The Year of Confusion

13

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hoped that the presence of these scheming women might add interest to what promised to be a dull evening. Much as I esteemed the company of Callista, I had never been able to abide the droning lectures of philosophers, and I had endured many such, as Julia had dragged me around from one learned gathering to another. She had a wholly lamentable taste for such high-toned, edifying entertainments, whereas I much preferred a good fight or chariot race.

Hermes nudged me. “Look who’s here now.”

The litter that entered the courtyard was unmistakable. It was Fulvia’s. The bearers were her usual matched Libyans with their outlandish, colorful costumes and their hair dressed in innumerable plaits. First to emerge was Antonius himself. The lady herself emerged, dressed, so to speak, in a gown of Coan cloth that resembled smoke drifting about her voluptuous little body.

“She’s holding up well for her age,” Julia observed.

“So she is. Shall we go in? It’s getting a bit crowded out here.”

Echo met us at the door and conducted us inside, with Antonius and his wife right behind us. The inner courtyard, with its small, tasteful fountain and pool, had been set with numerous chairs and couches. At a dinner party there would have been couches for nine, but there was no such customary limitation on salons like this. The women crowded together near the fountain to gossip and sound one another out while the men gathered in a corner to commiserate. I was headed that way when Antonius came up to me.

“Dreadful business eh, Decius?” he said, grabbing a cup from a passing servant. I did the same. “I wouldn’t mind if it was like a Greek symposium, where everybody’s drunk by nightfall, but Callista’s little dos aren’t like that. All very refined. I hope I can last until we go to Cleopatra’s. Then things should liven up.”

“This is the sort of thing we must do if we prize domestic harmony,” I told him.

“There’s such a thing as too much harmony, if you ask me,” he groused, burying his beak in his wine. “Ahh, Corinthian. Haven’t tasted it in years.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever tried it. I thought I knew them all.” I tasted the wine and it was decent enough but it had that resinous flavor I’ve always found objectionable in Greek wines. “I thought so. It’s the sort of stuff women serve to keep the men from drinking too much.”

“It won’t stop me,” Antonius said. “Odd sort of group, isn’t it?”

I studied the guests and was surprised that I knew many of them. Brutus was there, doubtless escorting his mother although he was a known habitue of these events. Marcus Aemilius Lepidus was there as well. Caesar had picked him as Master of Horse for that year, an office previously held by Antonius himself. As the dictator’s second-in-command he supposedly held a powerful office, but Caesar was such a hands-on dictator in all his doings that the office was little more than an empty honor, pretty much reduced to presiding over the Senate on days when Caesar did not feel like attending. I noted with little joy that Sallustius was oozing his way among the more illustrious guests, ferreting out secrets, no doubt. Cassius Longinus was with his wife, looking like a man who wished lightning would strike him. I didn’t spot Cicero.

“More politics here than philosophy,” I agreed, “but at least there’s that lot.” I nodded to where the astronomers were chatting among themselves. Sosigenes was among them, along with the Indian and the Arab and the other Greeks. “Caesar just told me he’s sending them back to Alexandria. Maybe this is Callista’s send-off for them.”

“If she keeps the wine coming I can endure it,” he said.

“Stay by me,” I advised. “Hermes has a skin of Massic under his toga.”

“Good for you. I was wondering why he was wearing a toga.” By that time men rarely ever wore the toga except for sacrifices and Senate meetings, voting, and other formal occasions. Antonius and I and most of the other men wore the much lighter synthesis, a garment popularized by Caesar back when he was setting the fashion for Roman men. Nevertheless, the toga remained better for concealing things. Besides the wine, Hermes had our weapons beneath his.

The general hubbub stilled as Callista made her entrance from the back of the house. She was dressed as usual in a modest Greek gown of the finest wool. It was deep blue, with a simple fret embroidered at the hem. Her hair was parted in the middle, gathered at her nape and hung to her waist in back. Her only jewelry was a pair of serpent armlets. The men in the room had eyes only for her. In her austere simplicity she outshone the great beauties of Rome.

“My guests,” she said amid the silence, “please forgive me for not greeting each of you personally. Certain matters demanded my attention elsewhere. I pray you all be seated.” We all took seats, women to the front, men to the rear. Some picked at snacks proffered by the servants, but more for the sake of form than from hunger. We all knew we would be gorging ourselves to stupefaction at Cleopatra’s.

