A Point of Law

4

"I want you,” I told Hermes, “To find out where Fulvius lived. It was somewhere near the Temple of Tellus. Once you’ve located the place, find out who owns it. Then report back to me.”

“I’ll do it,” he said. “Are you really going to Clodius’s house?”

“Clodius is dead. His widow has a bad reputation, but I don’t think she wants to kill me.”

“Take some men with you anyway.” We stood in my atrium with a crowd of my clients. A lot of them were hard-looking specimens: veterans from my various military postings who had attached themselves to me; farmers from Metellan-dominated areas of the countryside, in town for the elections; a few of Milo’s old gang, who needed a patron while he was in exile.

“It wouldn’t look good to have them with me in the daytime,” I told him. “I won’t have the voters thinking I go around in fear of my fellow citizens. I want these men to attend the Plebeian Assembly meeting and shout my praises.”

He looked disgusted. “You’re getting as bad as Julia. What’s more dangerous than your fellow citizens? Just be careful, and keep your weapons handy.”

“Did I take you on as a nurse?”

Out in the streets, I felt a pleasant sense of freedom, being on my own for a change. Since returning to Rome, I had been going everywhere amid a cloud of my supporters, constantly campaigning for election. It felt good to be alone. Since the gangs had been broken up and the noncitizens driven from the City, it was considered bad form for a politician to go around with a violent-looking following, although a small bodyguard was permissible. The voters would appreciate my show of bravado in appearing in public without so much as a single slave.

Being under suspicion of murder did not hamper my freedom. This is because Romans are civilized people and don’t clap suspects into prison like barbarians. It would take an order of a lawfully convened court even to place me under house arrest.

When I came to the house of the late Publius Clodius Pulcher I thought how strange it was that I could just walk up to the door and knock. There were times when my life would have been forfeit just for showing up in the neighborhood. It was situated in the most fashionable district of the Palatine, just as in Catullus’s famous poem: “… five doors up the Clivus Victoriae.…”

The janitor who opened up at my knock wasn’t the usual aged, used-up slave you usually found performing that task. This one was a stalwart young man with handsome, Cappadocian features, wearing a brief tunic. The housekeeper to whom I gave my name and errand was a raven-haired Greek beauty and all the household slaves, at least in the front of the domus, were pretty boys and girls. Some things hadn’t changed in this household anyway. Clodia had had a similar liking for beautiful things.

“Please come with me, Senator,” the housekeeper said, returning from the inner fastnesses of the mansion. I followed her attractively swaying backside to the peristyle, where rare trees and shrubs grew from giant pots surrounding the pool. The woman showed me to an exquisite bronze table, its fretwork discus supported by three ithyphallic satyrs. The chair was one of three made as a suite with the table, all of the finest Campanian bronzework. Their cushions were stuffed with down and sweet herbs. This was one of those luxurious households Cato was always railing about.

“Please be seated, Senator. My lady will be here presently.” I sat and a pair of twin German slave girls brought a pitcher of hammered gold and cups of the same metal, embossed with doves and flowers. The wine was the exquisite Caecuban favored by the Claudian family, wholly unwatered.

While I sipped, admiring the Greek statuary, I tried to guess from which direction Fulvia would make her entrance. Every doorway opening off the peristyle was beautifully decorated and flanked by fine sculpture. Finally I settled on the door with Leda and the swan on one side, Ganymede and the eagle on the other. Both had been executed in scandalous erotic detail and were the most eye-catching works of art within sight. I was right. When she arrived it was between those two statues and for further counterpoint, the pale marble contrasted nicely with her gown.

Leave it to Fulvia to look good in mourning. In tribute to her recently departed brother, she wore a black gown, its fabric sheer to near-transparency, the gatherings of the sleeves drooping so low as to leave her arms and shoulders almost bare.

“Decius Caecilius!” She came forward, one hand extended. “Just yesterday your wife called for the first time in years; today I have the pleasure of your company. Dare I hope this signifies a warming of relations between us?” Her furry voice was as sensuous as her tiny, voluptuous body.

I took her hand. “My feelings for you have always been of the warmest, Fulvia, although your late husband and I had our differences. And speaking of relations, please accept my condolences on the untimely death of your brother.”

