Caecilius Metellus Pius Scipio Nasica”—ah, that great, thumping name—“… and the tribune-elect Publius Clodius Pulcher.”

“I see,” Ulpius said, sighing, disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to turn me away with a few withering words. “But I have very little hope of assisting you if you have nothing but a name.”

“As I was about to say, one of my informants in this investigation mentioned a Harmodia who may have met with a lamentable fate. I think it must have been within recent weeks.”

“Anything else that might narrow the field, as it were?”

“She was probably from the countryside or the nearby villages, and I think she may have been an herb seller.”

“I suppose that helps,” he said, gloomily. “It would help further if we knew what district the woman is, or was, from. That would at least tell us whether a case involving her was brought before the praetor peregrinus or one of the others.” He turned and snapped his fingers. Immediately, six men sprang forward. He reeled off instructions, as if they were needed. Of course, all of them had been listening. They went to their shelves and began sifting the documents with amazing speed and efficiency. This called for prodigious feats of memory, because there was very little system in the way the documents were filed. Each slave or freedman and his apprentice simply had to keep a mental picture of everything in his area.

While they searched, I walked over to one of the arches and looked down over the bustle of the Forum while leaning against a bust of Herodotus. The old Greek didn’t seem to approve of Rome’s prosperity from the way he was scowling. He probably thought Athens should be running things. Well, it’s just what they deserved for being political and military idiots.

Despite Ulpius’s gloomy forecast, a young slave boy was back in a few minutes with a papyrus that looked almost new.

“This is the morning report brought before the praetor urbanus on the ninth day of November,” the boy said. “On that morning, a woman named Harmodia was found murdered on the Field of Mars, near the Circus Flaminius. Nearby stall keepers identified the woman as an herb seller from Marruvium.”

I felt that little surge that I get when a piece of the puzzle fits. Philosophers probably have a Greek term for it. Marruvium is the very heart of Marsian territory.

“Is there anything else?” I asked.

“I checked the morning reports and court records. No one has been apprehended as the murderer.” No surprise there. Criminal investigation in Rome was a haphazard affair at best and a peasant woman who wasn’t even from the city would have rated even less attention than most victims.

“If you need to learn anything more about the woman,” Ulpius said with deep satisfaction, “then you will have to consult the archives of the aediles.”

“And so I shall,” I told him. “I thank you all.” I made certain to memorize the face of the boy who had found the report so quickly. Next time I needed to find something in the tabularium I would know who to ask.

I found Hermes prowling the Forum and told him to come with me.

“Any Marsi?” I asked him.

“Quite a few, although I didn’t spot anyone who looked like those two from last night. They’re mostly selling herbs and medicines. I asked around. Everyone says the Marsi are famous for it.”

“Somehow, I’m not surprised. Hermes, we aristocrats are losing contact with our Italian roots. We’ve been employing Greek physicians for so long that we forgot what every other Italian knows: that the Marsi are famed herbalists.”

“If you say so.”

While we spoke, we walked at a fast pace toward the Circus Maximus. “And I’ll wager,” I went on, “that they are poisoners and abortionists of note, as well as witches and general practitioners of magic, for those things always seem to go together.”

“Makes sense to me,” Hermes mumbled.

The Temple of Ceres is a structure of great beauty and dignity, and its basement holds the cramped offices of the aediles. Inside I learned, without surprise, that there were no aediles present. Like everyone else who could, they were taking an early holiday. Not so the freedman who had charge of keeping an eye on the records and the slave boy who swept out the offices.