The Sacrilege(18)

Between our multiple, political marriages and divorces and the quaint naming practices we inherited from our simple, rustic ancestors, it is remarkable that we can keep track of our own families, much less somebody else’s. Pedantic old bores like Calpurnianus always took great pride in keeping these things straight. They were often wrong, but they always talked as if their genealogical memories were infallible.

A loud shout from the front of the house jerked everybody’s attention in that direction. We scrambled from the couches and to our feet, aware that this was no domestic argument. As the others rushed out, I hung back and took Hermes by the shoulder.

“Now what was all that about the pastries?” I said.

“They were poisoned,” Hermes said.

“Ridiculous. Mamercus Capito has no cause to murder me.”

“Wasn’t him,” said Hermes. “It was that little patrician bugger next to you. He asked the old pontifex about that Bona Dea business, and when you looked that way he sprinkled something onto those pastries in front of you.” He leaned over and took one from Nero’s place and popped it into his mouth.

“Hermes!”

“Well, he didn’t poison his! I got hungry, standing there while you and your friends stuffed yourselves.”

I took my napkin from within my tunic and carefully, without touching them, gathered up some of the pastries. These I wrapped and placed within my tunic.

“Come,” I said, “let’s see what happened.”

The others were gathered in the atrium along with some agitated slaves. On the tessellated floor lay a stout body. It was Mamercus Aemilius Capito, dead as Hector. Appius Claudius Nero stared at the corpse wide-eyed and pasty-faced. The rest, for whom the sight of a murdered nobleman was no novelty, were a good deal more composed. Considering that Nero had just tried to murder me, I found his distress commendable.

“What happened?” I asked unnecessarily.

“As you will discern,” Catulus said dryly, “our host will not be joining us for the after-dinner drinking bout. It seems that his caller did away with him.”

“Did he have enemies?” asked one of the men from Afranius’s table.

“He had at least one,” said Catulus. “Come now, man! What Roman of any importance lacks enemies?”

“How boring,” said Catullus the poet. “In the epics and the dramas, murders are always exciting and terrible. This is rather tawdry.”

Calpurnianus turned to Capito’s majordomo. “Summon my slaves.”

“At once, Consul.” The man bustled off. I looked around for the slave who had summoned Capito from the table. It was a sizable atrium, but I spotted him and beckoned him to my side.

“Who called upon your master this evening?” I asked him.

“It was a man in a dark-colored cloak. He had a fold of the cloak drawn over his head, so I did not see his face. He spoke in a low voice.”

“Didn’t that seem strange?”

“It is not my place to screen my master’s visitors. He said that he was expected.”

“Has you master received many such visitors lately?”

“I do not know. I was just working in the atrium when he arrived. The gatekeeper would know.”

The Consul’s slave retinue came in. Except for a personal valet, each of the greater guests had sent his attendants to the rear of the house. Calpurnianus had at least a dozen, who all tried to pretend that they hadn’t been drinking. He summoned a boy who wore the tunic, belt and hat of a messenger. The boy held out a tablet and stylus that were connected to his belt by thin chains. The Consul opened the wooden tablet and began to write on its wax surface.

“Take this to the house of the Praetor Urbanus Voconius Naso. He is unlikely to be at home, but wait for him there and see that he gets this. No need to wait for his reply. I’ll speak to him tomorrow in the Curia.” The boy dashed off and the Consul addressed the rest of us. “I suppose he’ll want to appoint a iudex to investigate.”

I spoke to the slave again. “Were you here during their talk, or was anyone else?”

“My master dismissed me and instructed that he and his visitor were to be left alone.”

At that moment, the messenger ran back in. “The gatekeeper’s dead,” he reported, then ran back out.

“So much for other witnesses,” I said.

“The mistress is at Picenum,” said the majordomo, “where they maintain a country house. I will see that she is notified and make arrangements for the funeral.” From elsewhere in the house began those extravagant mourning noises with which slaves bring a little drama into their lives.