I thought this intriguing. Men of high rank sometimes contended as gladiators to get around the laws against dueling. Since the fights were religious observances, voluntary sacrifices, so to speak, they could not be prosecuted for it afterward.
“I forbid it!” Father said, emphasizing his words with a chopping motion of his hand. “It is infamous that senators and equites are seen performing in public! There has been too much of that lately, and I will not be a party to such scandalous behavior.” What a spoilsport.
“When Scipio Africanus celebrated his funeral games for his father and uncle,” Metellus Scipio said complacently, “all the combatants were free men who volunteered to honor the dead and Africanus himself. There were senators, centurions, and other ranking soldiers among them, as well as the sons and other high-born warriors of allied chieftains.” He was never slow to remind people of his glorious ancestors.
“That was a hundred and fifty years ago,” Father objected, “before the rules of the munera were settled as they are now. And those Games were not celebrated at Rome, but at Cartago Nova.”
Valerius Messala seemed highly amused. “Besides, there are no Romans of such distinction to honor in this generation.” A subtle jab at both the Scipios and the Metelli. “Anyway, I know the two you mention, and they are both fat and unskilled. It would be laughable, and we can’t have the citizens laughing at senators. We give them too much to laugh about as it is.”
Father held his silence sullenly. He always hated it when someone agreed with him for the wrong reason. So do I, for that matter. I hadn’t expected to find Messala such an agreeable sort. Admittedly, my taste in these matters was not shared by many. I’d liked Catilina, too. I don’t consider this to be a lapse of judgment on my part. Often, the very worst men are the most likable, and the upright and incorruptible ones the most repulsive. Marcus Antonius and Cato are two excellent cases in point.
“So much for the Games,” Father said. “They shall be celebrated, and they shall be a success. My boy, I understand you have wasted the bulk of two valuable days looking into the collapse of a single, shoddily built insula.”
“Your boy,” I informed him acidly, “spent the morning in a sewer and the evening in a charnel pit. Activities, you will agree, in which I seldom indulge on normal days. My office, however, demands it.”
“Your office involves the whole City,” Father said, “not the prosecution of a single crooked builder. Assign a client or freedman to investigate the matter and get on with your job!”
“I am not investigating a single builder,” I said, trying to rein in my temper. “I am investigating what looks to be vicious corruption suffusing the whole residential building trade in Rome.” I did not want to argue openly in front of a nonfamily outsider, but Father was forcing the issue. This was extraordinarily tactless of him. Old age was catching up with him at last, I decided.
“The late Lucius Folius was the builder of that insula,“ said Valerius Messala. “I know because he was awarded his licenses and contracts during my censorship. It seems he’s been killed by his own greed, like a character in a Greek play.”
I had been expecting something like this. I said nothing about the murdered slave. “Sometimes the gods dispense justice. But no contractor builds only a single house.” I thought of the stack of archival documents in my study and decided that I had better not mention them to these three. Of course, it was likely that Messala already knew all about them. To change the subject, I said, “Does anyone besides me and the rivermen know that Rome is about to be fiooded?”
“I’ve heard some talk of it,” Father said. “It happens every few years, and there’s nothing much we can do about it.”
“It’s going to be worse than usual this year,” I informed them, “because the drains are going to be all but useless. They haven’t been scoured in years, and the water could stand in the lower parts of the City for weeks, and then we’ll have pestilence on top of everything else.” I looked at Messala as I said this. He looked back blandly.
“You are too easily alarmed. Even if we’re inconvenienced for a while, it’s no catastrophe,” Nepos insisted. “The forums are easily evacuated, the temples and basilicas are built well up on their platforms, and only the poorest people have their homes on low ground. Give them fine Games when it’s all over, and they’ll forget all about their troubles. Concentrate on that.”
There was a small commotion from the direction of my gateway, but I ignored it. Doubtless some petitioner, I thought. An aedile’s lack of privacy was not as extreme as that of a tribune of the people. At least we were allowed to close our doors. But in an office that concerned the public weal, the public was not shy about expressing its wants.