A Point of Law

10

Ordinarily, a litter gets you where you are going no more quickly than if you had walked. It just gets you there in style and much cleaner than if you had braved Rome’s unsanitary streets. The litter of Asklepiodes was different.

First, there were his bearers. They were all powerful men and trained runners. The physician often had to rush to the site of an emergency and did not want to waste time. He used eight of them, instead of the more common four or six, so that each would bear a lighter load. Perhaps even more important, though, was the flying wedge of gladiators that cleared the way before us. Rome’s narrow streets were easily jammed, and they tended to get more so as you approached the Forum, especially if there was something interesting happening there, as there was on this morning.

For obvious reasons the gladiators of Statilius Taurus prized their surgeon and were always willing to do anything to keep him happy. Up front we had a dozen of them, all huge men who positively loved hard, physical contact. Thus we were able to cross the City at a running pace.

“All right,” I said to Hermes, as we lounged behind the closed curtains, “tell me what you learned.”

Hermes mopped his face with a fold of his tunic. His sweat was testimony to his exertions that morning. He was in superb physical shape, and it took a strenuous sprint to bring perspiration to his brow.

“I managed to catch some of Caius Claudius’s slaves on their way to the fruit and vegetable market. One of them was the cook who had been assigned to the house of Fulvius. There were six of them assigned, and I was lucky to catch this one because the others were all Syrians barely able to understand Latin.”

“Didn’t I tell you these were careful plotters?” I said to Asklepiodes. “The slaves they lent their man were foreign, so that they wouldn’t be able to understand or repeat what they overheard. Too many people blab as if their slaves weren’t there.”

Hermes nodded agreement. “But the cook had to know Latin because she had to do the marketing. Unfortunately, she was mostly confined to the kitchen and didn’t hear much. But the man had callers at all hours of day and night, and the conversations out front got pretty heated.”

“Had she any idea who the visitors were?”

“She said they mostly had low-class accents, but a few were high class, and it was most often those voices she heard arguing.”

“She didn’t hear any details of their conversations at all?”

“None she was willing to talk about. Remember, she is still a slave.”

A slave’s lot is not a happy one in cases of this sort. They can only testify under torture, and a slave who voluntarily testifies against his master can look forward to a short and miserable life. I recalled that, after the killing of Clodius, Milo freed all the slaves who had been with him, ostensibly as a reward for saving him from Clodius (as if Titus Milo ever needed saving from anybody) but actually so that they could not be put to torture in the trial he knew was coming.

“Well, what did you learn?” I demanded impatiently.

“Three days ago, late in the evening, a slave came from the home of Caius Marcellus and told the slaves in Fulvius’s house that they were to gather whatever personal belongings they had there and return to their master’s house at once. Fulvius wasn’t there, and neither was anyone else.”

Three days ago meant the night before we had found Fulvius murdered. “You say a slave summoned them? Was it the steward?”

“No. She said it was one of Octavia’s staff, a man from her old household before she married Marcellus.”

“Were the other slaves part of Octavia’s staff or dowry?”

“From the way she talked, they were all Marcellus’s property. Do you think it’s important?”

“Hermes, in this case, nothing is too trivial to have significance. Octavia is neck deep in this matter, I’m sure of it. But that doesn’t mean she is playing the same game as her husband.”

The Greek sighed. “Sometimes I wish I were a playwright. This has the dimensions of high tragedy and the complications of low farce.”

“Yes, well, that’s politics for you,” I muttered, half distracted. We were getting near the Forum, and I drew a curtain aside to see what was ahead. There was certainly a lot of noise coming from that direction.

We had taken the most direct route from the ludus: across the Sublician Bridge and through the Forum Boarium, and along the Vicus Tuscus to where it crossed the Via Nova and ended between the Basilica Sempronia and the Temple of Castor and Pollux, near the western end of the Forum. Ahead and to our left I could see the greatest concentration of the crowd, and from that direction came the greatest noise.

“Is that the lady?” Asklepiodes asked.

