The Year of Confusion

5

Caesar was getting impatient. There was a meeting of the Senate that morning, as there was almost every morning since he had assumed power. As dictator he could even set aside days that were nefasti, when official business was forbidden. Before his time, meetings had been irregular, usually called by a sitting consul or some other very prominent senator or one of the highest priests. However, Caesar had much to accomplish and he wanted his senators to attend upon him like a court before an oriental king, another of his regal habits that so many found so annoying.

On that morning, after assigning duties to a number of senators he surprised us by announcing the reception of an envoy. “Conscript Fathers,” he said, stealing one of Cicero’s favorite turns of phrase, “today we receive Archelaus, the envoy of King Phraates of Parthia.”

“But, Caesar,” said a very old senator, “by ancient custom we receive envoys in a temple, not in the Curia.”

“This is Pompey’s theater,” Caesar pointed out. “I can’t think of a better place to receive a representative of a country like Parthia or a king like Phraates. If any of you are too traditional for that, remember that up at the top of the auditorium is the Temple of Venus. That’s close enough. Call him in.”

A lictor went out and returned a minute later with Archelaus, accompanied by a few colleagues. All of them, like Archelaus himself, appeared to be Greeks. I saw not a single one who looked like a Parthian. They stopped before Caesar’s curule chair and bowed low in the eastern fashion.

“Parthia salutes great Caesar,” Archelaus intoned.

“Would that Parthia had come personally,” Caesar said, fiddling with a ring and gazing off at a carving somewhere on the ceiling. It was behavior very unlike Caesar and I wondered what it might signify. “Your king presumes much, sending ambassadors when it is clear that a state of war exists between our nations, as it must until the stain of Carrhae is blotted from history, the death of my friend Marcus Crassus and that of his son avenged, the Roman captives freed, and the Roman dead given the proper rites, which shall be performed by me, their pontifex maximus.”

He spoke this in a very quick, clipped, and rather agitated voice. I looked around and saw many faces that looked bemused, puzzled, or dismayed. The mobile, expressive face of Cicero in particular was a mask of alarm. Brutus looked concerned. Marcus Antonius seemed amused and mildly bored, but then he often looked that way at Senate meetings.

“Great Caesar,” Archelaus began, “there is no cause for such enmity between Rome and Parthia. No cause for war ever existed between our nations. The campaign of Marcus Crassus was the military adventure of a lone man. The Senate of Rome never condoned it. The people of Rome, through their tribunes, expressed their anger at the temerity of Crassus.” This was all quite true, but Caesar was unmoved.

“Marcus Crassus was my friend,” he reiterated. “A Roman army was massacred at Carrhae. Eagles were captured. Those eagles are the tutelary gods of our legions, sacred to every Roman soldier. Until those standards are returned to the Temple of Saturn,” here he pointed in the direction of that temple, “then the hand of every true Roman is raised against every Parthian, sword drawn.”

“Caesar,” Archelaus said, this time omitting the “great” part, “the return of your eagles is a point for negotiation. It need not involve a resumption of hostilities.”

“Rome does not bargain like some merchant for possession of her gods. What was taken from us at sword’s point we will recover with sword in hand. Inform your king of this.”

Now the Senate looked truly appalled. This was high-handed behavior even for a dictator. Ordinarily, war was debated at great length in the Senate and the Assemblies. When it came to war, the Senate usually had the upper hand of all our plethora of public bodies, although the comitia tributa and consilium plebis apportioned the commands. For Caesar to address a foreign ambassador in this way, without even the pretense of consulting the Senate, was more than the act of a tyrant. It was a deep, personal insult to the Senate as a body. Had he simply briefed us on his plans, motives, and goals, we would have stood behind him to a man, even his enemies. We always do that in time of war. He was dictator, but there are limits. I wondered if Caesar was becoming unhinged.

“Mighty Caesar,” now Archelaus’s tone was somewhat less than respectful, “it pains me to remind you that you speak these vaunting words to a king whose army, although smaller than that of Crassus, smashed those legions as utterly as Hannibal ever did.” There was a collective gasp from all around. To speak that name in such a fashion, to the very Senate of Rome, was unprecedented. Then he went on, in a more moderate tone. “But it ill behooves statesmen to harangue one another like schoolboys. We have deliberative bodies,” here he turned and gave the Senate a slight bow, “and exchange ambassadors between nations, so that we may behave as mature men.”

“I do not speak as a statesman,” Caesar said, his hand working on the ivory baton that he usually carried when presiding over the Senate. “I speak as the commander in chief of all Rome’s armies, the dictator, with total imperium.” As if anyone needed reminding of this, Caesar was seated as usual with a golden wreath, dressed in his triumphator’s purple robe and scarlet boots, his twenty-four lictors arrayed before him.

