In a bit of spilled wine my fingertip traced a circle, then drew a slash across it. It took me a moment to realize what I had unconsciously drawn: the Greek letter “theta.” In the shorthand of the Games, it stands for Thanatos: killed. After the munera, this symbol is scratched on the walls, following the names of the gladiators who have been slain.
“Two names keep cropping up,” I said. “Marcus Valerius Messala Niger and Marcus Aemilius Scaurus.”
“Those are two important names,” Hermes pointed out.
“Yes, and Valerius Messala is in the process of weaseling himself into the political affairs of my family. The family has been hinting heavily that I should drop this investigation.”
“Maybe you should.”
“And let someone get away with murdering a whole insula full of people, free and slave?”
Hermes spread his hands. “I’m just a slave; I do as I’m told. But if your family is against your prosecuting the people responsible for this, you are going to have some serious trouble accomplishing anything.”
I mused, almost to myself, “They have been doing a number of things I am having trouble countenancing. Hermes, do you know why my family is so important?”
He was taken aback. “Well, yours is one of the most ancient of the noble names—”
“Certainly. But the Caesars are even more ancient, and they’ve amounted to nothing for centuries. Caius Julius is the first to win real distinction since Rome had kings. No, we Metelli have supplied Rome with praetors and consuls and censors since before written records, but we’ve dominated Roman politics for the last thirty years for one reason: We backed Sulla against Marius. When Sulla was dictator, the men who are now elders of the family, and some who are now dead, were his most forceful supporters: Celer, Pius, Creticus, old Numidicus, and my father.”
Hermes shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t take much interest in politics or history. It’s not a slave’s business.”
“What a liar you are. And a poor liar, at that. Those big fiap ears of yours take in anything that’s to your advantage. And as my personal slave, you have to know more about politics than most senators. Well, go ahead, pretend to be stupid. You may live longer that way.”
To some it may seem strange that I would speak so openly to a slave. But the fact is that Rome has never been a place where the status of slave was a life sentence. A capable slave, or a lucky one, like Justus, could expect to be manumitted and then rise in the world. After a generation or two, all taint of servitude was forgotten. In the Senate, I sat beside many men whose grandfathers had been slaves. On occasion, even that generational period was waived. Many well-born men who were sonless adopted an especially esteemed freedman to carry on the family name with full privileges, the same as if he had been born into it.
And I fully expected to manumit Hermes, as soon as he showed the faintest sign of a sense of responsibility. As my freedman, he would still be bound to me by bonds of patronage, but he would be a free man, able to vote in the Assemblies, own property, and marry at will. I had been at some pains to educate him for this eventual role. I have mentioned his criminal proclivities, but I had a few of those myself. As Rome was in those days, it was no bad thing for a man to have a bit of the criminal and the thug in his character. It made survival a greater likelihood. Rome has changed, of course. Since the First Citizen’s reforms, the desirable qualities are those of the toady, the lickspittle, and the informer.
“It is clear that I am going to have to tread carefully. I may have to go armed again. From now on we can expect to be attacked. In ordinary times, even the gangs have avoided violence against a serving magistrate; but these are not ordinary times, and it isn’t as if I were a praetor or consul. A plebeian aedile doesn’t rate that high.” In the past I had usually carried concealed weapons while in the City, skirting the law for the sake of my own hide. I had fondly hoped that my office conferred some sort of immunity, but that hope was fading fast.
Hermes was fidgeting impatiently.
“You have something to say?” I asked.
“Why must you always think as if you must act alone? You have friends, allies, even political opponents who would be willing to help.”
I considered this. “In the past, I’ve availed myself of Milo’s aid, but that would look very bad now. He’s responsible for a good deal of the bloodshed in the streets, and he wants to be consul next year. There is too much wrangling among the consular and proconsular persons just now to expect help from that quarter, and it looks as if Messala will be interrex soon. It’s like trying to separate fighting elephants. I’d be trampled. Besides, he was among the first to warn me against this investigation. Infiuential clients of his are worried about it.”