“I’ve been all over this timber. I’ve looked at every surface. Remember that first borehole I found? I marked it with a big X. It’s not here.”
“Maybe they missed one timber.”
He shook his head. “Look at this wood. Forget the termites. Look at how dry it is. The timbers in that cellar were still oozing sap. I’m no expert on wood either, but this stuff has to be older than I am, and it’s probably older than Titus Saufeius.” This last being a senator some ninety-seven years old and famous only for his longevity, having never held an office higher than quaestor.
“Well, well,” I said. “First we have a felonious but rather common instance of violation of building codes. Now we have what looks like conspiracy and tampering with evidence.”
“There’s always the chance some fool just sent the wrong lumber cart here,” Hermes said, playing advocate for the other side, just as I had taught him.
“Such negligence is always more than suspicious when an investigation is involved. Besides, there wasn’t a stick of seasoned wood in that house, unless it was part of the furniture. Every splinter of structural wood we saw was green. Somebody went to all the trouble to find this plausibly unsound wood and bring it here.”
“Looks that way,” he admitted.
“I think we’re going to have some fun with this.”
He grinned. “I thought you’d see it that way.”
3
THE FORUM WAS STILL crowded, even though it was the hour for the midday meal. Many bought food from street vendors and ate standing while conducting business or making political deals or just idling about. True denizens of the City often prefer hunger to leaving the Forum. After all, what could be better than standing at the center of the world? I couldn’t think of anything. It certainly beat fighting and freezing in Gaul.
Before the Basilica Julia, a group of candidates for the next year’s offices stood about, making sure that they were seen. It was too early yet to don the candidus and make a show of it, but they were letting no one forget who would be in a position to do them a favor in the coming year.
I wanted to get to the Tabularium, but family policy dictated that I stride up to one young man, take him by the hand, slap him on the shoulder, and greet him loudly. This was a young kinsman just beginning his political career, Lucius Caecilius Metellus.
“Good to have you back in Rome!” I shouted, as though the boy were deaf. “I hear great things about your service in Gaul!”
“Just basic military work, Aedile,” he said, with becoming modesty. At his age it might have been genuine.
“Nonsense!” I bellowed. “I’ve heard you won the Civic Crown! I’ve never won that one and neither,” here I scanned the other faces ostentatiously, “has anyone else here!” The older men grinned at this shamelessness; but the younger ones, also standing for quaestor, reddened.
“It was just a piddling earth fort,” he demurred. “Anyone with legs could get atop that wall.”
“But,” I yelled, “it takes the balls of a hero to be first, especially when the other side is packed with painted, savage Gauls!”
After many more fulsome compliments, some of them actually deserved, I felt I had done my duty and left him to the crowd of well-wishers who had assembled to see who this prodigy might be. I scanned the clot of candidates for Milo, who wanted the consulship for the next year, and Clodius, who was standing for praetor, but saw neither of them; and a good thing that was. They were both so prominent that they would probably not don the candidus until a day or two before the election. In recent months, any time they or their supporters met in public, blood on the pavement soon followed.
I did see one of my least favorite Romans though.
“Greetings, Aedile,” called Sallustius Crispus, his swar thy, greasy face split by an ugly smile. “That performance was outrageous, even for a Metellus. I know you are busy, but might you spare me a few minutes? We could retire to a stall for some lunch.”
I did some quick political calculations. Sallustius liked me no more than I liked him. He was an enemy of Cicero and Milo, my good friends. On the other hand, the weasely little bastard had insinuated himself into the confidence of everyone of importance, and his knowledge of Roman lowlife was comprehensive. His fund of political and civic gossip was unmatched, if you could sort out the nuggets of truth from the bulk ore of lies. Being a Caecilius Metellus, these calculations took me approximately half a second.
“I would be most pleased to.” I turned to Hermes. “Run along to the Tabularium and get those records we spoke about. I shall be there presently.” I caught Sallustius’s look of annoyance that I had not said which records I wanted. It could be of no interest to him, but he wanted to know everything.