“Caesar, I am my king’s ambassador, but even I-”

“You are no ambassador,” Caesar interrupted rudely. “You are some sort of diplomatic mercenary in the pay of a sovereign who is not your own. Go and report my words to him. Now get out of my sight.”

This was a rare spectacle even for the Senate of Rome. Archelaus and his entourage left with flaming faces, at which no one could be surprised. I noticed a number of senators giving them looks and gestures of sympathy. I had only the slightest acquaintance with Archelaus, but I felt his humiliation keenly.

Caesar rose from his curule chair and I saw a slight lurch, the faintest loss of balance, when he did so. I had always known him as a man of superb physical address. This slight lapse was as disturbing to me as anything that had happened that day. “Senators!” he said. “I now call a recess of this meeting. Go refresh yourselves. I shall wish to see some of you in one hour.” He called off several names and mine was among them. Then he went out by way of the door to the rear of the dais, just behind the statue of Pompey the Great.

The meeting broke up in confusion, as might be suspected. Little knots of senators formed to talk over the extraordinary events that had just transpired. The pro-Caesar and anti-Caesar factions were well represented, naturally. I went outside and found the group I wanted to join, standing in the shade of the portico. They were gathered around Cicero. Brutus was among them, along with Cassius Longinus, Calpurnius Piso, and other distinguished men. Cicero smiled when he saw me approach. He took my hands courteously. “Well, Decius Caecilius, what do you make of all this?” I was no longer of any great political importance since the destruction of my family, but Cicero acted as if my name still meant something.

“It’s the most remarkable performance I’ve ever seen him put on,” I said. “I saw him receive deputations of German barbarians in Gaul with greater respect.”

“But,” sputtered a conservative old senator, “did you hear how that man threw the name of Hannibal right into our faces?” There were mutters of agreement.

“Personally, I don’t blame the man,” said Brutus, surprising everyone. “He was provoked beyond endurance. So what if he is a Greek professional? Such persons have been employed for centuries when feelings between two nations are too intense for rational discourse. They are always to be accorded the courtesies due to ambassadors just as if they were fellow nationals of the powers that employ them.”

“That is very correct, Marcus Junius,” Cicero said. “What we just saw in there was something unprecedented. As dictator, Caesar has the constitutional right to act according to his own judgment, without having to consult the Senate or anyone else. But we have always chosen dictators who are men of sound principles, dedicated to the welfare of Rome.”

“That was when dictators were chosen by the Senate,” Cassius said. “Let us make no mistake about it, this dictatorship is unconstitutional, just like the dictatorship of Sulla. It is no more than a military coup. At least Sulla had the decency to step down from office once he had the constitution reordered to his liking. I do not foresee Caesar doing any such thing.”

“Not likely,” Cicero agreed, shaking his head sadly. “He has publicly declared Sulla’s abdication of office the act of a political moron.”

“What shall we do about this?” said a senator I now recognized as Cornelius Cinna, formerly Caesar’s brother-in-law.

“Do?” I said. “What can anyone do about a dictator? They are above the law and their powers override the constitution. Nobody has ever unseated a dictator.”

“But this situation cannot continue,” Cassius said. “I was at Carrhae and I want those eagles back as much as any man, but it must be done by a Roman army under constitutional command. We’ve had enough of one-man adventures in that part of the world.”

“I cannot accept even a dictator setting foreign policy that will last far beyond his own dictatorship,” Cicero said. “This has never been our way.”

With a sour feeling I saw in them the futility of the Senate, and the very reason Caesar had made himself dictator. The Senate, once the most remarkable body of men in the world, had degenerated into a pack of greedy, self-seeking politicians who had put their own narrow, selfish interests ahead of the common good of Rome. Even the ones like this lot, who were better than most, could only look back to some sort of idealized past with a vague notion of restoring the good old days.

Caesar was a man with a different vision. He saw the Senate as a futile body, so he ignored it or made use of it as he saw fit. He saw that the day of the old Republic was over and he replaced it with one-man rule. Since he was well aware that he was the best man in Rome, he saw no reason why he should not be that ruler.

“Here’s Antonius,” somebody muttered. The seditious talk silenced. That is how serious these men were. The great Antonius swaggered up to us, his toga draped carelessly. He only wore one to formal occasions like a Senate meeting, preferring to go about in a tunic that was briefer than most, the better to show off his magnificent physique. He had a wonderful build and a great many battle scars, and was inordinately proud of both, as well as of that endowment of which Fulvia had spoken.