“As some of you may know,” she went on, “the illustrious astronomers of the Alexandrian Museum, who have graced Rome these recent months, are soon to return to Alexandria. I wish to announce this evening that I shall be going with them.”

This drew speeches of dismay and protest. Some of the women, it seemed to me, protested very lightly.

“I have enjoyed immensely my years in Rome, which I do not hesitate to name the center of the world.” There were murmurs of agreement at this fine sentiment. “Being here, and knowing you all, has been an experience the equal of living in Athens at the time of Pericles.” Like the rest I applauded and made noises of agreement until I remembered that the age of Pericles, while a golden age in terms of art, philosophy, and culture, had in many other ways been disastrous for Athens.

“I have come to this decision after long and hard thought. Rome has gone through turbulent times these past few years, but times of turbulence and ferment are stimulating as well, and bring about much that is good and new. It has been so during my time here. While there has been violence in the streets, there has also been fine poetry composed. There have been excellent histories written”-she nodded slightly toward Sallustius, who preened-“and many splendid edifices erected to the glory of the gods.” She gazed about the room, joining eyes with all of her guests. She had the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. “But now I believe that Rome is soon to undergo a period of terrible trials, and violence surpassing anything that has gone before.”

This set off a great deal of shifting and shuffling as we wondered what this might portend. Worse than the days of Sulla and the proscriptions? Worse than the final, mad days of Marius or the slave rebellion of Spartacus or the rioting in the time of the Gracchi or the atrocities of the Social War? Come to think of it, Rome had seen a lot of truly terrible times. Hannibal didn’t even come close.

“It is of course unworthy of a philosopher to take notice of such things,” she went on. “A true philosopher must maintain perfect tranquility despite what is going on around him. He should seek to instruct those who in their folly resort to war and violence to gain their ends. Even the uproar of a city under siege should not disturb his contemplation. The imperturbability of Archimedes at the siege and fall of Syracuse stands always as our example.” Yes, and look what it got that old bugger, I thought.

She smiled sadly. “My friends, I confess to you that I am far from being a perfect philosopher. I do not want to see blood in the streets of Rome. I do not want to see my friends die, especially at the hands of other friends.”

For the first time someone from the audience spoke. It was Lepidus. “Callista are you telling us you foresee civil war for Rome?”

“I am not a sibyl or an oracle,” she said, “and I do not believe that the will of the gods is made manifest in signs and portents, nor that the future may be descried in the stars nor in any other way. The future lies beyond a veil no sight may pierce. However, the doings and words of men may be observed and studied and analyzed and from these inferences may be drawn, if not conclusions.” To my astonishment, she raised her eyes to mine and I felt as ensorcelled as a rabbit in the gaze of a serpent. “Decius Caecilius, is that not your art?”

I was as tongue-tied as a schoolboy caught by an unexpected question from his master. “Why, ah, I suppose-yes, it’s what I do.”

“You’ve caught him sober,” Antonius said. “That’s always a bad idea.” This got a chuckle, but the sound was uncomfortable. Nobody had come expecting this.

“I have been practicing that same art,” she said, “but on a greater scale. My position here has given me access to Rome’s mightiest as well as her wisest. Alas, these do not always overlap. Some of these have confided in me and I will never betray their trust, but what I now know fills me with grave misgivings.” Then she brightened. “In any case, my decision is made. There will be plenty of time to take my leave of each of you individually. I hope that you will call upon me should your steps lead you to Alexandria. Now we shall proceed with what I intended to be the theme of the evening, our farewell to the departing astronomers. The esteemed and very learned Sosigenes will now address us concerning some new discoveries in the heavens. Please forgive my digression.”

Sosigenes rose and faced the gathering and began a lecture about something utterly incomprehensible to me. While this went on, a number of men, myself included, surreptitiously edged our way into a corner where we could converse in low voices. Hermes got out the Massic and filled cups.

“Well, that’s damned odd, isn’t it?” Antonius whispered. “What do you think it’s all about?”

“It’s a good thing she’s leaving,” Lepidus grumbled. “I’d be tempted to exile her from the City otherwise, along with all the other doomsaying fortune-tellers. Talk like that gets people upset.”