I fought to suppress the usual effect this woman had on me. Fulvia was in her midtwenties and at the height of her beauty. She was, in fact, one of Rome’s great beauties, more so even than Clodia and the equal of Fausta, the daughter of Sulla. But where Fausta’s beauty was icily patrician, Fulvia’s had a carnality we usually associate with Alexandrian whores and Spanish dancers from Gades. Her abundant, tawny hair; her huge, heavy-lidded gray eyes; her wide, full lips, all held promise of infinite depravity.

“Very kind of you, Decius, but I scarcely knew him.” She sat and one of the twins filled a cup for her. In those days women weren’t supposed to drink unwatered wine, but they weren’t supposed to wear those sheer gowns either. “People are saying you killed him, but I don’t believe it. I’ve heard he was butchered horribly, and I know that you would do a quick, clean job of it.”

“You flatter me. Yes, I’ve never killed a man willingly, but when forced to it I’ve always gotten the business done with as little fuss as possible.”

“I’ll have to see to his funeral arrangements. I still have a few friends. One of them is coming here soon to handle the details. I think I’ll just have him cremated here and send his ashes back to Baiae for the full funeral treatment and interment in the family tomb. It’s on a beautiful site beside the bay.”

“That would be best,” I told her. “With so few friends and relations here in Rome, he wouldn’t get a send-off proper to a man of his ancestry.”

“I’m so glad you agree. I have a bad enough reputation without appearing dry-eyed at the funeral. I am really not very good at wailing and clothes rending, although I did my best for poor Clodius.”

“That was a noisy funeral, what with the riot and the burning of the Senate house. I’m sorry I missed it.” I took another long drink of the Caecuban and held out the cup for a refill. “On a happier note though, I understand congratulations are in order. You are to marry Scribonius Curio?”

“Oh, yes. I know Antonius will be disappointed, but he’ll just shrug and wait for me to be widowed again. It happens often when your husband is in politics.”

“Too true. I don’t envy you if he wins the tribuneship.”

She rolled her eyes. “All the gods protect me! I’ve been a tribune’s wife before-people tramping through the house at all hours, stuck here in Rome in the hottest weather, constant political meetings-it’s all a great bother, but it establishes a man’s political reputation like no other office.” Among other things, a Tribune of the People was forbidden to lock or even close the doors of his house. He had to be accessible to the people at any hour.

“So it does. Might I ask how it comes about that you are going to marry this man?”

Fulvia looked as if she needed to give this some real thought. “To be honest, he asked. I haven’t been exactly mobbed by suitors lately. Men want me, but they are intimidated by me.” She said this as matter-of-factly as she would have if someone remarked upon the color of her eyes. “Or they are afraid of the memory of Clodius-of having to bear comparison with him. That was one thing that attracted me to Antonius-he’s afraid of nothing and nobody. Curio is the same way.”

“Antonius is rather dense,” I told her. “Fearless men often are.”

“Curio isn’t dense. You haven’t met him?”

“Never had the pleasure. I know Cicero regarded him as something of a protege at one time, thought he possessed great gifts.”

“Cicero!” she said with venom. “I hate that man! He pretends to be such a virtuous and pure servant of the Republic, but his brand of politics is no cleaner than Clodius’s was. And Clodius really did things for the people. Cicero fawns on the aristocrats and acts as their mouthpiece-people who despise him as an out-of-town upstart if he only knew it!”

I was a little taken aback by this sudden fury, but she shed it as quickly as it had appeared.

“Forgive me. I get angry when anyone mentions that man. It wouldn’t be so bad if Cicero wasn’t such a hypocrite.”

“Do you think it was a tribuneship your brother was pursuing when he came to Rome?”

“It might have been. I am sure the action and drama of a tribune’s life would have appealed to him far more than the drudgery of a quaestorship.” These were the two offices that would boost a man into the Senate.

“But all political offices are costly. He would have needed a wealthy patron to underwrite his expenses, unless he had family money.”

“No, our eldest brother, Manius, has control of that. And he’s quite happy being one of the biggest frogs in the pond of Baiae.”

