The King's Gambit

1


I RECEIVED THE CAPTAIN OF THE ward vigiles in my atrium, as I had on every morning since my election to the Commission of Twenty-Six. I am not an early riser by nature, and the office had no more onerous duty for me. It was still dark and even my few clients had not yet begun to arrive. The squad of vigiles sat sleepily along a bench against the atrium wall, their leather buckets at their feet, while my aged janitor served them cups of watered, sour wine, hot and steaming.”No fires in the night, Commissioner,” the captain reported. “At least, not in this ward.”“May the gods be thanked,” I said. “Anywhere else?” “There was a big one over near the Circus. We could see it clearly from the crest of the Viminal. It may still be burning.”

“Which way is the wind blowing?” I asked, alarmed. If it was one of those oil warehouses between the Circus and the river, the fire could be all over the city by noon.”From the north.”

I let out a relieved sigh and vowed a goat to Jupiter if he would keep Boreas blowing today. “Anything else?”“Two householders reported break-ins“—the vigile stifled a yawn— “and we found a body in the alley between the Syrian apothecary and Publius’s wineshop.”

“Murdered?” I asked.

“Strangled. With a bowstring, it appeared. We rousted Publius out and he said the man was named Marcus Ager, and he’d been renting a room above the wineshop for the last two months.”

“Freeborn or freedman?” I asked.

“Must be freedman, because a couple of my men said they recognized him as a Thracian daggerman who used to fight under the name of Sinistrus. He hadn’t fought in the last two years, though. Maybe he saved enough to buy his own freedom.”

“Small loss, then. Was he with Macro’s gang, or one of the others?”

“Not as I know,” the vigile said, shrugging.

“Just more trouble for me. Now I’ll have to search the dole rolls to verify his residence in the district, then try to track down his former owner. He may wish to take charge of the body.” I don’t approve of manumitting gladiators, as a general thing. A man who has spent several years as a licensed killer is not likely to settle into the role of responsible citizen easily. Usually, they squander their savings within a few months of manumission, enroll on the grain dole, then drift into one of the gangs or hire on as a strong-arm man for some politician.

Still, I was grateful that there had been only one murder to investigate. After a night when the gangs were restless, it was not unusual to find a dozen or more bodies in the back alleys of the Subura. We had just celebrated the Plebeian Games, and the city was usually quiet after a big festival. For a day or two, at any rate.

You must understand, whoever you are, that in those days Rome, mistress of half the world, was a place as savage as a village of Nile pygmies. Roman soldiers kept the peace in hundreds of cities around our sea, but not a single soldier patrolled the streets of Rome. Tradition forbade it. Instead, the city was controlled by street gangs, each under the protection of a powerful family or politician for whom it performed tasks liable to criminal prosecution.

I dismissed the vigiles to their long-awaited sleep, then hastily received my clients. This was at the very beginning of my career, you understand, and my clients were few: a couple of family freedmen, a discharged soldier from the legion I had served in briefly, and a householder from a rural plebeian family traditionally under the protection of the Cae-cilii. I might have had none at all, but my father had insisted that a man starting out in public life had to have a few clients dogging his steps in the morning to lend him dignity. They saluted me as patron and inquired whether I required any services of them that day. It would be several years before I should actually need an entourage of clients, but it was customary.

My janitor brought them small gifts of food which they wrapped up in their napkins, and we all set off to visit my patron. This was my father, Decius Caecilius Metellus the Elder, bearer of a proud and ancient name, but known to all and sundry as Cut-Nose because he had taken a Cimbrian sword across his face at Raudine Plain while serving under General Marius. He never stopped talking about the campaign and took a good deal of credit for the great victory. Sometimes, after a few cups of wine, Father would admit that Marius deserved some recognition.

Father, old Roman to the core, kept his janitor chained to the gatepost, although anyone could see that the chain link attached to the man’s ankle-ring was just a hook, which the fellow could detach at any time.

“Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger,” I announced, “and his clients, to pay our respects to the patron.”