“Surely it’s only the rabble we worry about being stirred up by prophecies,” I put in. “What rabble listens to a Greek philosopher?”

“And to think,” said Sallustius, “I’ve had a source like this right here in Rome, and I never tried to squeeze any information out of her.”

“You wouldn’t have gotten a word from Callista except on philosophical matters,” Brutus said. “She’s the most discreet woman who ever lived.” He thought about it for a moment. “Maybe the only one.”

Cassius looked at him sourly. “You can’t trust anyone with secrets, man or woman.” Brutus just brooded into his wine.

Eventually we made our way back to our seats. A couple of the other Greeks spoke on elevated matters, but not the barbarians. Romans will listen to a foreign king or envoy speak on diplomatic matters, but otherwise we have little tolerance for ridiculous accents. We are used to Greeks, of course.

In time Callista proclaimed that we would now all repair to Cleopatra’s villa across the river and there was an audible, in fact downright loud collective sigh of relief. We went out to the courtyard and those who had litters piled into them. Callista wanted to walk but Julia all but forced her to ride in our litter. This pleased me not only because of the close proximity to Callista, but because we could speak in some degree of privacy.

“Callista,” I said, “I beg you to reconsider this move. I feel that very soon Alexandria will be a far more dangerous city than Rome. We have a fine country estate well away from the uproar of Rome, please stay-” she held out a hand for silence.

“I do not go to Alexandria to be safe. I want the tranquil atmosphere of the Museum. I have studies to pursue and books to write. I don’t fool myself that I am leaving the real world behind.”

“Why do you think Alexandria will be dangerous?” Julia asked. “What do you know that you haven’t been telling me?”

“I don’t know anything, but as Callista said earlier I observe and put facts and inferences together. It’s something that has come up repeatedly during my current investigation, things Caesar has said, and things I believe Caesar has planned.” I looked at Callista. “I believe he’s spoken to you of some of these things. What you’ve learned from Caesar is part of why you are leaving. Am I right?”

“Yes,” she said, “and Caesar isn’t the only one.”

“Why,” Julia demanded, “does Caesar confide in Callista thoughts and plans that he tells no one else?”

“Because Callista is discreet,” I said, “and she is his only intellectual equal in Rome. Perhaps in the world.” She acknowledged this with the very slightest of nods. “A man like Caesar must be very lonely. He has countless servants and lackeys and lovers and even a few friends, but very few peers. Very few he can speak with on even terms. Whatever he thinks, he is actually human. He will miss you, Callista.”

“He will not miss me for long,” she said enigmatically.

Julia punched me in the side, hard. “What have you learned?” she hissed.

“I can’t testify to the truth of it, but I heard this from the tribune Helvius Cinna. This is Cinna the poet, not Cornelius Cinna.”

“I know who he is!” she nearly shouted. “Tell me!”

“Keep your voice down,” I advised. “People outside can hear.” She fumed but kept quiet. In a very low voice I told her about the proposed law allowing Caesar multiple wives of whatever birth or nationality he fancied. She went pale. Callista did not change expression. She already knew. That was how I was sure for the first time that it was true.

“But this is monstrous!” Julia whispered. “How can he-” she trailed off, unable to admit her loss of confidence in her beloved uncle.

“I think that Caesar is very ill,” I told her, “and that he is no longer quite sane. It hasn’t yet affected his intellect, or his clarity of thought. Those are as outstanding as ever, but it has altered his”-I grasped for a word, for an expression of an unfamiliar concept-“his perception of reality. He no longer recognizes a boundary between what Caesar wants and what is permissible, or even possible.”

I gathered my thoughts, tried to place things in order, the way Callista would have organized one of her philosophical tracts. “This is something we’ve seen coming, but we’ve all been so in awe of Caesar that we haven’t wanted to recognize it. We are reluctant to believe he has the same weaknesses as any other mortal. A few days ago he tongue-lashed a foreign envoy as you would an insolent slave, in front of the whole Senate. He’s planning a major foreign war without having quite finished the last one. He plans to completely rebuild Rome to his own liking without any really clear idea what to do with the Rome that is already here. He is bringing long-haired barbarians into the Senate without even Romanizing them first! All right, that last one could actually improve the tone of the place, but you get the idea. He isn’t rational anymore, but he can carry it off because he seems so rational.