“Baiae is a wonderful place,” I said. “I wonder that any of you left.”

“Luxury is good,” she said. “Power is better.” She took another sip and looked around her. “Luxury with power is best of all.”

I could scarcely argue with the logic of that statement. Moments later the comely housekeeper arrived with the news that Fulvia’s obsequy-arranging friend was in the atrium.

“Bring him in, Echo. I want Decius Caecilius to meet him.”

Moments later a well-favored young man entered the peristyle. “Decius Caecilius,” Fulvia said, “I want you to meet Caius Scribonius Curio, my dear friend, future husband, and soon to be Tribune of the People.”

I took his hand and we studied each other. Curio was about twenty-five, well built, with sandy hair and bright blue eyes. His hand had broken knuckles and calluses only in the places where weapons-training will put them. His square face was hard and belligerent, which was a good sort of face for a tribune to have in those days. His nose was slightly askew, his ears a bit deformed, and his eyebrows scarred, all marks of the boxing enthusiast. This was something of a rarity among upper-class Romans, who preferred wrestling or armed combat. What he saw I cannot say for certain, but I suspect he classified me as a man approaching his middle years who lived too hard and drank too much. In other words, typical of my generation and class.

“You are a man to whom Fortuna has been generous, if all that I hear is true,” I said.

“I’ve wanted to make your acquaintance for a long time,” Curio responded, “but I scarcely expected to find you in this house this day.”

“Believe me,” I said, “I am not polluted with the blood of Fulvia’s brother. I didn’t even step in it. I came to ask about him, since I may have to defend myself in court.”

“I’m sure Decius didn’t do it,” Fulvia said. “His reputation is that of a forthright brawler, not a murderer.”

“I’ve heard that manly combat is the technique of heedless youth, careful assassination that of maturity. But I am certain that you are right, my dear. The fact that you entertain Decius in your house proclaims his innocence.”

“If you believe it,” I said, “why not bring it up at the contio this afternoon?”

“I shall do so,” he said, smiling.

“Oh, don’t,” Fulvia said wearily. “Everyone will just take it as further proof that I’m the most disreputable woman in Rome.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “I’ve already undertaken to rehabilitate your reputation. I’ll lay all your indiscretions at the feet of Clodius and his sisters. You were their helpless, unfortunate victim.”

I arched an eyebrow toward Fulvia. She just shrugged. He turned to me.

“Have you any idea why Fulvius chose to attack you? Other than the usual political motives, I mean?”

“None at all. I’d never heard of the man before yesterday. Of course, the City is always full of politically ambitious men, and never more so than at this time of year. Why he should pick me out of all the others he could choose from I can’t guess. Give any well-informed Roman a chance to name the most distinguished men of the Republic, and he’ll be reeling off names for an hour before he thinks of me.”

“You are too modest,” Fulvia assured me. “Even if you aren’t famous for conquering barbarians, you’ve always been popular here in the City, both as a public prosecutor and as an administrator. Not as incorruptible as Cato, I understand, but you’re believed to be relatively honest; and everyone enjoyed the games you celebrated.”

“No one is as incorruptible as Cato, as he’ll tell you himself. And if my games were a hit, it’s because I enjoy them myself.”

“You see?” Curio said. “The people like you because they know you share their tastes. I’m surprised you never sought the tribuneship yourself.”

“My family discussed the possibility a few years ago,” I told him, “but I was in Gaul during the desired year. I was probably safer there. In Gaul you can recognize your enemies from a distance.”

“The tribuneship is not to everyone’s taste,” Curio said.

“Speaking of that office,” I said, “do you know Manilius, the one who’s called the contio to discuss the murder?” I was curious to hear what Curio had to say about the man.

“A good man. I’ve been assisting him all year, sort of an apprenticeship prior to taking on the job myself.” This was not an uncommon practice. Officials always needed helper, and these were often men in training for the same office. Except for a few public slaves, such as those at the Archive and the Treasury, the Republic supplied no staff to assist the elected officials in their work. Instead, they were expected to supply their own, at their own expense.

“He has only a few days left in office,” I said. “I wonder that he wants to take on what could turn into a major case so late.”

“His last major act in office is what will stick in peoples’ minds at the next elections.”

