With great reluctance, I had from time to time attended classes on philosophy and logic and related subjects. Sometimes, in exile, there is little else to do. Occasionally, these studies coincide with the necessary arts of law and rhetoric, for there are few more distressing things when arguing before the courts than to find yourself tied up in a logical knot because you got some elementary point wrong. A philosopher in Athens had once told me that when you discovered that you were pursuing the wrong course because you had made an incorrect assumption, you should do what a hunter does; you should go back to the last place where you know for certain that you were on the proper track.
I thought this over and decided that I had stepped off the trail when I entered Furia’s booth. What I needed to do was to go back and act as if I had never entered it. For purposes of my real investigation anyway. I wasn’t about to forget what I had seen, and I wasn’t entirely persuaded that the two were unconnected, despite what Cicero had said.
Things began to look a little more clear. What I had to do was find another herb woman, one considerably less formidable than Furia, and question her about Harmodia. They couldn’t all belong to the witch cult. It ought to be easy enough to find one I was certain had not been out on the Vatican field the night before. A blind one, perhaps. Nobody without eyes could have danced like that.
Having so decided, I got up and walked from the Senate chamber. I wasn’t halfway down the stairs when Julia ran up and grabbed me.
“Decius! I’ve been looking all over for you! What in the world were you doing inside the Curia?”
“I called my own Senate meeting,” I said. “It wasn’t well attended.” I quailed at the thought of having to go over the previous night’s adventures one more time, especially to Julia, who was somewhat more gently bred than her frightening colleagues of the patrician sisterhood who had a taste for human sacrifice. I knew that she would have it out of me though.
“Decius, are you all right?” She held me at arm’s length and looked me over. “You’ve been fighting again!” As if there were something wrong with that. Women are strange.
“Come along, my dear,” I said. “It’s just that things have taken a new turn, and it is a turn immeasurably for the worse.” Arm in arm, we descended the steps. “But before you hear my account, tell me what you’ve found out. I can tell by the way you’re panting and quivering that you have news.”
“I am not panting, neither am I quivering,” she said. That was true. She had that well-schooled patrician demeanor, which does not leave the breed even during earthquakes and while aboard sinking ships, but the signs were there if you knew where to look.
“My apologies. Please go on.”
We walked to a booth and picked up a few items to sustain us through a full day of reveling.
“Are you familiar with the Balnea Licinia? Crassus built it last year on the Palatine, and it’s become the most fashionable bathhouse in Rome. The appointments are marvelous, far more luxurious than anything we’ve seen before. Anyway, it has women’s hours in the morning, and I’ve just come from there.”
“I thought you smelled especially delectable,” I said.
“Better than you,” she said sharply, wrinkling her nose. “What have you been doing?”
“Never mind that. Just tell me what you’ve found.”
“All right, if you’ll just be patient.” She took a big bite of flat bread with toasted cheese on top, sprinkled with chopped, spicy sausage. “Anyway, all the most fashionable ladies go there, you know, members of Clodia’s set.”
“Just a moment,” I interrupted. “Was Fausta there or Fulvia?”
“You mean the younger Fulvia?” Her brow wrinkled. “No, I didn’t see either of them. Why do you ask?” There was deep suspicion in her voice.
“It’s just that they must be in terrible need of a bath this morning.”
“Decius! What have you been up to?” she said, spraying crumbs.
“All shall be made clear in time, my dear. Pray continue.”
“All right,” she said darkly, “but I expect a full explanation. So there I was on a massage table with Cornelia Minor and your cousin Felicia and about five others on other tables in the room … they have huge Nubians there, Lydian trained, the best masseurs in the world …”
“Men?” I said, shocked.
“No, silly. Eunuchs. It’s a wonderful place to pick up the latest gossip and talk about those things women only discuss when there are no men present.”
“You must talk rather loudly, I would think,” I said, my mind going into an irrelevant reverie. “All that smacking of flesh, I mean. All those grunts and explosions of breath as the delicate female bodies are pummeled by the dusky hands of brawny masseurs …”