The Year of Confusion(82)

The two showed no further interest in me so I took my leave of them and walked back out to the Forum with much to ponder about. Having made my boast, I now had to deliver. Caesar would be very displeased should I fail to hand him the killer on the day following the next. Not only the killer, but some sort of comprehensible explanation for what had been going on.

Hermes found me in the tavern near the old Curia where we ate frequently. It enjoyed a fine view of the ancient building, the meeting-place of the Senate since the days of the kings. At that time it was still gutted, its upper façade black-smudged, the marks of the rioting that followed the funeral of Clodius.

How like Caesar, I thought, to erect his immense basilica to his own glory practically next door while the most sacred of our ancient assembly-places stood derelict for want of someone to pony up the cash for restorations, forcing the Senate to meet in the Theater of Pompey. Maybe it was another way for him to display his contempt for the Senate. Or maybe he planned some unthinkably vast and elaborate new Curia, one that would outshine anything built by Pompey.

Hermes plunked himself down and began helping himself to my lunch. “Domitius drops by the messengers’ tavern from time to time.”

“I thought so. Men who share a profession or specialized skill usually like to get together with their fellows to talk shop. What do the others know about him?”

“He regales them with stories of Cleopatra’s house. They love to hear about the extravagances that go on in that place.”

“Everybody does. Anything else?”

“Lately he’s been working for someone else as well. Someone he calls ‘the easterner’ or ‘the star man.’”

“Polasser!” I said, thumping the table with my fist. “Worked for him, all right, but he set him up to be murdered.”

“Maybe he’s the killer,” Hermes suggested.

“I thought about that, but somehow I doubt it. I didn’t get a good long look at him, but I don’t think he had the hands and arms of a wrestler. Pure runner, that’s all. Did you get anything else?”

“Just that he hasn’t been by for more than ten days, which they think odd. I didn’t press it. They already thought I was being suspiciously snoopy, even though I was buying the drinks.”

“A conscientious lot,” I said. “Most men will sell you their mothers as long as you keep the free wine flowing.” I told him of my little meeting with Caesar and the queen of Egypt.

“So maybe he really is sick,” Hermes mused.

“Or maybe Cleopatra is just being oversolicitous of his health and insists on having a physician present, and Caesar would trust nobody but that Greek. It’s like her. Still, he didn’t look all that well. Not really sick, but lacking in his usual vigor, like that day in the Senate when he was so undiplomatic with Archelaus.”

“Do you think Caesar will live long enough to take his expedition to Syria?”

“If King Phraates has any brains at all,” I said, “he’s sacrificing to Ahura-Mazda right now that he will not.”





13

It was barely midafternoon when we set out for Callista’s. Respectable gatherings always began early. Only disreputable ones went on after dark. Of course, this party was going to move to one of the most dissolute households in Rome. I mentioned this strange juxtaposition to Julia as we were carried off.

It annoyed me that she insisted that I ride in the big litter she reserved for the most pretentious occasions, as if my own feet would no longer carry me. She thought it was beneath my dignity to walk after the sun was low over the rooftops. Of course, the ostentatious conveyance wasn’t for the visit to Callista’s, for which her everyday litter was adequate. It was for the trip to Cleopatra’s.

Not that everyone was riding. Two of Julia’s girls were trailing us, along with Hermes and a couple of my rougher retainers, men handy with their fists and with bronze-studded truncheons tucked into their cinctures. Anything could happen.

We found a small mob in the street outside Callista’s house, and more gathered in the courtyard. There were litters like ours and slaves and attendants and bodyguards more numerous and rougher-looking than mine.

“That’s Servilia’s litter!” Julia said as we were carried into this carnival. “And there is Atia’s!”

“This should prove to be an interesting evening,” I said as the bearers set us down on the pavement of the courtyard. I got out and helped Julia from the elegant but awkward vehicle. As I did this I gazed around the courtyard. Callista’s servants circulated, carrying trays of refreshments for the attendants who had to wait without. Greater houses than this one might not have bothered.