The River God

1

It was the worst year in the history of Rome. Well, perhaps it wasn’t quite that bad. There was, for instance, the year that Hannibal defeated our legions at Lake Trasimene, and the year Hannibal obliterated our legions at Cannae. We learned a great deal from Hannibal. Perhaps the worst was the year Brennus and his Gauls overran the City, put it to the sack, and levied an extravagant tribute. In return he gave us one of our best epigrams. When the tribute was weighed out and the consuls protested that the weights were dishonest, the Gaul tossed his sword onto the balance tray and said, “Woe to the vanquished!” He had an excellent grasp of Latin for a Gaul. We took this lesson to heart and applied it ruthlessly to everyone who fell afoul of us in subsequent years.

But those things had happened centuries before. This was by far the worst year the City had endured in my lifetime. The year of Catilina’s conspiracy was a festival by comparison.

In the streets, the gangs of Clodius and Milo, of Plautius Hypsaeus, and several others clashed and rioted daily, abetted by a corrupt Senate whose members clucked collectively over the disorder while, privately and individually, they all supported one gang or another. The political situation was so chaotic that no one was certain, from one day to the next, who held the consulship. If Rome’s enemies could have seen how things were in the City, they would have stood amazed.

We did not lack for enemies that year. In the East, Crassus waged desultory war against a series of mostly unoffending nations, gathering strength and treasure for his projected war against Parthia. In the North, Caesar seemed determined to exterminate the entire Gaulish race. Not only that, but he had even made an assault upon the misty, myth-shrouded island of Britannia. The commons praised Caesar’s martial efforts because it is always pleasant to contemplate the slaughter of foreigners at a great distance. But the treasures fiowing Romeward from Gaul were more than offset by the hordes of cheap Gaulish slaves fiooding Italy, further depressing the value of everything, driving the few remaining southern Italian peasants off their land to make way for the ever-expanding, slave-worked latifundia.

As you may well imagine, this was the ideal time for me, Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, to rise up and fulfill my destiny as the savior of the State, but I couldn’t because I was too busy. This was the year of my aedileship.

Of all the offices of the Roman State, that of aedile is the most onerous, disagreeable, demanding, and, by a huge margin, the most expensive. The aediles have oversight of the markets, streets, and buildings of the cities. They have to prosecute usury, assure the honesty of building contractors, drive forbidden cults from the City, keep the sewers and drains clean and in working order, and inspect the brothels.

Worst of all are the Games.

The ludi are the official Games of the State, and they include plays in the theaters, chariot races, public feasts, and all the special celebrations in honor of the gods. The State provides only a stingy allotment for these activities, the sums set in a day when Rome and the Games were far smaller than they are now. Any cost beyond the allotment, which is to say about 90 percent of the expense by that time, have to be paid for by the aediles themselves.

And then there were the munera. For munera you needed wild beasts and gladiators, and a single munera could easily cost more than all the other Games of the year put together. Foreigners often think that the munera are State Games, but they are not. They are funeral games put on entirely at the expense of individuals. In the past, certain aediles, courting popularity, put on munera along with their required ludi. Soon, the populace expected and demanded them.

The ironic thing was that the aedileship was not strictly required for election to higher office. Theoretically, one was allowed to stand for the praetorship after a successful quaestorship, assuming that the age requirement was met. In reality, any such ambition was laughably futile. Your only hope of being elected praetor lay with the voters, who would elect you only if you had provided them with memorable Games. Hence, election to the highest offices was possible only if you had incurred the ruinous expenses of the aedileship.

Unless you were Pompey, of course. He was always the exception to the rules that applied to everyone else, even Caesar and Crassus. Pompey was elected consul without ever holding a single one of the lower offices. But then, much may be forgiven a hugely successful general whose unbelievably loyal legions lay encamped outside the gates.