“Now he wants to be pharaoh, with Cleopatra’s aid”-I looked at Callista-“and that is why I think you shouldn’t go back to Alexandria. He wants to conquer Parthia but Egypt is the real prize in this game. Alexandria got badly damaged the last time he was there. It could be far worse this time.”

“He is right,” Julia acknowledged. “Stay at our villa. Or if you must leave Italy, go to Athens. You could teach there.”

“I deeply appreciate your concern,” Callista said, “but I belong in Alexandria. If that is where the world is to end, then that is precisely where I should be.” She smiled. “Besides, they don’t let women teach in Athens. There hasn’t been any new thought in Athens since Aristotle. Ah, here we are.”

We had arrived at Cleopatra’s, and a greater contrast to Callista’s house would be hard to imagine. Legions of slaves helped us from our litters as if we were a visitation of cripples. Golden cups brimming with rare vintages were pressed into our hands. Lest we grow bored between litter and doorway, jugglers and tumblers performed for us, bears and baboons danced, people in white robes strummed upon lyres and sang. Atop the wall, a line of near-naked men and women walked on their hands, tossing balls to one another and catching them with their feet in a bewildering yet seemingly orderly fashion. Julia and some of the other women gathered together, apparently for mutual protection and made their way inside.

“This is more like it!” Antonius proclaimed. “I thought listening to those astronomers would turn me to stone.”

“You were listening?” Lepidus said coldly, but the prospect of a really degenerate party had put Antonius in such a good mood that he ignored the sour-faced Master of Horse. Brutus and Cassius were huddled together and Sallustius looked like a man about to reap a great harvest of drunken gossip. We passed inside where, though it was not quite dark, things had reached a truly demented stage. Antonius grinned. “I’m going to have to get to know Cleopatra better.”

As intrigued as I was by the lively goings-on, I knew better than to participate too fully with Julia present somewhere. Besides, I was hungry. With Hermes in tow I went in search of dinner, keeping a wary eye out for homicidal pygmies. We went past a pond full of crocodiles. People tried to tempt the awful beasts with fish and other delicacies, but the scaly monsters remained torpid. Another pool was full of hippos that splashed guests with water and noxious fluids. Signs in several languages warned that hippos are far more ill-tempered than they look. Cheetahs wandered freely. I hoped our hostess didn’t have lions in her menagerie.

It wasn’t difficult to find something to eat. The main problem was locating something small enough to get into my mouth. There were tables laden with entire roast animals, many of them exotic African species. I found a skewer of small grilled birds rolled in honey and sesame seeds, and I began to pick them off one at a time.

“Look at these oysters,” Hermes said, lifting a plate of them. “There’s a pearl in every one of them. Do they come that way naturally?”

“I don’t think so. You can eat the oysters, but keep the pearls.”

“Keep them where?” he said, downing an oyster.

“Tie them up in a corner of your toga. You have enough material there to hold the loot of Tigranocerta.”

“I know,” he said, downing another. “This thing is hot.”

I finished the spit and looked for something else. The laboriously exotic items like flamingo tongues and camel’s toes were tedious and often disgusting, but I found enough items fit for human consumption to stave off starvation. Hermes handed me a platter of small pastries stuffed with chopped ham and goat cheese and spinach. They were resting on oak leaves made of hammered gold, which I kept. Soon I was ready to see what was going on this night.

“Caesar is here,” Hermes said, jerking his chin toward a fur-draped platform where the dictator sat on a huge chair. Unlike his usual curule chair this one had a towering back, against which Caesar lay heavily, an elbow on the arm of the chair, laurel-crowned head propped on a fist. There was an identical chair beside his but Cleopatra was nowhere to be seen. People of some distinction approached him, bowing and cringing.

“They aren’t kissing the hem of his cloak,” I remarked, “but I can tell that they want to.”

“Not so loud,” Hermes said.

“Why?” I snapped. “He’s just another politician.”

“That’s not true and you know it. Be on your best behavior or Cleopatra will throw us to those crocodiles over there.”

“That should liven them up,” I grumped, but resolved to be more discreet. Damned if I was going to approach Caesar like a supplicant, though. We wandered through the numerous rooms of the sprawling villa and in each of them something was going on to suit every taste. In one room Spanish dancers from Gades performed their famously lascivious routines. In another an actor with a fabulous voice declaimed hymns by Agathon. In a small courtyard Gauls in checkered trousers fenced with their long swords and narrow shields. In a long hall pantomimes performed the tragedy of Adonis in eerie silence.

