On this day, the guardian deities of the city did not seem inclined to guide my steps in any fruitful direction. I walked completely around the Circus Maximus, no mean undertaking. I rounded the base of the Palatine and ascended to the Forum, which was rapidly emptying of its day’s occupants. I climbed the Capitol all the way to the Temple of Jupiter. I walked inside and stood watching the priests as they went through a scantily attended evening ceremony. The new statue of Jupiter still seemed out of place, although its majesty was impressive. The haruspices had declared that a new statue of the god was necessary to protect the state and expose plots against the constitution. They must have been right, because no sooner had the statue been tamped in place than the conspiracy of Catilina was exposed.
I have always found the services in our temples to be restful and conducive to meditation, as long as they were not sacrificing something large and protesting. This was one of the oldest of our temples, exceeded in antiquity perhaps only by the Temple of Vesta. It had been rebuilt many times, and at one time had been a sanctuary containing no image, for the practice of giving our gods the form of human beings was relatively recent. When the Greeks became our slaves, they began reordering our city to suit their own ideas of propriety. I have never understood how it comes about that our slaves take over our lives, but it seems to be a universal rule.
With the smell of incense clinging to my hair, I left the temple and made my way to Milo’s house. It was not an hour usually considered proper for calling on a citizen, but Milo was not an ordinary citizen. He never seemed to sleep, and it was a point of criminal/political principle with him to be available to citizens at all hours. When it came to giving the citizens individual attention, Caesar was an amateur compared to Milo. But then, Milo was not distracted by armies and provinces and rival generals. Milo did not want to conquer the world. Milo just wanted to control the city of Rome. To that end he had assembled an immense clientele, and by no means were all of them drawn from the criminal classes. His gang of brutes remained the hard core of his strength, naturally enough, but he had expanded his relationships to include many of the highest personages of Roman society, as witness his recent invitation to lunch with Lucullus.
Milo had accomplished his astonishing rise from street thug to political contender through driving energy, immense charm and a ruthlessness that was breathtaking even in that age of men without compunction. His aims, I suppose, were no different from those of Clodius, but they were different men. Clodius began with wealth, high birth and social position. An easy mobility in the highest circles was his birthright. Milo began with nothing. Milo had, I will not call it honor, but rather a consistent and punctilious regard to his loyalties and obligations. Milo had friends whereas Clodius had toadies.
Admittedly, I may have been prejudiced in his favor because I detested Clodius so heartily, but then, Clodius was a detestable man. I have never considered myself to be unfair or arbitrary in these matters.
Milo greeted me warmly when I arrived. I was lucky enough to find him alone, by which I mean that he had no other visitors of consequence, although he had a somewhat understrength century of thugs lounging about the house. He conducted me to a side room where we relaxed on couches.
“You look tired, Decius. Have some wine.” He poured two cups and handed me one. It was a good Falernian, mixed with no more water than what was necessary to avoid charges of incivility. I drank gratefully.
“I should be tired. I started the day at the house of Celer, went from there to the Forum, thence to the house of Caesar, from there to the house of Crassus and then to the Egyptian embassy. After lunch with Lisas I went to the Capitol to see if Jupiter could sort things out for me, a favor he declined. Now I’ve come to talk with you. I should have stayed in Spain. The legions are less strenuous.”
“If you are going to get ahead, you must expect to exert yourself.” Milo had scant sympathy for those whose energies were less formidable than his own. “Still the matter of the sacrilege?”
“Yes, and now the murder of Capito has taken a new turn.” I described to him the peculiar wounds as interpreted by Asklepiodes, and he listened with great attentiveness. The arts of mayhem were always of deep interest to Milo.
“So the hammer blow came after the fellow was dead?” Milo mused. “That sounds—I can’t say—it sounds more like ritual than ordinary murder. I’ve been inquiring among the sicarii, looking for someone who uses that two-blow technique, but I’ve been assuming that the hammer blow was to set the man up for the kill. This changes things. If it’s ritual, it isn’t Roman ritual. You may have to look into the foreign community.”