The result was that the aedileship loaded the office holder with debts that would take years to pay off. It may be wondered that the officials in charge of ferreting out corruption were precisely the ones in debt and constantly in need of money. It was just one of the anomalies of our creaky, outdated, old republican system, a system that was soon to end, although we didn’t know that at the time.

Needless to say, my mind at the time was not upon the forthcoming death of the Republic, nor even upon my debts, which I knew to be inevitable. My thoughts were fully occupied by my multitude of duties, by the incredible burden of office. By the time I was no more than one-quarter of the way through the year of my aedileship, I was certain that things could not get worse. As usual, I was wrong.

It all began when a building collapsed.

“Another body here!” the public slave yelled, already bored with his task. It was perhaps the fiftieth corpse to be discovered in the ruins. The building was, or rather had been, to keep my tenses straight, a five-story insula of a sort becoming distressingly common in Rome at that time-a hulking block of low-grade timber and masonry, jammed with as many impoverished families as could be crammed into its upper stories, with a few decent quality fiats occupied by the well-to-do and modestly wealthy on the two lowest fioors, the ones with running water. Shops were usually at street level, but this one had been strictly residential. Sometimes a single insula covered an entire city block. They were crowded, dark, verminous, and as fiammable as an oil-soaked funeral pyre.

Oh, well, I suppose the poor had to live someplace. The occasional earthquake would bring down scores of them, and no small number collapsed from the ravages of neglect and inferior construction.

What made the one where we were working now so distressing was that it was all but new, its mortar scarcely dry, its wood still smelling sweetly of resin. This was not supposed to happen. Which is not to say that it did not happen anyway and with some frequency. The laws concerning building materials and standards of construction were rigid, specific, and fiouted quite openly. It was much cheaper to bribe an official than to build according to the law.

“Bring out the body,” I ordered the team of slaves who stood by with their tools and stretchers. These slaves were a degraded lot, the ones who tended the Puticuli, the public burial pits outside the City. They had this job because they had no qualms about handling corpses. In a disaster like this one, there was no way to perform the purification rites until the bodies were taken from the wreckage and laid out where the Libitinarii, the undertakers, could attend to them.

By this time, there was a long row of such corpses lying in the little plaza before the collapsed insula, many of them terribly mangled, others scarcely marked and probably victims of suffocation. There were infants and old people, young men and women, slave and free. A great throng of people milled around them, trying to identify relatives and loved ones, sobbing and apprehensive. There was a general, low-level moaning to be heard, interrupted from time to time by a loud, wailing outcry as some woman recognized a husband, father, or child among the dead.

There had been few survivors, and those had been carried off to the Tiber Island, where such aid as could be provided would be given them and their screams and groans would not add to the uproar.

“Way!” came a lictor’s bellow. “Way for the Interrex!“ A double line of lictors pushed their way into the plaza, shoving the mourners and gawkers aside with their fasces. Behind them came the man who had all the power and prestige of a consul but not the title or the proconsular appointment. There had been such scandals and riots and lawsuits over the previous year’s elections that the consuls had not been allowed to take office yet, so an interrex had been appointed to preside in their place. This one happened to be a kinsman of mine, the resoundingly named Quintus Caecilius Metellus Pius Scipio Nasica.

“How many dead?” he asked me.

“About fifty so far,” I told him, “but we’ve only cleared away the upper stories. There’ll be more. Do you think this rates a day of mourning?” Metellus Scipio was a pontifex as well and could declare one.

“If the list of dead is outrageously high, or if someone of note is found in there, I’ll call for one in the Senate. It seems rather pointless, though. This year has been so bloody already that the whole City should be wearing black togas and growing beards.”

“All too true,” I said, “but I’m going to bring charges against whoever built this atrocity. A brand-new insula has no business collapsing without an earthquake. There hasn’t even been time for termites to get at it.”

“At least there wasn’t a fire,” he observed. When such a building collapsed upon cooking and heating fires, the resulting fiames could spread all over the City.

“A little blessing from Jupiter,” I said. “It happened just before dawn. No fires lit yet, and the night-lights all burned out.”