“Where do his ambitions lie?” I asked. “The legions? The courts? Provincial administration?” In earlier times a Roman in public life was expected to be adept at everything. He was supposed to be a soldier, a speaker, a lawyer, a farmer, and many other things. But the Republic had grown huge and complex since the days of our forefathers. It had turned into an Empire, and its public business was too complicated for one man to master it all. The tendency was for men to specialize, so that now we had prominent men who were lawyers undistinguished in war, like Cicero and Hortalus, full-time soldiers like Pompey, and businessmen like Crassus. Caesar was something of a throwback: a man who seemed able to do everything well.

“Manilius acts as if his only ambition is to serve in whatever capacity the Roman people see fit to bestow upon him,” Curio said. “This may be sincere or a pose; I don’t know him well enough to say. Like most of us he started out as a Tribune of the Soldiers. He was with Gabinius in Syria and Egypt. He seems to have served honorably, but I never heard that he earned great distinction. I get the impression that Gabinius didn’t entrust him with as much responsibility as he thought he deserved.”

“He was lucky it wasn’t Caesar,” I said. “Caesar treats his tribunes like none-too-bright schoolboys-tells them to keep their mouths shut and watch the real soldiers at work. A tribune can be with Caesar for a year without being given so much as a squadron of cavalry to command.”

“Is that because he thinks they’re incompetent or because most of them are sons of his political enemies?”

This was a very astute question. Whatever his debts and disreputable history, there was nothing wrong with Curio’s political instincts.

“Both, I believe. Everyone knows the contempt in which Caesar holds the Senate. He also makes it a policy to exalt the centurionate and the common soldiers. This reinforces his influence with the populares. Of course,” I added, “everyone who’s ever soldiered knows what an embarrassment an eighteen-year-old tribune can be. They rarely perform as well as young Cassius did in Syria this year.”

“That boy could become a power in Rome when he returns,” Curio noted. “The Senate may be stingy with the honors it owes him, but he’s sure to be a darling of the plebs for that very reason.”

“I doubt it,” Fulvia said. “I know Cassius. He’s a handsome young man, very bright, but as upright and old-fashioned as Cato. He’ll side with the aristocrats even while they kick him in the face.” There was nothing wrong with Fulvia’s evaluation of men either. Cassius did exactly as she predicted.

Our conversation may seem frank and unguarded for two men who did not know each other, but there was nothing truly unguarded about what we said. We both expected to hold office in the following year. We would have to work with one another, so it made sense to feel one another out while we had this opportunity.

“In recent years,” Curio said, “you’ve been known to break with your family’s optimate stance. Do you intend to switch to the populares?”

“I have no faction,” I intoned gravely. “I always vote for the good of Rome.” This mealy mouthed protestation raised a good laugh. It was what every last politician in Rome always claimed. You never belonged to a faction. Your opponents belonged to factions. Truthfully, I detested the faction politics of the times, but you had to choose one sooner or later. “My family tolerates a little leeway,” I went on, more seriously. “After all, we’ve been anti-Pompeians in the past, but Nepos has never been shut out of family councils even though he’s been Pompey’s lifelong friend and supporter. If I sometimes lean toward the popular cause, it’s always on an issue my family can live with. I suspect that, should it come to a clear break between the factions, I’ll side with my family as always.”

“That would be a pity,” Curio said. “Because the Metelli are sure to stick with the aristocratic side, and the day of the aristocrats is past. Power now lies with the plebs. Clodius knew it, I know it, Caesar most surely knows it.”

“And yet I understand that, until very recently, you stood solidly with the optimates.”

“For a long time I held a young man’s belief in the wisdom of his elders. But we must all grow up sooner or later. Recently, I had a very illuminating talk with Caesar, and I knew it was time to change sides.”

“Caesar covered your debts, too, I hear.”

“There’s no disgrace in that,” he said, quite unembarrassed. “Pompey offered to do as much. The disgrace is in accepting a man’s patronage and then betraying him. Admit it, Decius Caecilius: Wouldn’t it be better for a man like Caesar to manage Rome and Rome’s Empire for the good of all citizens, than for a few dozen dwindling old families to run it all for their own benefit, as if Rome were still a little city-state controlled by a few rich farmers?”