“Well, it looks official now,” Antonius said without greeting anyone formally. “No turning back from this war now that Caesar’s dressed that Greekling down so publicly.”

“You didn’t find it rude?” Cicero said dryly.

“Rude? You can’t be rude to an enemy. You can speak forcefully, though.”

“On a basis of forcefulness, then,” Cicero said, “I cannot find fault with the proceedings.”

“I think Caesar should have beheaded the lot,” Antonius said, “then pickled the heads in brine and send them to Phraates. That’s the sort of language a Parthian understands.”

“Or an Antonius,” Cicero said, “but, as a wise dispensation of our ancestors would have it, Rome can have only one dictator at a time.”

“Of course there can be only one dictator,” Antonius said. “What use would it be to have two?”

“What, indeed?” said Cicero, with the air of a man hurling catapult stones at a rabbit. The others suppressed grins, but I watched Antonius and did not like what I saw. His own little smile of amusement was confident. He was far shrewder than his enemies guessed and his show of genial boneheadedness was a pose.

“Will he take you with him, Marcus?” I asked.

His expression soured. “No, it’s still the city prefecture. Calpurnius and Cassius are to go, though.”

“You’ll have your chance,” Calpurnius Piso said. “Once Caesar has added Parthia to the empire, he may want to take India.”

“That would be something,” Antonius said, brightening. “Awful long march, though.”

In time we went off in search of lunch. A great many taverns had sprung up all around Pompey’s theater complex. I joined a couple of senators of no great reputation at a table beneath an awning and ordered heated, spiced wine. The day was cool but clear, the air free of the many stenches that pervade Rome in the summer. Hermes found me there just as a heaping platter of sausages arrived. He had spent the morning exercising at the Statilian school and upon arrival he sat, snatched up a sausage and bit it in two all in a single motion.

“Did you speak with Asklepiodes?” I asked him.

He swallowed. “I did. The old boy’s at his wits’ end. He can’t stand it that somebody’s found a way to kill people that he can’t understand. He keeps wailing that he needs to find something he calls the fulcrum. Half the boys have sore necks because he’s been experimenting on them.”

“It’s good to have a dedicated researcher,” I remarked.

“What’s all this, Metellus?” asked one of the senators, so I had to give them a shortened version of my problem.

“Why does Caesar care so much about it?” said the other senator. “They were just foreigners.”

“He has a way of taking things personally,” I told them.

After lunch I went back to the Senate chamber Pompey had built into his theater complex. Several senators were seated on the bench once occupied by the tribunes of the people, unoccupied since the dictatorship usurped their power of veto.

“You look like a pack of schoolboys about to be disciplined by the master,” I observed.

“I expect he plans to assign us parts of Parthia to govern, as soon as he’s conquered the place,” said Caius Aquilius, an acerbic man.

“I’d rather have Egypt,” said Sextus Numerius, “but it’ll probably go to his brat, Caesarion, when the boy’s older. A Roman general has never fathered a king of Egypt before, but Caesar has no respect for precedent.”

These men belonged to a generation that never hesitated to speak out about their leaders. Even a common Forum idler would berate a consul to his face. All that is gone now.

“Decius Caecilius!” came Caesar’s voice from within. I left the others and found Caesar seated by Pompey’s statue, a couple of folding desks nearby, piled with papers, scrolls, and wax tablets. Two of his secretaries stood by with writing kits. He could wear out whole relays of secretaries with his dictation of speeches, endless letters, and dispatches. Still, he found time to write poems and plays. The latter were not distinguished, though. Caesar’s gift was for the prose narrative, at which he was peerless.

“Caesar wishes?” I said.

“Caesar wishes you would find this killer so Caesar can execute him. Caesar would also like very much to know what all this is about.” No, he was not in a good mood.

“I fear my investigation is not complete, but I have isolated some factors that keep turning up too often for coincidence.”

“Factors such as?”

“Such as astronomers as opposed to astrologers and their manifold differences, native Romans and foreigners and even pseudo-foreigners, certain great ladies and their social circles-”

“Great ladies?” he said in a leaden tone that told me to tread carefully.

“Exactly. Including one whose name I rather expect you will prefer not to hear.”

“Just tell me Calpurnia is not involved.” I supposed that he was still going by that absurd Caesar’s-wife-must-be-above-suspicion nonsense.

“Her name has not come up in any capacity. Actually, I have no real proof that any of these people were involved in the murders, only that they keep appearing in my investigation so I suspect that I may have reason to look into them more closely.”

“Do whatever is necessary,” he said.