“Tragic,” he mused, “but it could have been worse. Find out who’s responsible, and bring me his name. You’re going to be too busy to prosecute, but we can find one of the rising young family members to hand it to. My younger son can use the experience.” Naturally, he would try to use the catastrophe for family political advantage; we did that sort of thing all the time. It was his next revelation that stunned me.

“By the way, speaking of my children”-he looked around to be sure that no one was eavesdropping-”keep this to yourself for a while, but the family has agreed that my daughter is to marry Pompey.”

“Are you serious? We’ve been fighting Pompey for years!” I was more than a bit put out that I hadn’t been let in on the deliberations. Despite my age, dignity, and experience, the elders of my family still thought me too young and unreliable to attend their councils.

“It’s been decided that it is time to renegotiate some alliances.”

He didn’t have to spell it out for me. The family had decided that Caesar was now the more dangerous man.

“But Pompey’s supporters have been calling for a dictatorship! We’re not going to support them, are we? I’ll go into voluntary exile first.”

He sighed. “Decius, if you only knew how many of the older men have been calling for your exile anyway. No, don’t go all dramatic on us; we’re going to work something out that will satisfy everyone.”

“I’ve heard that sort of talk before. I believe in the principle of compromise, but if you’ve figured out an office between consul and dictator, I’d love to hear about it.”

“Give it time,” he said. “Just find out who’s responsible for this,” he made a broad gesture toward the heap of rubble, “and let the higher councils deal with Pompey.”

Pompey was proconsul of both Spanish provinces that year, but they were peaceful so he let his legates run them while he stayed in Italy to oversee the chaotic grain supply- and, it seemed, to negotiate an advantageous marriage.

I should have expected it. A similar bout of fence-mending a few years before had resulted in my betrothal and eventual marriage to Julia, Caesar’s niece. I shuddered to contemplate how Julia would react to this change in the family position.

All through the day the public slaves labored over the wreckage, loading the rubble onto carts to be hauled out to one of the City’s refuse dumps, most of them landfills to create level ground for the ever-expanding suburbs beyond the ancient walls. These slaves were not actually owned by the State, which owned relatively few slaves at this time. They were owned by the publicanus, who held the contract for this sort of work. The carts and oxen were his as well.

The man himself stood by one of the carts, making notes with a stylus on a wax tablet, apparently keeping a talley of the carts and their loads. He was a big, tough-looking specimen, as unskilled labor contractors often are. Their slaves are the dregs of the market, sometimes criminals or insurrectionists sold off in gangs by foreign kings. He nodded curtly as I approached him.

“Good day, Aedile. Some mess, eh?”

“Very much so, and I find myself wondering why.” I rapped a fiat facing brick. “Everything is new and seemingly sound.”

“Looks so, doesn’t it?” He handed the tablet to a secretary and took one of the bricks from the cart. Pinching off a bit of mortar, he squeezed it between a thick finger and thumb, where it crumbled to powder. “Cheap mortar, for one thing, but that’s not why it fell. See, they always make the part above ground look good, else how are they going to get tenants to move in? But I’ll wager that when we get to the basement, we’ll find rotten timber and not enough of it. The upright supports are supposed to be spaced no more than an Egyptian cubit apart, but I’ve seen them spaced so you can lie down comfortably between them. The foundations won’t be dug deep enough, and they’ll be resting on river mud instead of a man’s height in gravel, as the code requires. Where you can’t see it readily, the builders cut every cost they can.”

“Disgraceful,” I said, disgusted but far from shocked. “How do they get away with it? Why don’t all the buildings collapse?”

He gave me a smile of genial cynicism. “Usually they don’t last long enough. How often does an insula like this last as long as ten years before a fire gets it? And who’s going to notice the code violations then?”

“Every builder in Rome should be fiogged in the Circus,” I said.

“Well, that’s the aediles’ job, isn’t it?” His implication was clear: Every one of my predecessors in office had been bribed to look the other way when these death traps had been erected.