“You’re not haranguing the consilium plebis,” I told him. “There is something in what you say, but there’s also great danger. The optimales often behave foolishly and selfishly, but so do the populares. Any degree of mismanagement is better than civil war, which is what we’ll have if it comes to a contest between the two. We’ve had too much of that already.”

“So we have,” he said reasonably. “Well, let’s hope it never comes to that.”

We drank to that fond wish, and I rose. “You two have funerary arrangements to attend to so I’ll trouble you no longer.”

“Let me know how your investigation goes,” Curio said. “I’ll speak up in the contio against your being charged with the murder.”

“I thank you for that. I suspect you’ll be hearing all about my findings. Fulvia, I thank you for your hospitality at such a difficult time.”

“Echo,” she called, “the senator is leaving. Decius Caecilius, please call again when you can spend more time.”

The shapely Greek saw me to the door, and I found Hermes standing outside. His eyes popped when he saw the housekeeper, and she smiled at him as she closed the door.

“Don’t go looking for likely prospects in that house,” I warned him.

He sighed. “They say the best-looking women in Rome live in that house.”

“I wouldn’t bet against it.”

“Did you get anything accomplished?” he asked me.

“I’ve just been talking politics.”

“With Fulvia?”

We began to walk toward the Temple of Tellus, and Hermes wouldn’t tell me what he’d found out until he heard all about my visit.

“Why is this man Curio being so helpful?” Hermes wanted to know.

“He knows I’m in Caesar’s good graces and married to his niece. He’s Caesar’s man now, and he thinks that by siding with me in this odd case he’ll be driving me further into Caesar’s camp, which is the last place I want to be.”

It was not a long walk down the slope of the Palatine, across the Via Sacra, and up the slope of the Oppian Hill toward the temple. The Carinae district had some fine houses in it, and we stopped before one of the more modest of them. It was part of a three-story block, and looming above it could be seen the bronze roof of the temple.

Such buildings were the typical dwellings of Rome’s more prosperous inhabitants, those not wealthy enough to own their own homes but able to afford the rent on the better class of apartments.

The poor lived in towering, rickety insulae and endured a precarious, dangerous existence without amenities.

“Who owns it?” I asked.

“Claudius Marcellus.”

“The consul?”

“No, the one standing for next year’s consulship: Caius Claudius, not Marcus Claudius.”

“I never have any luck with that family,” I complained. “There are entirely too many of them around lately.”

“The building is divided into four large apartments, each having three floors. It doesn’t have separate, upper-floor apartments rented out to poor families. The ground floor has water piped in. There’s a central pool shared by all.” A fairly typical arrangement for such a dwelling.

“Prosperous merchants live in houses like this,” I said. “How did a penniless political adventurer like Fulvius afford it?”

“That’s your specialty,” Hermes said. “I just found out what I could about the place.”

“Who was your informant?”

He pointed to a barber who had his stool placed on a corner across from the house. The man was shaving a customer while another stood by waiting his turn. Barbers are among the best informants an investigator can have. They often occupy the same spot for many years, they shave most of the men in the neighborhood, they see everything that happens on the street, and they collect all the gossip.

I didn’t know a great deal about this particular Claudius Marcellus. He was only a distant relation of Clodius and his sisters, the Claudia Marcella having split off from the Claudia Pulchri back somewhere in the dim mists of antiquity. He was known in the Senate as one of the more virulent anti-Caesarians.

“Let’s have a look at the place,” I said.

We crossed the street and Hermes rapped on the door. Nobody answered. He gave it a push and it opened easily. He looked at me inquiringly, and I gestured for him to go in. I followed. Hermes vented a shrill whistle. Still no reply.

“Looks like nobody’s home,” he observed.

“That’s odd. In the Forum he seemed to be well-supplied with friends. Why aren’t any here, protecting his property? And where are his slaves?” Granted the man was poor, but he would have to be destitute indeed not to have at least a janitor to man the front door and a housekeeper. A bachelor can get along without a cook, relying on street vendors, taverns, and cadging meals. A valet is not absolutely necessary, although a would-be senator cuts a poor figure carrying his own books and papers, and hauling his own towel, oil flask, and scraper to the baths. Three to five household slaves were generally considered the absolute minimum for respectability. I got along for years with only two or three, but I also fell short of most other standards of respectability.