“The one and only Fulvia,” I said with a sinking heart.

She was on the Rostra, a tiny form still clad in black, gesturing wildly. I saw white-clad men, most likely senators, trying to scale the platform, but other men were pushing them back. I wondered who, with the old gangs broken up, had the insolence to manhandle the Senate.

“I need to get closer,” I said.

“Get us up to the Rostra, lads!” Asklepiodes cried.

“Whatever you say, Doctor!” yelled one. “Let’s go!” And in a blur of flying fists and elbows, the crowd parted magically before us. Within what seemed like only seconds, we were before the railing of the Rostra, its age-darkened ships’ rams looming ominously above. In front and to both sides stood a cluster of senators, lictors, and other attendants trying to shout down the furious woman who harangued the mob from above. I now saw that the men who controlled access to the speaker’s platform wore military belts and boots.

“Oh, no!” I cried, appalled. “She’s got Caesar’s soldiers supporting her and laying hands on the Senate!”

Up on the platform, Fulvia was putting on an amazing show. Her pale hair streamed wildly, tears flowed down her swollen cheeks, her face was scarlet with rage, her mouth was drawn into a long, vertical rectangle, like that on a tragic mask. Also, her sheer, black clothing was in such disarray that she was in imminent danger of losing the upper half entirely.

“Slaves! Cowards! Spineless slugs!” she screamed. “How can you call yourselves Romans? They came to slaughter the man who would be your tribune! They feared him because they knew he would be the defender of your liberties! They fell upon him and now he lies at death’s door because he wanted to be your champion! How can you allow them to live?”

Cato made his way to the litter. Hermes and I stood outside, Asklepiodes remained within. The gladiators stood around us in a protective circle. They made way for Cato’s senatorial insignia.

“Quite a show, eh, Decius?” he said disgustedly. “Just when we had the City about cleaned up, this had to happen.”

“Does anybody know what’s going on?” I asked him.

“Just that Curio’s been seriously wounded. That wild woman got up on the Rostra and started screeching less than an hour ago. A pack of Caesar’s boys were here in the Forum, and they appointed themselves her bodyguard because Caesar’s told them Curio is his man and they were to vote for him. Now she has them so wrought up they’re putting violent hands on senators and lictors who are trying to silence her. How are we going to get this ugly mob calmed down?”

I looked all about and thought fast. Fortunately, thinking fast was one of my specialties. “Where are the consuls?”

“Nowhere to be found, naturally,” Cato said.

“I see a cluster of twelve lictors over there,” I said, pointing toward the southern end of the Rostra. “Are they Pompey’s?” Only consuls and proconsuls were entitled to twelve lictors.

“Yes, he got here a few minutes ago.”

“Good. The crowd will quiet down enough to listen to him. Tell him to call attention to me-send his lictors to arrest me or something. I think I can get them calmed.”

Cato rushed off in the direction of the lictors. I hoped Pompey would move quickly, because Fulvia was reaching the flamboyant climax of her oration.

“Romans! Look at me!” Here she seized the neckline of her sheer, black gown and ripped downward. The flimsy cloth shredded away from her and left her nude from the waist up. The shouting died down to a murmur, punctuated by groans and a few low whistles. My own jaw dropped along with the rest. This was a spectacle worthy of traveling a long way to see. She began to beat with her tiny fists against her by no means tiny breasts.

“Do you not know who your enemies are? These cruel and selfish aristocrats murdered your greatest defenders, the brothers Gracchi! Caius Gracchus was my own grandfather!” Like many another good rabble-rouser, she spoke of the aristocrats as if she weren’t one herself.

“They murdered my husband! Milo and his gang, protected by their friends in the Senate, slew my darling Clodius, who championed you like a god! Yet Milo lives! His followers slunk from the city like chastised children instead of being hurled from the Tarpeian Rock!” Here she swung her arm to point at that prominence atop the Capitol, throwing her own prominences into bold relief. “They walked away alive, and you did nothing! And you call yourselves Romans!” Her face flushed so dark I expected her to go into seizures.

