The Sacrilege(53)

Julia smiled again. “I shall do that.”

“But carefully, mind you. Someone is killing people without regard to sex or social standing. I would hate for you to be the next victim. Or even the one after, for that matter.”

“I shall be discreet. What will you be doing?”

“Dangerous and foolish things,” I assured her. “Stalking violent and ambitious men, searching for murderers who employ a singular technique for dispatching their victims, that sort of thing.” I was beginning to feel quite heroic.

“Then do take care yourself. You are unique, and the Republic can scarcely afford to lose you.”

I could not but agree with this, but I modestly forbore to acknowledge the fact. She took her leave and descended the steps of the temple. I waited in the shadow of the portico until she was out of sight. I now realized, belatedly, that it was perilous for her to be seen in my company. I scanned the surrounding area for surreptitious watchers, but that was futile. Rome provides from every prospect more alleys, windows, warrens, rooftops and other lurking spots than the human eye can readily discern.

When Julia was gone I left the temple and walked through the city’s rapidly darkening streets. I tucked my hands beneath my tunic as if warming them, but actually to grip my weapons. As I walked I pondered, trying to fit the new anomalies into some sort of order.

As I had told Julia, the anomalies are important. So are correspondences, linkages, kinships, anything that ties the facts together in some fashion however bizarre they might seem at first. My problem was that, when thinking of Clodius, I found it difficult to think of anything else. I decided to concentrate on other things and see if they led back to Clodius, or somewhere else.

Fausta had some odd part to play in this. She was the daughter of the late Dictator, Sulla. What else was she? She was the ward of Lucullus, who had been named Sulla’s executor. Her twin brother, Faustus, was Pompey’s loyal henchman. That was another scent that could easily distract me. I longed to pull Pompey down almost as much as Clodius. In Pompey’s case because he was a prospective tyrant and king of Rome. With Clodius it was personal. So Fausta had that connection with Pompey. She lived in the household of Lucullus, who hated Pompey, but she would be more likely to side with her beloved twin than with her protector. She had arrived at the house of Caesar on the night of the rites in company with the wife of Lucullus. And his wife was Claudia, elder sister of Clodius and Clodia. The other Claudian brother, Appius, was out there in Pompey’s camp someplace, but he did not concern me. To the best of my knowledge, he had found legionary life to his taste and settled on a military career, taking little interest in politics.

This might prove embarrassing. I had already told my friend Milo that I would aid him in his courtship of the woman. He would not take it kindly if she were to be exiled because of me. Between Celer’s insistence that I keep Clodia out of the scandal and Milo’s infatuation with Fausta, I was placed in something of a quandary. Trouble with women was nothing new in my life, but this was a novel variant of it.

Who else might have been in that house on the night of the rites? And for what purpose? The fact that they had gone to such extremes to keep their doings secret, and were murdering people to cover themselves, meant that whatever it was was very, very bad indeed. And what could Capito have had to do with it?

I reached my house without any attempts being made on my life.





10

The next morning I found that Hermes was mostly recovered from his malady, pale but upright and rubbing his belly from time to time.

“Can’t guess what it might have been,” he said. He had a furtively guilty look but he usually looked that way, so I could not tell whether that signified anything. “Maybe an enemy put a curse on me,” he said.

“More likely you broke into my wine closet and drained a jug or two,” I said. “I’ll look into it later.”

I greeted my clients, and in the midst of it a man arrived with a note. I recognized the fellow as one of Asklepiodes’s slaves.

Please come visit me at your earliest opportunity, it read. Below the message was the whimsical seal the Greek used: a sword and caduceus. This looked promising. Perhaps he had discovered something.

We all trooped to Celer’s house, and at the first opportunity I took him aside.

“Have you determined anything?” he asked.

“Just a great deal of confusion,” I said. “But I must ask you something. A few days ago I spoke to Caesar in this house. He said that he had come to ask you for a night’s lodgings while he was banned from his own roof.”

“So he did.”