“Maybe he borrowed slaves as he needed them,” Hermes said, following my own line of thought. He had been with me so long we thought alike in these matters.

“Probably from the same man who must have let him have this place rent free,” I said. “Let’s look around.”

The place was not palatial, but it was better than the house I lived in when I began my political career. In truth Rome had few truly splendid houses in those days. Even the very wealthy men like Hortalus and Lucullus spent lavishly on their country villas but maintained fairly modest establishments in the City. Voters took it ill when a senator chose to live like a prince. In the City the rule was to spend freely on public works and stingily on yourself. Lucullus had made himself unpopular by building himself a pretentious mansion in the City after his Asian victories. He quickly demolished it and turned the grounds into a public garden, thus restoring his popularity with the plebs.

The triclinium was spacious, with excellent furnishings, as if Fulvius had expected to do a fair amount of entertaining there. The wall-paintings were fine and new, the subject matter patriotic rather than the more fashionable mythological themes. One wall featured the Oath of the Horatii, another the colorful story of Mucius Scaevola, a third was Cincinnatus at his plow. The fourth wall was pierced by the door so its decoration was floral.

“Odd decoration for a dining room,” Hermes observed. “Where are the feasting gods and goddesses and the satyrs chasing nymphs?”

“Perhaps Fulvius wanted to encourage serious dinner-table discussion,” I hazarded. “Nymphs and satyrs are frivolous. Just ask Cato.” Cato’s prudery was the butt of jokes wherever Romans met.

“If he has old patriots decorating his bedroom we’ll know there was something strange about the man,” Hermes observed.

“Actually I’m more interested in his papers than in his taste in interior decorating. Let’s see what he used for a study.”

Not every house had a study. Some men just kept their papers in a chest and did all their reading and writing in the peristyle or a garden. It was commonly thought that reading by any light other than direct sunlight would ruin your eyes. Some sought to further preserve their eyesight by having trained slaves read to them. Some kept secretaries to take dictation and never personally set hand to pen.

Fulvius, as it occurred, had used his bedroom for this purpose. One side of it opened onto a small balcony overlooking the street. This was a common arrangement in multistory houses such as this one. The ground floor contained the atrium, kitchen, and dining room, and opened onto the central garden. It was the public part of the house. The second floor held the family’s sleeping quarters, and the third floor was for storage and slaves’ quarters. The balcony was another feature common to such houses. It offered a quick escape in case of a fire. All Romans went in dread of fire, and those who lived in the towering insulae were the most fearful of all.

The door to the balcony was flanked by a pair of large, latticed windows and beneath one of these was his desk. It was a very fine one, Egyptian work of ebony inlaid with ivory. Next to it was a wooden honeycomb that held scrolls, rolled papers, and wax tablets. A silver-mounted horn tube held reed pens, and a fine crystal stand held different colors of ink in little pots shaped like lotus flowers.

Lying on the desk, half unrolled as if put down in the midst of reading, was a book whose excellent parchment was supple and slightly ragged at the edges, a clear sign that this was a favorite work, often read. It appeared to be a speech or collection of speeches arguing points of law. Such books were the inevitable texts for training aspiring lawyers.

Folded on a cupboard next to the desk lay his wardrobe. Among the tunics, most bore the narrow purple stripe of an eques, but two had the broad stripe to which a senator was entitled. There were two togas. One was white, doubtless the one he’d worn when berating me in the Forum the previous day. The other was the toga praetexta, with the broad purple border of curule office.

“He came prepared,” I remarked. “And he certainly had confidence. He expected admission to the Senate and a curule chair. Like that Greek athlete who showed up at Olympia with his statue already made. At least he didn’t lay in a supply of tnumphator’s robes. I suppose even his presumption had limits.”

“Look at this,” Hermes said. Accomplished thief that he was, he’d found a small drawer cleverly hidden among the decorative carvings of the desk. It held a signet ring; a massive thing of solid gold, its surface oddly but attractively granulated. Its large stone was pure sapphire with a Medusa head carved intaglio. It looked to me like Greek work. I examined it briefly and tossed it back to him.