Finally, I found Cleopatra standing among the women I had arrived with, including Julia and Callista. They were laughing and chattering like a pack of Subura housewives loitering around the corner fountain. I was about to join them when I saw coming toward me a strange pair of mismatched guests, one huge, the other slight. It was Balbus and Asklepiodes, both of them grinning like loons and both obviously half drunk.

“We’ve figured it out!” Balbus cried, turning heads all over the courtyard.

“We know how he did it!” Asklepiodes chimed in.

This was the last thing I had expected to hear at this event, but welcome news nonetheless. “How?”

“You remember I told you I would pray to my household gods?” Balbus said. “Well, I’ve done that every night and last night I had a dream, and in my dream I saw Hercules chasing Hippolyta all over an Arcadian landscape. Looked Arcadian to me, anyway. Never been there personally. When I woke I somehow knew that this had something to do with our problem.” He was talking loud enough to draw attention and all sorts of people were drifting toward us. I was so eager to know where this was leading that I did not admonish him.

“So,” Asklepiodes said, “today Senator Balbus came to me and told me of his dream. I knew instantly that our problem was solved.” He smiled with insufferable smugness.

“Well!” I said, ready to tear my thinning hair out. Even Cleopatra was coming our way.

“Do you remember why Hercules was sent after Hippolyta?” Balbus asked.

“He wasn’t after her,” I said. “As one of his labors he was sent to fetch her girdle, which I always thought was a rather transparent metaphor for something indecent.”

“And in art,” Asklepiodes said, “how is the girdle of Hippolyta depicted? As a sash!”

“This meaning?” I said.

“Let me demonstrate.” He looked around. “Queen Cleopatra, do you have a slave I can borrow? A young male, by preference. Marvelous party, by the way.”

“Certainly.” She snapped her fingers and a sturdy young fellow stepped to her side. “Please don’t kill him. He’s an excellent bodyguard.” She looked at me. “He’s no replacement for poor Appolodorus, but who would be?” Appolodorus, her bodyguard since childhood and the finest swordsman I had ever known, had died of a commonplace fever some years before.

“Observe,” Asklepiodes said. “Young man, turn away from me.” He took a long scarf from within his tunic and in an instant whipped it around the slave’s neck. “You see how I grip both ends and have crossed my wrists?” The slave’s face darkened and his eyes began to bulge. Asklepiodes, small though he was, had hands like steel, as I knew to my sorrow. He had demonstrated his homicidal skills on me more than once.

“Now, see how, when I twist thus, the knuckles of my hands press against his spinal column from opposite sides, two above, two below, just as we saw the marks on the dead men.” He jerked his hands violently and the slave’s eyes all but popped from their sockets. “With just a bit more pressure, I could break his neck easily.” Abruptly he released one end of the scarf and the slave dropped to his hands and knees, gasping and retching. People made noises of wonder and dismay. “The wide scarf immobilizes the neck and provides leverage to bring the full strength of the hands and arms against the victim’s spine, but it leaves no ligature mark as a cord would.”

“It occurred to me,” Balbus said, “that you could save a second or two by tying a weight into one end of the scarf. Then instead of having to lower it over your victim’s head, you could just whip it around from behind.”

“A weight,” I mused, things whirring and clicking inside my head, “something like this?” I felt around in the purse tucked inside my tunic and came out with the massive brass coin.

“That would do nicely,” Asklepiodes said.

“It did,” I told him. To my astonishment, Callista snatched the coin from my hand and stared at it wonderingly.

“Where is it from?” She turned it over.

“India,” I told her.

She closed her eyes. “Senator, please forgive my stupidity. This is the lettering I was trying to remember. I saw it in some books in my father’s library when I was a child. They were written on palm leaves and they were from India.”

“And this is the sort of writing you saw on Ashthuva’s charts?” I thought about the Indian astronomer, Gupta. I remembered how he stood over Polasser’s body, his long hair streaming, his turban unwound.

I turned to Hermes. “‘The easterner, the star man’! Domitius wasn’t talking about Polasser, he was talking about Gupta!” But Hermes wasn’t listening. He made a strangled sound and bolted through the crowd, pushing people aside right and left. His toga slowed him but he was making very good speed anyway.