“Now,” she went on, “they have struck down my betrothed, as if they must widow me twice! How long will you allow your champions to be murdered, Romans? How long before you see who your enemy is and burn this corrupt city to ashes? Tear down this rotten sink of murder and greed and plow up the ground and sow it with salt so that nothing will grow here again, as my great grandfather did to Carthage back when there were men in Rome!”

Now I could understand how she had induced Clodius’s supporters into using the Curia for his funeral pyre. I was about ready to torch a temple for her myself. Actually, it was her great-great-grandfather’s adopted son who wrecked Carthage so thoroughly, but she wasn’t going to pass up a chance for a fine rhetorical flourish over a carping detail like that.

The crowd was about to go into full roar once more when Pompey ascended the steps at the north side of the Rostra, alone, not even a single lictor with him. The soldiers at the top of the steps looked at one another, suddenly uncertain what to do. Tossing an ordinary senator off the platform was one thing. Laying hands on Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus was quite another. He stopped near the top and jabbed a finger toward Fulvia.

“Get down from there, you shameless, indecent woman! I’ll not have-” Then he pretended to catch sight of me for the first time. His eyes went wide and his scandalized expression gave way to one of rage. The change of expression was broad and obvious, just as we were all taught to do in the schools of rhetoric. His accusing finger swung, slowly and deliberately, toward me. Just as he planned it, every gaze in the Forum swung away from Fulvia and toward me.

“Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger!” he shouted, that parade-ground voice echoing back from every public building for a quarter mile in all directions. “What do you mean coming to this place with a pack of killers? I expelled all such gangs from the City and forbade them to return upon pain of death! Answer me if you value your life!” The silence in the Forum was now total. Even Fulvia looked stunned, about to collapse from her excess of passion.

“Give me a boost, boys,” I said quietly. Two of the gladiators stooped, grasped me about the knees and raised me to their shoulders as easily as lifting a wineskin. With my feet planted firmly on their brawny shoulders, I made a rhetorical gesture as broad as his own, easily visible in the farthest reaches of the Forum, one arm extended, the other hand clasped to my breast, fingers spread, as if I were clutching a heart stirred to the highest pitch by the terrible events of the moment.

“Proconsul!” I cried, pitching my voice slightly lower than his famous bellow. “Word came to me that my good friend, Scribonius Curio, had been attacked and lay terribly wounded! Frantic with concern, I ran to the ludus of Statilius Taurus, there to summon the one man who can save our beloved future tribune. In this litter-” here I gestured gracefully toward the little conveyance below me-“is the great Asklepiodes, acknowledged from here to Alexandria as the foremost expert in the world on the subject of wounds made with weapons! These men are no criminal gang, Proconsul. They are his escort, come hither at peril of your wrath to speed the great physician’s way to the side of the wounded Curio. Every man of them owes his life to Asklepiodes, who can cure wounds lesser physicians would give up as hopeless!”

The gladiators began to tug their tunics up and down and sideways to show off for general admiration the terrible scars of the numerous wounds Asklepiodes had stitched up for them. People began edging closer for a better look.

“Splendid, Metellus!” Pompey shouted. “I forgive them their intrusion just so they leave as soon as their duty is done.

Citizens!” He threw wide his arms. “Stand not in the way of the great physician! He must fly at once to the side of Curio!”

The crowd began to mill about uncertainly. Most of them had no idea which direction the litter needed to go so they couldn’t very well get out of its way. For the moment their attention was off Fulvia.

“Put me down,” I ordered.

Cato hustled back. “The wretch is at Fulvia’s house. As likely a place as any to be assaulted.”

I leaned into the litter. “That’s where Clodius used to live. You know how to get there, don’t you?”

“All Rome knows that address,” he assured me. “This has been most enjoyable, and if I may be of help, next year’s tribune will owe me a favor.” With that he was hoisted aloft and carried off.