“The man was full of surprises, wasn’t he? Can his correspondence be less interesting?” I began to pull papers out and spread them on the desk. “Well, I might have expected it,” I said disgustedly.

“That’s Greek, isn’t it?” said Hermes. He could read and write Latin well enough, but he had never learned to read Greek, although, like me, he could speak conversational Greek passably. Anyone who traveled widely has to learn some Greek, as it is spoken everywhere. But poetic and literary Greek is another matter. Many educated men, like Cicero, were as comfortable with Greek as with their native language, but I was not among them. I could piece my way through a simple letter in Greek if given enough time, but I could see that my schoolboy Greek wouldn’t serve me here.

“It isn’t just Greek,” I told him, “it’s in some sort of cipher.”

“Someone coming,” Hermes muttered. I heard footsteps on the stairs. The noise from the street outside had masked the sounds of someone entering the house. I swept up the documents I’d spread out and stuffed them inside my tunic even as Hermes shut the tiny drawer. By the time the men shouldered their way into the room, we had assumed poses of dignified innocence.

“What are you doing here?” demanded the first one through. He was the red-haired lout, and he wasn’t alone. Behind him was the one Hermes had pummeled, and there were others on the stair. “How did you get in?”

“Same as you, through the front door,” Hermes said. “It wasn’t locked.”

“As for what we’re doing here,” I said, “I came here to see these putative witnesses against me. But we’ve found no sign that anyone was ever here except Marcus Fulvius, despite your claim to the praetor Juventius this morning.” Actually, we had not yet had time to examine the top floor, but by now I was convinced that these witnesses were entirely fictitious.

“You’re a liar!” shouted the battered one. “You came here to steal!”

“How about you?” I said, going immediately on the counterattack. “Thought you’d take advantage of your friend’s death, did you? Thought you’d just run over here and lift whatever’s loose and easily fenced before his relatives showed up, eh? Well, you won’t get away with it this time!” Meanwhile, we were sidling toward the door.

“Don’t be absurd!” said the red-haired one. “Stop them!”

Immediately, we reversed direction. We had no way of knowing how many might be on the stairway and in the rooms below. I sprang for the balcony as Hermes drew his dagger and covered my retreat. One of the political perquisites of age, dignity, and high office was that you could let someone else do most of your fighting and concentrate on saving your own hide. In my younger days, engaging in street fights was seen as merely one of the ordinary activities of Republican political life. It was, however, thought to be beneath the dignity of a candidate for praetor or consul.

I looked over the low railing, picked the softest-looking patch of pavement below, and-encumbered by my toga-scrambled over the rail, hung by my fingers a moment, then dropped. I landed without incident, grateful not to have slipped in one of the many noxious substances that coat Rome’s streets. One good thing about recent sea duty: It keeps the knees supple.

Hermes, show-off that he was, flourished his dagger, gave a last, defiant shout, then actually leapt over the railing, dropped ten feet, and landed on the balls of his feet, as easily as a professional tumbler. He grinned at me and resheathed his dagger while passersby gaped. They didn’t gape all that much though. Senators flying out of windows and off balconies were not all that rare a sight. Caesar had once flown thus, stark naked with his nose streaming blood, broken by an aggrieved husband.

“What now?” Hermes asked.

“Would’ve served you right if you’d slipped in a pile of shit,” I said, unreasonably jealous that he’d cut so much better a figure than I had in our escape.

“I see no one’s pursuing us,” he said, casting a wary eye toward the front door of the house.

“It’s not what they were there for,” I said, “and they don’t want to make a public fuss about it right now.” I studied the angle of the sun. We still had some hours of daylight left. I patted the front of my tunic, causing a reassuring crackle of papyrus. “I got some of those letters. Let’s go find someone who can translate them for us.”

“Maybe we can find out about this, too.” He made a magician’s flourish and the massive signet ring lay in his hand. He’d deftly palmed it as he’d shut the hidden drawer.

“Sometimes,” I admitted, “I’m glad I didn’t raise you right.”