“I may need you to testify in court,” I told him.

“Always at the service of Senate and People,” he said with that marvelous, toadying humility that only large, brutal men can display when dealing with superiors.

“Your name?”

“Marcus Caninus, sir.”

“And you received your contract from?”

“The Censor Valerius, sir.” This was Marcus Valerius Messala Niger, the consul of some seven years previous and still censor the year before I took this burdensome office.

I looked around for Hermes, my personal slave, who carried all my writing materials and was supposed to be standing by to take notes. As usual, he was nowhere to be seen. I began to stalk around the site, plotting his punishment.

Eventually I found him standing by one of the rubble carts, this one piled with wooden beams. He was amusing himself with an ancient Roman pastime, carving his name on the timbers. Every wall, monument, and tree in Rome bear these blessings of widespread literacy. The graffito is the only art form we did not steal from the Greeks or the Etruscans.

“Improving your skills as a scribe, Hermes?” I asked.

He refolded his knife, stuck it beneath his tunic belt, and affected not to notice my ominous tone. “This is fresh wood,” he said, tapping the newly carved letters of his name. I had to admit he had carved the letters with some precision. Beads of sap oozed from the incised lines.

“Is that so? I was wondering how a building constructed of new materials could fall, but I was learning that there are many foul little secrets to the builders’ trade.”

“You aren’t supposed to build with wood this fresh,” he went on.

“Really?” In truth, the only experience I had with construction was the army sort: putting up bridges and siege works. For that you used whatever timber was readily available, usually cutting it on the spot.

“It’s supposed to age and dry out. Wood this new will warp and rot quickly, not to mention all that sap will make it burn hot as a potter’s kiln.”

“You don’t say. Someone is going to have all sorts of fun prosecuting these people.” I wasn’t really that dense, just preoccupied. My mind was still reeling from the implications of Metellus Scipio’s daughter marrying Pompey. If there should come a break between Caesar and Pompey, the family could demand that I divorce Julia. What would I do then? I noticed that Hermes had been carving his name all over the timbers heaped on the cart.

“I knew it was a mistake giving you that knife.” It had been a Saturnalia gift a couple of years before, a fine Gallic blade cunningly jointed to fold back into its handle. The blade was no longer than the width of a man’s palm, so I couldn’t be accused of arming a slave. “I suppose it gives you some satisfaction knowing that your name is destined to be immortalized at the bottom of a landfill.”

He smiled. “I have to practice somewhere. You never give me enough time.”

“You’ve never done an honest day’s work in your life, imp.” Hermes was a handsome, strapping young man at this time, in his early twenties, brown and fit from his time campaigning with me in Gaul and exercising in the ludus almost every day in Rome. Always an eager student of arms, this enthusiasm for writing was new. He had a lively, quick intelligence, which nicely complemented his many criminal proclivities. An uncle gave him to me as a present several years previously, when I set up my own household. He was Roman-born, despite his Greek slave-name.

“More bodies here!” shouted the slave.

“They’re getting down to the rich people’s quarters,” Hermes noted.

“Then let’s see who we have.” I walked with him over to the rubble, which was beginning to take on a pitlike appearance as the debris of the roof and upper stories were carried away. The ground fioor had collapsed into the basement. As in most such houses only the ground fioor had water piped in. This had been shut off soon after the building fell, but enough had fiowed in to leave a foot or two in the basement and already bits of rubble could be seen sloshing around in it.

The slaves were handing up bodies to workers above. Most, of course, would be slaves. A rich man’s household would contain far more slaves than family members. The corpses were mostly naked or nearly so, since the disaster had occurred when everyone was asleep. It can be difficult to distinguish between a slave and a poor freeman when both are naked, but there is seldom much problem in telling the servile and the wealthy apart, with or without clothes.

Hermes paused by a row of bodies that had the look of household slaves, lacking both the marks of hard labor and the jewelry of the wealthy.