I dashed up the steps. A soldier I knew slightly from the Gallic war recognized me and stepped aside. “Good day, Captain. We kept anyone from disturbing the lady because we thought that’s what Caesar would want us to do. He said to support Curio.”

“I doubt he had this in mind, but it looks like no harm done. You men get back to your carousing.” I rushed to Fulvia’s side, pulled off my toga and draped it over her white shoulders. Her whole upper body jerked rhythmically, as if she were sobbing, but no sobs came from her. Then I understood why she kept quiet while Pompey and I distracted the mob: The moment she stopped screaming she had gone into convulsive hiccups.

I patted her on the back as I led her from the Rostra. After a while the hiccups subsided and she could talk.

“They waited for him outside my house. My house, Decius!” As if she would have been less offended had they picked some other street.

“It is because they knew he was to be found there. How badly is he hurt?”

“I left him weak and bleeding badly. I know you think I’m heartless for leaving him there and coming down here, but my personal physician is with him. You needn’t have brought your Greek. It was very thoughtful of you though.”

“It was the least I could do.”

“It was just too much!” she went on, getting her breath back as I led her down the steps with an arm about her shoulders. “I mean, first Grandfather and Great-Uncle Tiberius, then Clodius, now Curio! Are they determined to leave me entirely bereft?” It did not escape me that she had not included her late brother among those for whom she grieved.

“Fulvia,” I said soothingly, “you are a high-born Roman lady, and you must learn to accept the fact that, in the course of your life, about half your menfolk are going to die violently.”

I looked around and what I saw wasn’t greatly reassuring. Everywhere there were senators, many of them pointing and glaring at Fulvia. But even more of them were frowning in the direction of the soldiers, and the words I overheard weren’t pretty. They would not soon forget that Caesar’s legionaries had shown such insolence and disrespect toward senators and had handled them violently.

As for the soldiers, those tough, battle-scarred men seemed not at all abashed by this senatorial hostility. They looked as if they had rather enjoyed the little tussle and were now back to basking in the admiration of the populace. The plebs and a few senators who were Caesar’s supporters saluted Fulvia respectfully. It had been a bravura performance. After this, the upcoming elections were sure to be anti-climactic.

“You weren’t entirely candid with me, Fulvia,” I chided her. “You said you had no gift for public speaking.”

“It isn’t from training or inclination,” she said. “It is just that sometimes I get so angry! It isn’t rhetorical polish you hear, it’s passion.”

“Well, we’re all doomed if you ever take it up as a profession.” I saw someone coming toward us like a thundercloud. “Uh-oh, here comes Pompey. Let me talk to him, keep your eyes modestly downcast and your mouth shut.”

“Why? Do you think I should be afraid of him?”

Pompey gave me a curt nod. “That was excellently done, Metellus. We tend to forget how dangerous it is, having so many people in the City as we do at this time of year.” He turned his glowering countenance toward Fulvia. “As for you, you indecent young woman, it is your great luck that I choose not to have you arrested for creating a public scandal. It is a pity that you’re a widow because by rights your father or husband should flog you like a rebellious slave. As it is, I ought to-”

She raised her blotched, tear-stained face and stared him fearlessly in the eyes. “Why don’t you go screw yourself, you pompous, jumped-up toad! And by what right do you address a single word to me? You have no imperium here in Italy, only in Spain. You are only allowed your lictors by courtesy. Everyone else in Rome has gotten used to jumping when Pompey speaks, but I don’t! Now step aside and keep out of my way or I’ll set my slaves on you.” As if she had any with her.

Pompey looked as if someone had dropped an anvil on his head. Everyone within hearing range gasped, scandalized and delighted. When he had his voice back, Pompey spoke to me.

“Metellus, get this woman to her home and chain her up. The Republic is not safe while she’s walking around loose.” He whirled around and stalked off, his spine actually trembling with fury. People sprang from his path as if they’d discovered hot coals under their feet.

“You don’t take advice very well, do you, Fulvia?” I said.

“Never. Escort me home, Decius.”

