The Sacrilege(30)

“Decius,” he said, “I’m taking you off all political duties. I have a job of investigation to be done, and I know you’re the best for that. Your father acts like it’s unworthy, but he takes a real pride in your accomplishments. When I broached my problem at the family council last night, he recommended you as the one to appoint.”

“I am flattered,” I said. I had not been informed that a family council had been called, but I didn’t amount too much in those days.

“Here is the task: You know what everybody knows about the profanation of the rites of the Good Goddess by my odious little brother-in-law. Today the college of the pontifexes meets to officially declare the charge of sacrilege. That means nothing. All they can do is turn it over to the courts. A trial will be—messy. I would rather not see it happen. As for Clodius, it would not bother me greatly if the little swine were to die on the cross. But I don’t want my wife involved. Do you understand?”

This was discomforting. “I understand, sir. But I cannot guarantee that I will be able to—”

He grabbed me by the upper arm, painfully. “Decius, find out what happened. Find out who was responsible, compile evidence, but keep Clodia out of it! Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, sir,” I said. It was not the first time I had been told to suppress evidence. It was the first time the demand had come from my family, though. It seemed odd, since they should have known better than anybody else that I couldn’t do it. It was not that I was especially honest, or that I did not want to act as demanded. It was just that some mischievous genius in me made me ferret out the truth and make it public. It was another part of that faculty Asklepiodes and I had discussed. One thing I could be sure of. My father had no illusions about me. If he had recommended me for the job, he understood what might come of it.

The truth of the matter was that this caused me no great crisis of conscience. The profanation of the Bona Dea ceremonies seemed ludicrous rather than shocking. I did not classify mere scandal as crime, whatever the pontifexes might think. Besides, she was not really one of the official state deities. When someone was trying to poison me, the indignation of some highborn Roman ladies seemed a small matter, indeed.

“What is to be my official capacity in all this?” I asked him.

“Oh, say that you’re acting on my behalf as Consul-elect.”

“I can’t do that! Granted you’ll win the election, but if you assume the authority so far ahead of time, people will regard it as high-handed. They’ll vote against you out of spite.”

“You’re not going to be making speeches to the Centuriate Assembly,” he said testily. “You’re going to be questioning in the houses of Senators, discreetly and in privacy. They know how these things work.”

“Where should I start?”

“You’re the investigator. I leave it up to you.”

I took a deep breath. “I will have to question Clodia.”

He glared from beneath his bristly eyebrows. “If you must,” he all but muttered. “Just keep my admonitions in mind.”

“Well,” I said, “I’ll be about it.” I dreaded confronting Clodia, but the chance of doing Clodius a bad turn was too good to miss.

I didn’t question Clodia first, though. I left Celer’s house and made for the Forum, with Hermes dogging my steps. The day was blustery and the law courts had moved indoors. I found Cicero in the Basilica Porcia, the oldest of our permanent law courts. He had been listening to a defense conducted by one of his students and readily stepped aside with me into one of the aisles. I briefly sketched my commission from Celer and asked Cicero’s opinion, wanting to be sure of my legal ground.

“Since no official investigator has been named, you may do what you like as an interested citizen. Celer, of course, has no authority, and I suspect that he is motivated primarily by personal interests.”

“Keeping Clodia out of it, you mean?”

“Not that any involvement of hers matters greatly,” he added rather hastily. “If she had anything to do with it, the pontifexes may reprimand her, but no more. The sacrilege was committed by Clodius, who as a man was forbidden to look upon the rites. If formal charges are brought, they will be against him alone.”

“That sets my mind at ease, a little,” I said.

“Has Celer indicated his preference for a colleague?” Cicero asked, changing the subject rather abruptly. He was a politician, and power interested him far more than ritual matters.

“He asked me to broach the matter to Mamercus Capito,” I told him.