“Whoever the master was, he wasn’t loved,” Hermes observed.

“I noticed.” Many of the slaves had the collars of runaways riveted around their necks. I paused by a dead girl of no more than sixteen. Covered by plaster dust though she was, it was plain she had been extraordinarily pretty. She wore one of the neck rings. On an impulse, I beckoned to a pair of the public slaves. “Turn this one over.”

The burly men stooped, took her by the shoulders and ankles, and rolled her onto her face. The girl’s back, buttocks, and thighs were crisscrossed with a net of deep, ugly whip marks. This had not been somebody playing games with a ceremonial ?agellum; that stings but doesn’t cut. These were the marks of a bronze-clawed ?agrum, laid on with a will. A hundred lashes from one of those can kill a grown man. Many of the wounds were so fresh that they had bled only hours before, and these were laid atop older, partially healed slashes.

“What could a child like this have done to deserve such punishment?” I mused.

“We haven’t seen the mistress of the household yet,” Hermes said. “If she was some ugly old bag, just being that young and pretty was reason enough.” His face and voice were as impassive as any well-schooled slave’s. We had grown close over the years, but I knew that I would never know what he felt looking upon such a sight.

I had some of the other bodies turned over. Many of them were marked as the girl had been, even some who did not wear runaway collars. One was different. She was a plump, middle-aged woman wearing a few cheap bangles, unmarked by punishment. Her hands had never washed clothes or dishes, and she was well fed.

“This is the one who told on the others,” Hermes said, “the housekeeper.”

“Ah, well, my office doesn’t regulate the happiness of households. It does, however, have supervision over buildings. I want a look at these foundations as soon as the wreckage is cleared away.”

Not long after this, two more bodies were brought up and laid out. “I think we have the master and mistress now,” I noted.

The man was portly, baldheaded, with a fringe of gray above the ears. He wore a citizen’s ring but no other jewelry, no marks of military service either. Even minimal soldiering usually leaves a few scars.

The woman, likewise, had considerable heft. Her hair was hennaed and had once been elaborately dressed. She wore an abundance of rings, bracelets, necklaces, and earrings, which she apparently slept in. Even in death her face, with its piggy eyes and small, downturned mouth, was that of a vile-tempered shrew.

“Look there,” Hermes said, pointing to a smashed chest from which had spilled some white tunics, one of them now fioating in the shallow water. The tunics bore the narrow red stripe of an eques, Rome’s wealthy but not noble class, those who made their fortunes through business rather than land.

“Now we know his rank, anyway,” I said. The bodies were laid out side by side, but their heads were turned away from one another, as if they disliked each other as much in death as in life. The angle was unnatural though.

“Their necks were broken,” I commented. “Must have happened when they fell through into the basement.”

“Most likely,” Hermes said, probably wishing they had died of something more lingering.

“Find me somebody who might be able to confirm the identity of these two,” I told him. “I’m surprised no relatives have come to inquire about them yet. News of this must have been all over Rome before noon.”

A few minutes later, Hermes returned with a shopkeeper in tow. “I couldn’t find any neighbors who knew about them,” he reported, “but this man says he dealt with some of their slaves.”

“Is this possible?” I said. “This is Rome. Everybody knows all their neighbors’ business. Did none of the neighbors know these people?”

“They only moved in less than a month ago, Aedile,” the shopkeeper said. “I don’t think they were from this district, maybe not from Rome at all. Never called on their neighbors that I ever knew about.” He was a stooped little man, smelling pungently of rancid oil. There was no need for me to inquire as to the nature of his business. “Fact is, sir, nobody wanted to have much to do with them.”

“Why would that be?”

“Well, sir, there was sometimes a lot of noise from that place, disagreeable noise, screams and such. I think they were pretty rough with their slaves. Some people complained, and there wasn’t quite so much noise after that; but maybe they just gagged ‘em before they started whipping. I know you have to discipline slaves from time to time, but there’s got to be a limit. There were times it sounded like they had Spartacus and all his rebels getting crucified in there.” The man clearly had a Roman’s love for hyperbole.