Like a deferential valet, I obeyed her. Hermes joined us, smiling hugely. A day like this didn’t come along very often. And I was pondering this new side of Fulvia. I had known her, slightly, for years, but only as a member of that almost laboriously scandalous social set headed by Clodius and Clodia. This fearless, determined woman who could not be cowed or intimidated was new to me.

As we crossed the Forum from west to east, headed toward the Palatine and her home, we acquired an escort of citizens, among them a number of Caesar’s soldiers. It was the last thing I wanted, but it was unavoidable. Romans prized this means of showing their support for someone they respected, and a great man sometimes found himself embarrassed by a self-appointed escort of thousands. By the time we reached the Clivus Victoriae there were several hundred in our train, and nobody seemed to think it odd that I, Clodius’s deadly enemy, was taking his widow home.

At her door Fulvia thanked them graciously, feigning hoarseness to avoid a prolonged oration. Then she went inside, closely followed by Hermes and me. As soon as the door was closed behind us she turned and removed my toga.

“Here, Decius, and I thank you for the loan.”

I took it from her hands and, with Hermes, goggled as she went about the atrium, calling for her slaves. We were seeing only what the whole city of Rome had just seen, but somehow, in this private setting, it seemed far more intimate. Her slaves, frightened and astonished, hustled her into the rear of the house while she called for her wardrobe mistress and her cosmetician and her hairdresser.

“Well,” Hermes said, “we don’t get to see something like that very often.”

“As well for our hearts that we don’t,” I told him. “My own is near apoplexy as it is. Now, where is Curio? I want a few words with him.”

“I saw Asklepiodes’s litter up the street by a fountain, with the bearers and the fighters lounging around it, so he must be here somewhere.”

I caught sight of Echo, the comely Greek housekeeper, and beckoned her over. She led us to a bedroom that opened off the peristyle, where Asklepiodes stood by a bandaged Curio, while a man in Syrian robes looked on with disapproval. This had to be Fulvia’s personal physician, resentful at being usurped by the illustrious Greek.

“Decius Caecilius!” Curio said, seeming quite spirited for a man at death’s door. “How good of you to come. My new friend, Asklepiodes, tells me that my betrothed took my injury rather too much to heart.”

“You would have enjoyed the spectacle,” I told him. “I hope someday she will perform my funeral oration. I’d like to be remembered for something. I take it that the severity of your wounds is not as great as has been feared? If so, I rejoice at the news.”

“No, I’m fine, but don’t tell anybody. This will do me endless credit at the election.” He wore a bandage around his temples and some blood was seeping through it. “The scalp wound made it look bad. You know how copiously they bleed. The rogues set upon me as soon as I stepped out the doorway, and when I staggered back inside I looked like I’d been through a taurobolium.” He referred to the odd initiation ceremony practiced by the Phrygian cult of Mithras. New members pledge themselves to the god by standing in a pit covered by a bronze grate. A bull is led onto the grate and its throat cut, showering the novices with its blood.

“How many were there? Did you get a good look at them?”

“It was only beginning to get light. To be truthful I was still half asleep and a little the worse for last night’s drinking and-well, other things. I think there were three of them, armed with daggers and clubs.”

“I am surprised you are still alive,” I told him.

“It was dark, and I think they had been indulging in wine more heavily than I. They got in each other’s way, and I am handy with my fists. I’ve trained as a boxer all my life. I like it better than swordplay. They probably thought they had killed me. These two physicians, with the best of intentions, have striven to finish the job. Each insists his methods are foolproof.”

“A poultice of herbs is always the best for such wounds,” the Syrian said, heatedly. “With a proper prophylactic spell, it unfailingly halts the bleeding and protects from infection.”

“I fear that my esteemed colleague,” Asklepiodes said affably, “is more conversant with headaches and menstrual cramps than with wounds. A thorough washing with boiled, sour wine and a tight compress to hold the edges of the laceration together will protect the wound, promote quick healing with minimal scarring, and reduce the danger of infection.”

