Saturnalia(9)

“Something just became clear to me. Everyone seemed awfully cheerful in the streets and the Forum today.”

“I noticed. Is it because of Saturnalia?”

“No. It’s because the year is almost over and next year will be one of utter political chaos. I just realized that Romans like political chaos!”

“Maybe citizens do,” Hermes said.

“Don’t be mealy mouthed. Slaves love civil unrest more than anybody else. They can get away with a lot more then. When men can brawl in the streets, they don’t vent their anger by beating their slaves.”

“That’s what you know about it,” he said, but I had lost interest.

What I was wondering about was why they had recalled me from Rhodes. Certainly I had a reputation as an investigator, but any halfway competent iudex could come up with enough material of the sort that passed for evidence in a Roman court, where eloquence of denunciation was more important than proof of guilt. Maybe they just didn’t want to run afoul of a woman with Clodia’s reputation. Poisoning is not only difficult to prove, but it is also difficult to avoid.





4


CATO WOKE ME FAR TOO EARLY and Cassandra brought in my breakfast tray. My two aged house slaves were intrusive and officious as usual, but they were always good for a few days of cheerful service immediately after one of my returns from foreign parts. After that they would revert to their customary cranky selves.

“Are my clients outside?” I asked.

“No, they’ve not yet got word you’re back in town, Master,” Cato said. “You should send your boy to summon them.”

“Absolutely not!” I said. “I don’t want them calling on me in the mornings. The longer they’re in the dark, the better.” I took the napkin off the tray, revealing hot bread, sliced fruit, boiled eggs, and a pot of honey. Breakfast was one of those degenerate, un-Roman practices to which I was addicted.

Fed and dressed, Hermes in tow, I went to a corner barber to be shaved and have my hair trimmed. It had grown a little shaggy around the ears during my voyage and long ride. Besides being necessary, there was no better place to hear the gossip of the streets.

“Welcome back to Rome, Senator,” said the barber, one Bassus, who was shaving the head of a burly butcher. The other men waiting their turn welcomed me back effusively. I was popular in my neighborhood, and in those days even patrician senators were expected to mix with the citizenry, especially in the mornings.

“It’s good to breathe Roman air again,” I said, taking an ostentatious breath through my nostrils. It smelled foul, as it usually did in Rome. “Is the district still Milo’s?”

“Solidly,” said the butcher, running a hand over his newly smooth scalp. It gleamed with oil. “Next year will be rough, but the year after’s ours.” The others agreed heartily.

“How is that?” I asked.

“Because Milo’s standing for the tribuneship next year,” said Bassus.

“Milo a tribune!” I said.

“He swears if Clodius can hold the office, so can he,” chuckled a fat banker. The gold ring of an equites winked from his hand. “And why not? If that little ex-patrician rat can be elected tribune, why not an honest, upstanding rogue like Milo?”

Milo and Clodius ran the two most powerful gangs in Rome at the time. But Clodius was from an ancient, noble family that, like mine, regarded the higher offices as theirs by birthright. Milo was a nobody from nowhere. He had been elected quaestor and was now a senator, which was difficult enough to picture. But tribune? I would have to call on him.

Actually, I had a number of calls to make. If I was going to conduct an investigation, I would have to learn how much support and help I had available to me in the City. Men of importance spent much of their time away from Rome. I also needed to learn how my enemies were disposed.

“How is Clodius behaving these days?” I asked, taking my seat on the barber’s stool.

“Almost respectably, for him,” said the banker. “He’s so happy with the prospect of taking up his office in a few weeks that he just preens and struts around, and his men don’t fight with Milo’s unless they happen to bump into one another in an alley. Both of next year’s consuls are his sympathizers, too. I hear Cicero’s already packing.”

“Who are the consuls?” I asked. “Someone told me in a letter, but I’ve forgotten.”

“Easy ones to forget,” Bassus said. “Calpurnius Piso and Aulus Gabinius. Clodius promised them fat provinces after their year in office. They’ll do as he wants.” Next year was sounding more and more like a good one to be away from Rome.