“Must need to puke,” Balbus said.

“No,” I told him, “I think he just saw somebody he knew and wants to renew the acquaintance. I think he saw Domitius.”

“Not Ahenobarbus?” Balbus said. “Is it Domitius the banker?”

“No, this is another Domitius, a very fleet-footed one. We’ll see if he can run through a villa as fast as he can cross-country. Queen Cleopatra, the man Hermes is chasing is a spy planted in your house by some very evil people.”

“I would very much like to know what this is all about,” said that monarch. A moment later there came a tremendous commotion from another part of the villa, with roaring and splashing that boded very ill for someone. Hermes returned, drenched and looking disgusted.

“We won’t be getting any answers from Domitius,” he said. “I almost had him, but he slipped on some wet pavement and fell into the hippo pool. They had rare sport with him for a few seconds. I don’t think there are any pieces left worth burning.”

“I think we have most of the answers we need anyway,” I said.

“What is happening?” The voice was quiet but unmistakable.

“Caius Julius,” I said, “I am about to give you the man who killed Demadus and Polasser. He’s here in the villa somewhere. He is the Indian astronomer, Gupta, and I believe he is the most highly skilled assassin I have ever encountered. He certainly has the deadliest turban in Rome. He also has an accomplice. She lives just up the hill from here, near the old fort.”

“Ashthuva?” Julia said.

“Oh, hello, niece,” Caesar said absently. “Your husband seems to be turning in results for me in his usual eccentric fashion. I’ve seen him at his work before, but it has never involved strangled slaves and rampaging hippos before.” Then he amended, “I do remember an occasion with stampeding elephants, though.”

While we spoke Cleopatra was barking orders in what I realized was Macedonian Greek, her native tongue. Soon hard-looking armed men were swarming all over the place. Caesar looked unsteady and Cleopatra became suddenly solicitous and tried to lead him off, but he insisted on staying until the guard captain returned with the news that Gupta was nowhere to be found and nobody reported seeing him leave.

“I know where he’s gone, and it’s not far,” I told Caesar. “Let’s not have any mob scenes. I’ll take Hermes and Senator Balbus and a couple of your lictors if you’ll permit me, and we’ll arrest them.”

“This man is deadly,” Cleopatra protested, “and for all we know the woman is too. Take my whole guard.”

“We don’t need foreign soldiers,” Balbus said, taking a sword from a guardsman. “Armed Roman men are an entirely different proposition from unsuspecting astronomers.”

“Quite so,” Caesar said, “and, Decius Caecilius, if you have to kill them, make sure you get the whole story first.”

We left and the party continued behind us. Outside, Balbus took a deep breath of fresh air. “Decius Caecilius, this is outrageous fun! I am so glad I ran into you at the ludus a few days ago.”

Hermes passed me my dagger and caestus. “Maybe a few guardsmen wouldn’t have been such a bad idea, though,” he said, “no sense taking chances.”

“Cleopatra might have slipped them orders to kill our suspects. I haven’t cleared her from suspicion yet. It was her steward that hired Domitius. He didn’t just come up here and knock on the gate and ask for a job.”

The two lictors, fasces shouldered, fell in behind us. We had been walking for a few minutes before I realized there were six of us, not five. I called a halt. “Who are you?” I asked the dark-swathed figure.

Callista lowered her shawl. “I feel terrible for not recognizing that writing instantly. I may be able to help, and I really feel that I must witness the end of this.”

“I can’t be responsible for your safety,” I told her.

“Nor should you be. A philosopher is always responsible for his own life and his own death.”

“Come along then,” I said, too tired to argue. One more to worry about. I hadn’t really cleared her of suspicion either.

It was a beautiful night and silhouetted against the moon I could see the banner drooping from the high pole above the old fort. We hardly slowed when we reached the house. The door was bolted, but with a single coordinated kick Balbus and Hermes turned it to firewood and we passed on through. I told the lictors to stay at the door and let nobody out.

“Gupta!” I yelled, “Ashthuva! Come with me to the praetor!” There was no answer. We proceeded room by room. We found them in the rear of the house, crouched over a chest, drawing out bags that clinked. It seemed a sordid activity for such an exotic pair, but I suppose some things are the same the world over.