“Asklepiodes has my vote,” I said. “He’s put a mile of stitches in my hide, and I’m still here.”

“And now,” the Greek said, “I can do no more here, so I bid you all good day. Just change the dressing every day, and you should have no more trouble.”

Curio thanked him, and, as he left, I saw him whisper something to Hermes. The young man nodded.

“I’m sorry that Fulvia got so overwrought,” Curio said. “But I was a frightening sight, and she’s an excitable woman.” He looked at the heap of bloody clothes on the floor and shook his head. “My best toga and tunic. They look like someone mopped the floor of a slaughterhouse with them.”

“I imagine Fulvia has plenty of men’s clothes you can wear. Clodius liked to affect workingmen’s garb, but I know that he had decent clothes that he wore to banquets and Senate meetings.”

“I suppose so.” Curio seemed unhurt except for the head wound.

“So who do you think they were?” I asked. “Such assaults seem to be all the fashion lately.”

“Do you mean, do I think they were the same ones who killed Fulvia’s brother? I doubt it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because those men would have done a better job of it. They made sure Fulvius was very thoroughly dead, then they dragged his corpse all the way to the basilica steps. There was a certain amount of planning, determination, and skill involved there. No, I imagine it was somebody with a personal grudge. I’ve made enemies like the rest of us.”

Fulvia came in, now decently gowned, her hair dressed, and the facial evidence of her recent fury reduced by cosmetics to a slight puffiness around the eyes. It spoke well for the efficiency of her slaves that they had wrought such change in so short a time.

“Why, Caius,” she said to Curio, “you look much better than I had expected.”

“Please don’t sound so disappointed, my dear. I told you before you stormed out that it was not all that serious.”

“But you men always talk like that! Clodius used to come home bleeding like the loser at a munera and tell me that the barber nicked him. I’ve seen men with their guts hanging out insisting they were merely scratched. I thought I’d probably find you dead when I got back here!”

“You got yourself freshly made up and dressed in your finest first, though, didn’t you?” he noted.

“Don’t try my patience!” she was beginning to get wrought up again.

Curio stood and took her in his arms. “Now, now, let’s not get excited. It’s all just the little hazards of life in Rome these days. Things will quiet down after the election.” He looked at me and made a significant gesture of the eyebrows, indicating the door.

“Well, all seems under control here,” I said. “I’ll just take my leave of you. Curio, congratulations again on your survival. Fulvia, thank you for a wonderful entertainment this morning. It will be long remembered.”

I beat a hasty retreat, Hermes following close on my heels. As we left the house, he touched my arm.

“Before he left, Asklepiodes said you’re to meet him at the altar of Hercules.”

“I saw him speak in your ear. Let’s go learn what he’s discovered.”

The altar of Hercules was on the western side of the Forum Boarium, near the Sublician Bridge. There we found the physician lounging at his ease, still in his litter, with his bearers squatting all around it. The gladiators had apparently been dismissed. The old cattle market, besides selling livestock and meat, was the business place for some of Rome’s best food vendors, and Asklepiodes had availed himself of their wares while he waited for me.

“Ah, Decius, good. I did not think you would tarry long. Have a seat and help me finish this excellent lunch. You too, Hermes. I bought enough for five men.”

I climbed into the litter and relaxed on the cushions. Hermes remained standing outside. Between Asklepiodes and me lay a platter of flat bread two feet wide, heaped with street-vendor delicacies, the best to be had. I took a skewer of tender quail grilled over charcoal and Hermes picked up a river fish caught that morning and steamed in a wrapping of pickled vine leaves.

“You are being even more generous than usual today, old friend,” I told him. “I will not forget it. Now, what were you able to deduce from Curio’s wounds? Did they tell you something significant about his attackers?”

“There was only one wound,” he said, “and it told me a great deal indeed. Your friend Curio was not attacked. The wound was self-inflicted.”

Hermes pounded me on the back, as I choked on delicious quail meat. Asklepiodes looked upon the effect of his pronouncement with deep satisfaction. There were times when I would have liked to strangle him. He handed me a cup of excellent Falernian, and I forgave him.

