“That will not matter. Romans love the Rome they know, filthy and chaotic firetrap that she is.”
“They will get used to it,” he maintained imperturbably. “Now, you had something for me?”
“Caius Julius, I think there is an assassin in the city who has come here with the intention of murdering you.”
“Is that all?” He did not look up from his plan, to which he was adding notes and sketches with a reed pen.
“Isn’t it enough?”
“People have been trying to kill me for a long time. None has succeeded.”
“But this man is subtle. He is the one who murdered the astronomers and he is skilled at killing swiftly and without weapons. Guards will turn up nothing by searching him.”
“I have never had anyone searched before coming into my presence, you know that. I am going to widen the open area around the Temple of Vesta and plant a grove there.”
“Very pleasing, I’m sure, but I think you are in serious danger.”
“When the gods decree that I shall die, then I shall die. In the meantime I have much to accomplish.”
“Now you sound like Cleopatra,” I said.
“The queen of Egypt and I have much in common. A sense of personal destiny is one of them. It ill behooves us to fret over things like danger and death. The best thing to do with this assassin is to catch him first. I was rather hoping you could take care of that.”
“I am striving to do so. It is just that I had thought his crimes to be more limited in scope, and I thought you should know about it.”
“I am touched by your concern, Decius. Now be about your duties.”
I walked away fuming. The man just didn’t appreciate either his own danger or my value. He dismissed first-class investigative work as if it were some sort of clerk’s function. I was about ready to join the crowd of anti-Caesarians, but then I reminded myself where the real power lay and what a pack of second-raters they all were. I could swallow a little pride if I had to.
Once again I checked my roster of criminals and lowlifes. Who in Rome might have an idea of where I could find a foreign assassin? Back when my friend Titus Milo was the most prominent gang-leader in Rome he could have turned the man up for me within hours. But Milo was long dead and my own influence was lamentably low these days. Then I remembered Ariston. I headed toward the river port.
Ariston was an ex-pirate who had been of great help to me a few years before, when I was playing admiral and putting down a resurgence by some of his former colleagues. When Pompey had suppressed the pirates in his great campaign, those who wanted to live had surrendered and vowed to move inland and never go to sea again. Ariston had violated this agreement by taking up the sailor’s life once more and had been liable to execution, but with Pompey dead I had secured his pardon. Now he was a more or less a legitimate importer and occasional merchant captain. I hoped he was in his place of business and not sailing to Trapezus or some such faraway place.
The port was always a bustling, smelly place where you could hear every language in the world and see some very odd people indeed. The wharfs were stacked with bales and amphorae and ingots of metal. That day an endless string of barges were being unloaded, their cargo nothing but fabulous marble for Caesar’s endless building projects.
Ariston was in his warehouse, a long, rambling building that fronted on the river with a tile roof and no wall on the river side. He was a big man with a scarred and battered face. He was burned dark brown from constant exposure, which made his blond hair and bright blue eyes even more striking. He grinned when he saw me.
“Senator! You don’t come down here very often. I haven’t seen your accountant lately. Has this new calendar affected our agreement?” As his patron I naturally received a small percentage of his profits every year.
“Not at all. I came to consult with you.” I took his hand.
“Any way I can help. Are you planning a voyage?”
I shuddered. “No, for which I thank all the gods.… It’s a rather sensitive matter.… I’m starving. Let’s find a tavern and get something to eat.”
“I know just the place.” He gave some orders to his slaves and we went a block cityward and into a low-ceilinged dive that had a distinctively smoky aroma. We sat at a table and a server brought the usual bread and oil along with a bowl of roasted and salted peas and another of tiny smoked fish and smoked sausages. That explained the smell of the place. They had big, brick smokers in the back. I took a handful of the crunchy, salted peas, then a few of the fish. The rough red wine common to such places was the perfect accompaniment. “This is excellent,” I told him. “Is the cook a Spaniard?”