“I think I am safe enough,” I told them, ignoring their scandalized looks. “Wait for me in the peristyle; we go to the praetor’s this morning.” To the youth: “Come with me.” I led him to my writing-room, which I had altered to have large windows and a skylight of glass panes. I wanted a better look at this alarming young man. He walked with a loose, easy sway, at once casual and athletic.
I sat behind my desk and studied him. He had curly black hair and straight, clean features that the Greeks might have considered excessively heavy but were the embodiment of the Roman concept of manly beauty. His body was that of a young Hercules. I have never been tempted by pederasty, but in this youth I could understand the attraction some men feel to the practice. I put on my stern public face.
“Do you always call on public officials without putting on a toga first?”
“I’m new in the city,” he said. “I don’t even own one yet.”
“Your name?”
“Titus Annius Milo, from Ostia. I am now a resident, with Macro as my sponsor.”
On my desk was an ancient bronze dagger, found in a tomb on Crete. The man who sold it to me swore, naturally, that it had belonged to the hero Idomeneus. Every old bronze weapon I ever saw was supposed to have belonged to some Iliadic hero. I picked it up and tossed it to him. “Catch.” He caught it easily, only his arm moving. His palm was so hard that it actually made a clicking sound when the bronze struck it.
“Rowers’ guild?” I asked. Only rowers have hands like that.
He nodded. “Three years in the navy, chasing pirates. The last two rowing barges between Ostia and Rome.” The rowers’ guild is so powerful that it is forbidden to use much cheaper slave labor. Young Milo was a splendid example of what a man could look like if he rowed ships for a living but was paid decent wages and could afford to eat like a free man.
“And what has Macro to communicate to me?”
“First,” he said, “the boy who broke in and knocked you on the head is not local.” He tossed the dagger back upon the pile of papyrus it had been weighting.
“Can he be sure of that?”
“To break into an important man’s house only to steal a paltry bronze amulet means a special hire, and all of the break-in boys are accounted for that night. They all report to a ward master and all the ward masters report to Macro. No one would seek to conceal such a crime.”
“Go on.”
“Sinistrus was almost certainly killed by an easterner. The bowstring garrote is an Asian technique. Romans prefer the sica, the pugio or the sword.”
“Or the club,” I said, rubbing my still-sore scalp. “All these homicidal foreigners are awfully convenient for Macro. I’ve suspected him of many things, but never of innocence.”
“Even a man like my patron can’t be guilty of everything.” He grinned infectiously. “Finally, this H. Ager who bought Sinistrus is the overseer of a farm near Baiae. It may take a few days to find out to whom the estate belongs.”
“Very good,” I said. “Tell Macro to report to me as soon as he has the name of the estate holder. And tell him, when he has something to communicate, to send you. You are not nearly as objectionable as most of his men.”
“I’m flattered. Have I leave to go?”
“Just one more thing. Tell Macro to buy you a decent toga.”
He flashed his teeth a last time and was gone. Indeed, he was a definite improvement upon the usual street scum and freed gladiators who thronged the gangs. I liked his easy manner and quick intelligence. I was always on the lookout for valuable contacts in Rome’s underside, and I had a feeling that young Milo would go far in the city, if he lived.
As we trooped to my father’s house, I brooded on this new information. The origin of my attacker and the murderer of Sinistrus was of minor interest, save that the same person could not have done both. A boy had broken into my house, and only a strong man could have throttled a powerful trained killer like Sinistrus. The hint of Asian origin was tantalizing, but hints are not facts.
Another question bothered me far more: Why did H. Ager come all the way from Baiae in Campania to buy a fighter and then free him? I thought of the men I knew who owned villas near Baiae. Caesar had one. So did Hortalus. So did Pompey. Truthfully, that meant nothing. It was the most famous resort in the world. Everyone who could afford a villa at Baiae owned one. I intended to own one myself, as soon as I was rich enough. It had a wonderful reputation for luxury, loose living and immorality. Moralists loved to rant about decadent Baiae. It sent people flocking there.