“The Master and the others are in the triclinium,” the aged gatekeeper informed me. “Your boy will have to stay in the back of the house with the other slaves.” That explained the quiet.
Hermes made a face. “I’ll just wait out front, in the street.”
“You mean in that tavern on the corner,” I said. “Get on in back.” He stalked off with ill grace. I could sympathize. The real reason he didn’t want to be exiled to the rear was that my father had no young, pretty slave girls in his town house.
Besides my father, there were three Caecilians gathered in the triclinium, all of them named Quintus, my family not being imaginative in the way of names: Creticus, with whom I had served in foreign lands several times, and now the most prominent of the clan, a former consul and a pontifex; Nepos, who had been praetor the previous year, and an adoptive Caecilian who went by the ringing name of Quintus Caecilius Metellus Pius Scipio Nasica, was a pontifex and was serving as Tribune of the People that year. The rest of the distinguished men of the clan were away from Italy that year.
We exchanged curt greetings. The usual wine and refreshments were absent. There was not so much as a pitcher of water in the room. These men were here for serious business.
“I’m surprised to see you still in Rome, Nepos,” I said. “I thought you were given Sardinia.”
“I passed on it,” he said. “Vettius took it instead.” Nepos was a tall, soldierly man, who alone among our clan leaders supported Pompey. This was tolerated because that way, should Pompey become dictator, at least one of us wouldn’t be executed or exiled, and the family would keep most of its lands.
“I can sympathize,” I told him. “I wouldn’t accept Sardinia if I won it at dice.”
Creticus made a face. “You’ve not changed, Decius. You’re an utter political moron. Nepos stays in Rome because he’s going to stand for consul next year.”
“That explains a lot,” I said. “A proconsular province beats Sardinia any day. What’s up for grabs?”
“Barring a foreign emergency, he’ll be assigned Nearer Spain,” Father said. Nobody suggested that Nepos might be defeated or that, barring emergency, he would fail to secure the desired province. When the Caecilia Metella settled on one of their own for consul, he got it. And Spain had been Metellan territory for almost two hundred years. We had been governing there for so long that it was a major power base, second only to our Italian lands.
“Next year will be a bad one,” Creticus pointed out. “It will be Clodius against Cicero, and a tribune can do real damage. We’ll need to have as much influence as possible the year after to undo whatever’s been done. Scipio will stand for curule aedile as well.”
Scipio nodded. He was a pale, distinguished man of about thirty-five. “As aedile I will be celebrating my father’s funeral games. I intend to give a gladiatorial display of special magnificence.” His adoptive father, the elder Metellus Pius, had died four years earlier. It had become customary to delay funeral games until an heir held the aedileship, in charge of the public spectacles. That way he could discharge his civil and filial duties at the same time and win popularity for higher election. When Caesar was aedile he set incredibly high standards of spectacle outlay.
“Clodius will have the commons stirred up, and nothing buys back their loyalty like a good set of games,” I observed. “But it will be expensive.”
“You will be expected to contribute,” Father said. I should have kept my mouth shut.
“All of which is strictly secondary to the evening’s business,” Creticus said. “Decius, you know that Celer was poisoned, don’t you?”
“I knew that he was dead and that he didn’t die by violence, disease, or accident that anyone witnessed. People always suspect poison when a prominent man dies without visible cause, but there are a hundred illnesses that can kill without warning signs.”
“He was poisoned,” Creticus said flatly.
I released a sigh. I had been afraid of this. “And I can just guess who you suspect did it.”
“No need to guess,” Creticus said. “It was his wife, that slut Clodia. We want you to gather evidence so that we can bring charges against the bitch and have her executed or exiled.”
“You don’t quite understand how this works,” I said. “If I am to investigate, I will gather evidence then decide who the murderer is, if indeed he was murdered.”
“Whatever it takes,” Creticus said.
“It may not be Clodia,” I said.