The King's Gambit(12)
As we left the Circus, I saw the troop of gladiators marching in formation back to the Statilian school. Accompanying them was the Greek physician, Asklepiodes. I excused myself from my party after promising to attend dinner at Hortalus’s house that evening. I crossed the plaza, which was still heavily redolent of the previous day’s fire, and stopped the Greek, who greeted me courteously.
“Master Asklepiodes,” I said, “your skill at reading wounds has been much on my mind of late. I am investigating a murder, and something about the death-wound bothers me. Lacking your skill, I can’t decide what it is that is so singular.”
“A murder?” said Asklepiodes, intrigued. “I have never heard before of a physician being consulted on a police matter. But then, why not?”
“You understand,” I went on, “I can’t ask this of you officially, because today is a holiday. However, you must view the body before it is taken away for burial this evening.”
“In that case, young master, consider my expertise to be at your service.” I led him through the dismal streets to the house of Paramedes, where I had to bribe the guard to let us in. Since I could not be on official business that day, he did not have to admit me. Petty power is a truly pernicious thing.
Due to the chilly weather, the smell was not overpowering and the body had not bloated. The stiffening had worn off and Paramedes looked almost freshly killed, except for the blackened blood. Asklepiodes examined the corpse quickly, pulling back the edges of the wound to look inside. When he was finished, he straightened and gave me his analysis.
“Knife wound, from right hipbone almost to the sternum. Done with a sica.”
“Why necessarily a sica?” I asked.
“The curvature of a sica blade keeps the point from piercing the inner organs. The wounds on this man’s organs are clean cuts, with none of the ripping characteristic of the straight-bladed pugio. Also, only a man of extraordinary strength could drag a straight blade upward through a body like that, while the curved sica blade makes such carving easy.” He though a moment. “Also, this blow was delivered by a left-handed man.”
Of course. That was what had bothered me about the wound. Nine out of ten wounds one sees are on the left side when delivered from in front by a right-handed assailant. An armorer had once told me that helmets are always made thicker on the left side for that very reason.
We left the importer’s house and strolled toward the Forum. We passed through a small side-market and there I bought a gift for Asklepiodes: a hair-fillet made of plaited silver wire. He thanked me profusely and begged me to call on his services at any time I thought he might aid my investigations. I would have to see whether I could get Junius to reimburse me for the fillet out of the Senate’s semiofficial bribe fund. He was sure to refuse, the officious little Gree-kling.
I stopped at a favorite wineshop and sat at a bench sipping warmed Falernian and studying the murals of Games twenty years past while many facts sorted themselves out and many disturbing associations raised ugly questions. I knew that my wisest course would be to turn in the mere form of an investigation. Tomorrow, I should report that Par-amedes had been killed during a botched robbery, that the arson at his warehouse was a coincidence, probably ordered by a jealous competitor. (The Senate is made up primarily of landowners, always willing to attribute the basest motives to businessmen.) I could leave it at that. Marcus Ager need not come into it. The break-in at my house need not come into it.
I make no claim to be more honest than other men. I have not always observed the very letter of the law. There may have been times when a generous gift has swayed my judgment on some trifling matter. But this was a matter of murder and arson within the city. My city. And there was a likelihood of collusion with an enemy of Rome. This went far beyond ordinary, petty corruption.
I had certain standards to live up to. The Caecilii Me-telli have been servants of the state since Rome was no more than a village. Members of our family were Consuls at a time when few but patricians ever held that office. The first Plebeian Censor was a Caecilius Metellus. Metellans were generals in our wars with Macedon, Numidia, Carthage.
These were evil times, the previous years having been marred by civil wars, insurrections, rebellions of provincial governors, the actions of self-seeking generals, even a massive slave rebellion. There had been proscription lists, dictatorships, the unprecedented seven Consulships of Gaius Marius. Within my own lifetime soldiers had actually fought within the city, and there had been bloodshed within the sacred precincts of the Curia.
Yes, they were evil times, but in my long lifetime I have come to see that the times have always been evil, and the idyllic old days of nobility and virtue never really occurred, but are only the fantasies of poets and moralists. Many men involved in the politics of my younger days used this supposedly unique depravity of the times to excuse unconscionable behavior, but I could not.