“Did you ever have contact with anyone from the household?” I asked.

“That woman”-he pointed to the slave Hermes had identified as the housekeeper-”did their marketing. She was always with a big slave”-he trailed off and scanned the line of bodies-”well, I don’t see him here. Probably still down there in the rubble. He carried the purchases. She bought oil a few times at my shop. I never saw any of the other household slaves.”

It didn’t surprise me that they hadn’t let the slaves get out much. “How is it that you can identify the owners?”

“My shop is right there.” He pointed to a stall directly across the plaza from the main entrance to the ruined house. It had one of those mildly risque signs Roman shopkeepers love: Eros pouring oil on the outsized phallus of Priapus. “I saw them just about any time they went out. She was always carried in a chair, usually one without hangings. He mostly walked.”

“Names?”

“The housekeeper said he was Lucius Folius, and he was some sort of shipper-not foreign trade, I think. Owned a lot of river barges. I never heard her name. The woman just called her ‘Mistress.’ “

“That’s enough to establish identity,” I said, as Hermes scratched the names onto a tablet. “Do you know who owned this building? Even the people in the fianking houses don’t seem to know.”

“Well, the building that used to stand there burned down awhile back. Crassus bought the lot, but he sold it when he was raising money for his foreign war. I heard the buyer was a speculator from Bovillae, but whether he built the insula, I don’t know.”

“Might the owner have been Folius himself?” I asked.

He shrugged. “If I were rich and could build a whole insula to live in, I’d build it better than that.”

“That makes sense. Well, we-” I stopped short at a bellow from one of the slaves clearing wreckage from the basement.

“There’s a survivor here!”

“Under all that!” Hermes exclaimed in wonderment.

“This should be a prodigy worth seeing,” I said. “Let’s go.”

I took off my toga, folded it, and handed it to Hermes. “Don’t drop it in the water, or I’ll buy a ?agrum myself.” Since I was a plebeian aedile, it was an ordinary citizen’s toga without a purple border, but it was a good one and I had no desire to see it ruined. Hermes was used to this duty by now. My office took me into all the filthiest cellars, drains, and sewers in Rome. Most aediles delegated these chores to their slaves; but in my experience, slaves are even more amenable to bribery than aediles, so I always took a personal hand in serious inspections.

We descended the ladder into what now resembled a crater made by one of Jupiter’s thunderbolts. The contractor’s slaves had carted away the wreckage with antlike efficiency. The chain of bucket men had reduced the water level to no more than an inch or two, and we splashed our way to a heap of slanting timbers where some slaves were levering up a beam. Beneath it could be seen a large foot, bloody but undeniably twitching.

“Surviving the collapse is remarkable enough,” I said. “How did he avoid drowning?”

As the beams were cleared away, we saw why. The man had apparently landed in the basement on his feet and was pinned against a wall in a slanting but near-standing position. The water had never risen higher than his waist. As he was pulled free, we saw that he wore a tunic that covered one shoulder.

“This one was dressed,” I remarked.

“Probably on night watch against fires,” said Hermes. “Look, he’s big, and no scars on his back. What do you want to bet that this was the one who went marketing with the housekeeper?”

“Right. If he was awake when it happened and was favored enough by the master to escape fiogging, he may be able to give us some answers, if he lives.” The man was badly bloodied, able to make only tormented, incoherent noises.

I shouted up to the slaves from the Temple of Aesculapius, who hovered over the pit with their stretchers: “I want this man taken to the Island and given special care. Until a legal heir of the owner comes to claim him, he is the property of the State. I declare this as plebeian aedile!” Actually, I was not at all sure that I had authority to do any such thing, but in those days you could accomplish a lot just by sheer assertiveness. The man made a sound almost like a word, and I leaned close.

“Gala-gala-” He sounded like a man gargling a handful of nails. His throat was full of plaster dust.

