The Sacrilege(47)
It was always inadvisable to draw hasty conclusions when dealing with Clodia, but I thought I knew a few things now: Clodia had not known of Nero’s death, and therefore was unlikely to have ordered it. She had been visibly upset when I suggested that there might be a legal way to subpoena testimony about Clodius’s doings at the rites. Fulvia had queered my plan when she pointed out that in that case he could scarcely be charged with serious sacrilege. I had been annoyed at the time, but the randy little twit had unknowingly supplied me with further food for thought, because Clodia had still been upset at the thought of herself or someone else being forced to testify. The charge of sacrilege was not the one she feared her brother having to answer to. What else had he been up to that night? Dalliance with Caesar’s wife, who must be above suspicion? That was laughable. As serious offenses went in Rome, adultery ranked right along with failing to wear one’s toga to the games.
This opened whole new vistas to delight my vindictive spirit. I wanted nothing more than a chance to prosecute Clodius for something really serious. Up to now, I had been engaged on a rather frivolous investigation, the principal aim of which had been to keep Celer’s wife out of it. Now this bare-bones project was gaining some real flesh. And if I was right about the woman who had just gone into Clodia’s house, the sacrilege and the recent murders and the attempt on my own life were intimately connected.
She reemerged just as I finished my wine, a bit of timing I deem propitious. As she walked toward the wineshop I turned away, then got up when she was past. It is never terribly difficult to follow someone through the streets of Rome in the daytime. The ways are narrow and the crowds prevent any fast movement. They also allow you to keep close without being detected.
Not far from the Forum Boarium, she went into a charming little public garden. Besides its plantings, it featured the usual image of Priapus and one of those quaint, miniature tombs we erect on ground where lightning has struck. She sat on a bench bearing a plaque that gave the name of the rich man who had donated the garden to the city, and another rich man who had undertaken its upkeep. I passed by that same garden not long ago. Now the plaque is gone and there is another, bearing the name and lineage of the First Citizen. He would claim that he founded Rome if he thought he could get away with it.
The woman started as I sat down beside her. “Well, Purpurea, we meet again!”
She got over her startlement quickly. “And not by accident, I’ll bet.”
“Yes, actually, I was wondering what you were doing in the house of Metellus Celer, which is also the house of his beloved wife, Clodia Pulcher.”
“You were following me!” she said, indignant.
“Absolutely. Now tell me what you were doing with Clodia, or I’ll cause all sorts of trouble for you.”
“I’m just a poor, honest herb-woman. You’ve no call to be harassing me!” She shifted the basket in her lap. Something rustled inside it.
“I haven’t the slightest interest in your honesty or lack of it,” I told her. “But people are getting murdered all over the city, and I was almost one of them. I suspect you of involvement. Your best course is to implicate somebody else, so speak up.”
“Murder! I am involved in no such thing. The lady Clodia sent for me to procure certain herbs and have her fortune told. Her and young lady Fulvia, that is, and isn’t that one a hot little piece?”
“She is indeed,” I agreed, “and no doubt Rome will suffer grievously because of her in years to come, but let’s return to Clodia. Would whatever is rustling in that basket have anything to do with telling her fortune?”
“Oh, aye.” She reached into the basket and hauled out a fat, torpid black snake at least three feet long. “Old Dis here is the best fortune-telling snake in Rome. He’s not very lively this time of year, though.”
“And the herbs?” I asked.
“Just the usual.”
“The usual?”
“You know, aphrodisiacs. You ought to let me mix some up for you. Give you a cock like Priapus there.”
“I don’t suffer from the deficiency,” I said, nettled.
“They all say that, except the ones old enough to be honest about it. I think her husband needs a bit of encouragement now and then.”
“Are you sure that is all you delivered to her? No poisons, by any chance?”
“Now, sir, you’ve tried that one before,” she chided. “Do you really think I’m going to admit to a capital offense?”
“I suppose not,” I said, rising. Then I let fly an arrow at random, the sort that sometimes strikes an unexpected target. I do not know why I asked her, except that her craft was an ancient one, involving many arcane rituals. “Citizens are being murdered, Purpurea. Someone is stabbing them in the throat and then, after they are dead, smashing them on the forehead with a hammer. What do you know of that?” To my astonishment her face drained of color and her jaw dropped.