“I arrest you,” I said, “for the murder of the astronomers Demades and Polasser and suspicion of complicity in the death of Postumius.”

Gupta smiled, his teeth startlingly white in his dark face. He uncoiled to his full height as smoothly and bonelessly as a serpent.

“You arrest me, Roman?” he said in his strange, singsong accent. “Do you arrest my sister, too?” The lady herself stood as well, her clothing somewhat disarrayed. Balbus made a strangled noise somewhere high in his nose. He was seeing her for the first time. I was having a hard time keeping my attention on Gupta myself. I hoped Hermes was keeping his head about him, but I doubted it.

“Your sister, is she? You must be close. You killed three men for her on your sea-voyage here.”

“You learned about that?” he said. “I had thought Romans were far too stupid to deduce such things.”

“Don’t feel too bad,” I told him. “I’ve been known to underestimate barbarians in my time. Now, you have little life expectancy left to you, but I can promise you a quick, easy execution if you will answer my questions. I’ll clear it with the dictator. Otherwise you’ll answer those questions under torture and your death will be in no way easy.”

He kept smiling. “Torture. You Romans know so little of torture. Come to India some day. I will show you what torture is really like.”

“I’m afraid you are all through with India,” I told him. Ashthuva was fiddling with something at her waist. “What are you doing, woman?” she took her hands from her waist and in an instant her singular gown unwound and fell to the floor, leaving her as naked as a statue of Aphrodite and ten times as enticing. Balbus made another noise and so, I fear, did I. She was completely covered with intricate tattoos, and while I was stupidly studying these Gupta made his move.

When I regained my senses somewhat, he was almost on me. No scarf this time. He had a long, curved dagger in his hand and he was moving as fast as any human being I had ever seen. He had quite sensibly chosen to attack me instead of Balbus or Hermes. I looked older and easier and, indeed, I was. I blocked his dagger hand with my cestus and thrust at him with my own dagger, but he snaked around it with an ease that was positively insulting. He cut again and I would have died then, but Balbus was on him and swift as the Indian was, Balbus was almost as fast and he was bull-strong to boot. He got both hands on the assassin’s arms and Hermes clouted him over the head with a small table. No sense taking any chances with this one. Seeing her brother down Ashthuva whirled and darted for a back door but found herself facing Callista, who had dropped her shawl there and stood as serenely as if she were about to address a gathering of academics.

To my amazement and horror, the tattooed woman leapt high into the air and her right foot lashed out in a kick of neck-breaking force. I thought to see Callista dead in an instant, but this was a night for surprises. Leaning back slightly, she slapped the leg aside with her open palm. Ashthuva came down lightly, but she was slightly off-balance. Callista stepped in and with a dainty foot swept the Indian woman’s leg aside and she toppled. She scrambled to get up, but in that instant Callista was on her, cracking her beneath the ear with the edge of a palm, gathering both her wrists into one hand, the other pulling back on the long, black hair. One knee was pressed into the small of the woman’s back with Callista’s full weight upon it. Ashthuva was going nowhere. Callista knelt there easily, crouched in a position that would have appeared awkward in another woman, her shapely, white left leg bared to the hip. She took no more notice of it than of her slightly disarranged hair.

“I knew some Greek women learned athletics,” I said, “but I never heard of one training at the pankration.”

“My father insisted that I be fully educated,” she said.

I turned to Gupta, now held tightly by Balbus. I nodded at Hermes and he grasped the man’s hair and jerked his head back so that he was looking up at me. I laid the point of my dagger just below his left eye. “Now, Gupta, some answers, if you please.”

An hour later we were closeted in one of Cleopatra’s personal chambers, guards on the door, the sounds of the still lively party muffled in the distance. The queen was there, as was Caesar. Hermes and Balbus we had left outside to enjoy the festivities but Caesar had insisted that Julia and Callista be present to hear my report.

The chamber was unusually modest for this place and its inhabitant, but I supposed Cleopatra put on the extravagance as what people expected from a queen of Egypt. Her personal tastes were more modest. Caesar now wore a simple tunic and synthesis and he had set aside his wreath of golden laurel leaves. He was very tired and looked every one of his years.

“It was what Julia suggested at the outset,” I said. “The infighting among the great ladies of Rome over who is to be heir to Caesar. That and your scheme to change our calendar.”