“Hermes, give him a drink. Perhaps the poor wretch can talk after all.” Hermes always carried a small skin of watered wine, just in case I should come across someone who needed a drink. Carefully, he trickled some into the man’s mouth. There was a long period while the half-dead slave choked, drooled, and tried to vomit, but Hermes patiently sloshed out his throat after each spasm. Soon he was at least breathing easier. He began to mutter something, and I leaned close; but the man was barely whispering.

“Hermes, your ears are younger. See if you can make out what he’s saying.”

Now Hermes leaned close, frowning with concentration. Finally he straightened. “I can’t hear much, and he’s got an accent. Sounded to me like he was saying, ‘Accursed, accursed,’ over and over again.”

A moment later the man’s eyelids sprang open, staring with round-eyed terror; then, the eyeballs rolled up to show whites alone.

“Is he dead?” Hermes asked.

“Unconscious again,” I told him. Then, to the slaves who stood by, “You heard what I want. Take him away.”

“Now,” I said to Hermes, “let’s have a look at this place.”

We went to one of the cellar walls where the support timbers were plainly visible, only a thin layer of plaster covering the wooden wall between them. I set my elbow against one and laid my forearm horizontally. The next beam was three or four inches past my fingertips.

“That’s a bit wider than an Egyptian cubit,” I remarked, “but not all that much. Somebody was stretching the code without violating it fiagrantly.”

Hermes took out his knife again and made a long scratch in one of the timbers. Immediately, sap began to fiow. “Green wood again,” he said. “But it’s strong enough. It hasn’t had time to rot or warp.”

“What’s underfoot?” I asked. Hermes stooped and came up with a handful of gravel. “I don’t know good gravel from bad,” I said, “but that is undisputably gravel. As soon as this wreckage has been cleared away, I want workmen to dig here and find out how deep the gravel extends. What’s all this stuff?”

The falling water level had revealed a litter of tools of all sorts: hammers, mallets, chisels, saws, boxes of nails, masons’ squares, and things the function of which I could not even guess.

“A lot of builders in this quarter,” Hermes said. “They often take their tools home with them after work.”

“Maybe this was Vulcan’s punishment,” I said, “for being such sloppy workmen.”

“I’ll bet it was these,” Hermes said, walking to one of the big horizontal beams that had once supported the ground fioor. “There must be rotten timber here someplace, some squirrel or woodpecker den that made a weak place.”

“I see your little time in the forests of Gaul made you an expert on arboreal matters.”

“Do you have a better idea?” He stooped once again and came up with a couple of pale cylinders about the length and thickness of a man’s thumb.

“What are those?”

He held them out to me on his palm. “Candle stubs. They must be from the ground-?oor apartment. Poor people don’t use them much.”

I took one and examined it. Its base was dark from whatever it had been stuck to when it was in use. “Rich people don’t use them much either,” I commented. Most people prefer lamps because, not only are candles expensive, but they drip. They do burn more brightly than lamps, though. For some reason candles are a traditional Saturnalia gift, so most people use them for only a week or two after that holiday.

“It’s getting dark.” I looked up and yelled, “Marcus Caninus!”

Moments later the man looked down into the cellar. “Aedile?”

“I want these big support timbers, these joists or whatever you call them, taken to the Temple of Ceres and placed in the courtyard as evidence. I want to examine them tomorrow in daylight.”

He made a sour face. “Whatever you say, Aedile.”

Hermes was poking at one of the timbers with his knife. “Look at this.” He scratched an X with his knife so I could see where to look in the fading light. Where the lines crossed was a hole in the wood big enough to stick my middle finger in without fear of splinters. “I’ll bet this timber is full of boreholes like this.”

“Somebody,” I said, “allowed all these citizens to die just to save a few wretched sesterces. Our laws have become entirely too lenient of late. I am going to search the law codes and find absolutely the most savage, primitive, vicious punishment ever laid down for such a man, and then I am going to see it applied to whoever is responsible for this atrocity.”