“Explain,” I said, when I could speak again.

“When I arrived-and this was only a short time before your own advent upon the scene-Curio lay on that bed, his hands clasped to his bloody head, writhing about like a condemned man being flogged with chains. He and that Syrian quack were astonished and alarmed when I showed up. When I went to examine the wounded man, the Syrian tried to restrain me forcibly. Luckily, my medical specialty being what it is, I know a great deal more about force than he.”

I nodded, remembering his many demonstrations of homicidal technique, some of which had left marks on me for weeks.

“I called for a basin and cloth, something oddly missing from the room, and cleaned Curio’s head. His attitude changed swiftly. He began to make light of the wound and say that Fulvia’s physician was being entirely too excitable, that he was no more than stunned by the blow to his head. Are you aware of something called the ‘coward’s blow?’ ”

“I think I’ve heard it mentioned among the sporting crowd. Something to do with throwing a fight, isn’t it?”

“It comes from the early days of pugilism. In the earliest times, boxers were amateurs-aristocratic athletes like the other contenders in the Olympics and the rest of the Greek games. But, in time, there arose a class of professional pugilists, and people began to bet heavily on the outcome of the fights, even as they do today. Various ruses were developed to rig the outcome, and one of these was the coward’s blow.

“Any scalp wound bleeds freely. The skin is stretched thin as vellum over the skull and is plentifully supplied with blood vessels. There is a spot”-he tapped a place on his own pate, about five inches above his right eyebrow-“which, when nicked, guarantees an especially generous effusion of blood. By prearrangement, one boxer would aim a punch at his opponent’s head. The other would duck in the usual fashion but not quite enough. The tip of one of the caestus spikes would open a cut on that spot, and the blood would flow as from an upended bucket. The prearranged loser would drop as if slain, and the wagers would be paid. As an added bonus, once the place has been spiked a few times, all that is needed to reopen it is a tap, so the ruse can be repeated endlessly, always before a new audience.”

“And this is the wound you found on Curio?” I asked.

“It was done with a dagger, and at the precise angle that would be made by a right-handed man cutting himself, but it was the coward’s blow-a trifling laceration done by a man who knew exactly where to cut for the most dramatic effect.”

I nodded. “I saw the boxer’s marks on his face when I first met him, and just now he said that he was a lifelong enthusiast of the sport. He would know how that cut is delivered. He made a quick recovery when you found him out though. He acted as if he had never thought the wound was serious and he carried it off well.”

“Do you think the lady Fulvia was party to the ruse?” Asklepiodes asked.

I was pondering that one myself. “No, I think not. I would certainly never put such a subterfuge past her, but her outburst in the Forum this morning was genuine. It could not have been faked unless she’s an actress of surpassing merit. I believe Curio left her house this morning before daylight, waited until the janitor shut the door, took out his dagger and cut himself, waited until he was well-soaked with blood, then raised a huge noise, as if he were being murdered. The janitor reopened the door, and Curio staggered back inside. He’d probably made arrangements with the Syrian beforehand to keep the true nature of his wound secret.”

“That would have been prudent,” Asklepiodes agreed.

“He probably didn’t expect Fulvia to erupt like Aetna though, or he would have had his supporters in the Forum ready to further his plans, whatever they may be. And, of course, he had no way to anticipate another physician coming to examine him. He had to make the best of it and play the scene to the best effect he could.”

“Just what is his plan?” Hermes wondered aloud. He took from the platter a pastry of mashed figs cooked with honey and nuts.

“I intend to find out,” I told him. “But that isn’t the question uppermost in my mind at the moment.”

“Oh?” Asklepiodes said. “What question troubles you more?” “How did Curio know that Fulvius was killed elsewhere and carried to the basilica steps? That is a detail I’ve mentioned to very few people, and Caius Scribonius Curio isn’t one of them.” I took a slice of fish pie. The way things were going, who knew when I would next have a chance to eat? It is always best to be prepared.