Caesar frowned slightly. “How did I bring this about?”

“You brought the astronomers to Rome, and among them was Polasser. Gupta came on his own and joined them because he really was an accomplished astronomer, with a sideline in astrology. As I’ve said before, one rogue will know another, and they were joined by the confidence man Postumius. It doesn’t take three such men long to begin hatching plans. First they tried the grain scheme. Fulvia was a client of Polasser and he steered her to Postumius, who got her to talk to the grain merchants and use her patrician prestige to convince them to buy or not as Postumius directed. They made a killing that way, but it was too small. By that time Polasser had tumbled to the big-time money game here in Rome, and with his connections among the highborn ladies, he had the means to exploit it.” I sipped at my wine. “Incidentally, Fulvia had the house that had belonged to Clodius. She let Gupta and Ashthuva stay there while their much more impressive house was being built on the Janiculum.”

“That was where Postumius was killed,” Caesar said. “Was that Fulvia’s doing?”

“I believe so,” I told him. “You can’t trust a thief. I think he tried to cheat her of her share of the grain scheme takings.” I looked at Julia. “You were right in observing that his torture bore the marks of wounded patrician pride.”

“Was she in on the rest of it?” Caesar asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “They made use of her in the grain scheme, but she was too volatile even for men like those three.”

Caesar pondered a while. “It isn’t worth alienating Antonius. I need him too sorely.” He glanced at me wearily. “Don’t look at me like that Decius Caecilius. Some day, if you’re ever dictator, a great many things that seem serious now will take on a new perspective.”

“What about poor Demades?” Cleopatra asked. “Why did he die?”

“Big ears,” I said. “He hated Polasser and detested the astrologers as a group. He was snooping around, trying to get any kind of dirt on Polasser that he could gather, and I suspect he got an earful, but Gupta saw him snooping. Then he was eliminated.”

“And this Domitius person?” Caesar asked. “Where does he tie in?”

“He was an acquaintance of Postumius from his horse racing days. They wanted someone reliable to spy here in the queen’s house where you spend so much time. Polasser had been here at the queen’s gatherings and he bribed the steward to hire the man.”

Caesar looked at Cleopatra. “I’ll deal with him,” she said.

I didn’t want to think about what that might mean. “When I started snooping around here,” I touched my nose, which was still a little tender. Cleopatra looked abashed. “When I started snooping here, Gupta sent Domitius to the house of Archelaus. He didn’t realize I’d be checking out there, too. He hoped to sell Archelaus information about your intentions in Parthia-and in Egypt.”

Caesar looked at me sharply, then to Cleopatra. “My dear, we really should check outside the windows before we engage in serious conversation.” Then back to me. “It is a good thing you are a very discreet man, Decius, and that you are married to my favorite niece.”

“Anyway,” I went on quickly, “once Gupta had his sister, if that’s what she is, established in the new house and ready to bamboozle Rome’s richest ladies, Polasser became superfluous. All his clients became hers. Gupta even summoned the other astronomers to confuse things, but he wasn’t expecting me to be there that day, and I saw a bit too much and found that coin.”

“So,” Caesar said, “thieves fell out?”

“That’s what happened, but we seldom see thieves on such a scale, or so strange.”

We were silent for a while, then Julia spoke up. “Uncle Caius, who is to be your heir?”

Caesar smiled with infinite weariness and great cynicism. “Let’s keep them all guessing, shall we?”

Two days later Gupta was dead in his prison cell. I was sure he’d swallowed his tongue, but Asklepiodes examined the body and was of the opinion that he had meditated himself to death. Whatever the cause, he was not a normal man. His sister, if that was what she was, escaped. One morning a dead guard was found in her cell, his clothes off and his neck broken. They should have set eunuchs to guard her. She was never seen or heard from again.

It was all so long ago. I never expected to live this long. I’ve outlived all of them. I even outlived Callista, and she lived to be a very old woman.

Of course it was Atia’s brat, Octavius, who inherited, and he showed his gratitude in a singular way. He made Caesar a god, his deification solemnly ratified by the Senate and the College of Pontifexes. In this way did Caius Julius Caesar, finally, surpass all other Romans since the time of Romulus.

These things happened in the years 709 and 710 of the City of Rome, in the dictatorship of Caius Julius Caesar.

The latter year has ever since been known as the Year of Confusion.