“It might be best if you send the astronomers back to Alexandria while some of them are still alive. Their work on the calendar is done. You don’t need them here anymore.”

“That might have been a good idea a few days ago, before the killings started. But one of them may be the killer, though I can’t imagine why.”

“I can’t either, but that signifies nothing. People kill one another for a great number of reasons, it isn’t always for world-shaking stakes or simple, understandable jealousy or points of honor. I’ve known people to kill for reasons that seem perfectly adequate to themselves but defy all understanding by anyone else.”

“Quite true,” Caesar said, already sounding bored. “Very well, get on with it, but bring me some results soon. I am hard-pressed for time these days and I want all business, major and minor, concluded before I depart for Parthia.” He did not indicate whether my investigation was a major or a minor affair.

So I departed. Ordinarily, this was the hour for going to the baths, but that was going to have to wait. I gathered up Hermes and we walked a few streets to Rome’s great grain market. Here was a huge square almost the size of the Forum itself, surrounded by granaries and the offices of grain merchants and speculators. The granaries were giant warehouses where every day of the harvest season wagons came in from the countryside to discharge loads of wheat and barley. It would buzz with activity again when the barges came up the river to unload the Egyptian harvest.

In its center was a spectacular statue and shrine of Apollo. There was also a more modest shrine to Demeter, goddess of the harvest, but Apollo had pride of place. He might seem an eccentric choice as patron of grain merchants and protector of granaries, but in very ancient times, farmers sacrificed to Apollo to protect their granaries from mice, and some learned persons claim that Apollo was originally a mouse-demon from Thrace before the Greeks promoted him to his current glorious status as a solar deity, patron of music, culture, and enlightenment.

Grain is the most volatile commodity on any market. People absolutely must have it to live, and you never know how much of it there will be in any given year. This meant that there were vast fortunes to be made from the stuff and much collusion went into artificially inflating prices.

A few years previously Pompey, as proconsul, had been given an extraordinary five-year oversight of Italy’s grain supply. Part of his task had been to eradicate this sort of business. He had had some success, but it seems to be especially difficult to root out such harmful practices when they are so long established. It didn’t help that so many senators got rich out of it. Senators were not supposed to engage in business, but the fact that it was grain meant that it was actually a part of agriculture, which was honorable. Besides, they always had stewards and freedmen and foreign partners to act as fronts.

We were looking for the offices of one Publius Balesus, grain merchant. I have long thought that life would be greatly simplified by having some sort of system of identifying where persons live and businesses are located. Unfortunately, so far the only way to keep things under control is to concentrate certain trades in a particular district. Then you go to that district and keep asking questions until you’ve found what you are looking for. This we did, and soon found our man. His office was located on the second floor of one of the huge granaries, opening off a balcony overlooking the plaza. The rich, pleasant smell of grain permeated everything.

I did not think much of my chances here, but this case was so devoid of solid leads that I thought it was worth a try. The man, who looked up from his desk as we came in, was a big, bald-headed specimen who looked as if he had done his time in the legions. His face and right arm were scarred and he had blunt, peasant features that had the cast of southern Latium.

“Yes?” he said, looking slightly annoyed, a busy man interrupted at his work.

“Publius Balesus?” I said.

“That’s me.” The accent matched the face. He was from somewhere south of Rome.

“I am Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus, and I need to ask you a few questions.”

He looked a little more accommodating, but still suspicious. “I remember when you were aedile. Those were fine games. How can I help you, Senator?”

“You may have heard that the foreign astronomer who called himself Polasser of Kish was murdered a few days ago.”

He nodded. “I heard the rogue was dead. Good riddance, I say. The man was a fraud and a cheat.”

“The praetor peregrinus of last year, Aulus Sabinus, says that you tried to bring suit against Polasser, but he wouldn’t hear it.”

“Probably got a whopping bribe from Polasser, if you ask me.”

“Let’s not get into that,” I said, knowing that it was all too likely. “In what way did Polasser cheat you?”

“First off, he’s supposed to be able to see your future, right?” He began to fume. “All these eastern star-men are supposed to be good at it. Well, he told me to buy heavy, that the coming year should be a good one for speculating in grain. It made sense, didn’t it? Civil war, everyone nervous, everyone hoarding. So I followed his advice. Well, you know what happened to the grain market last year, don’t you? You’re a senator, you have estates.”

“The market was flooded first with a good harvest here and then with cheap grain from Egypt.”

“Exactly,” he said disgustedly. “I know what your kind think of mine. You think we’re schemers who batten on the misfortune of others, Well, it’s business, isn’t it? It’s a hard world. And when things turn out good for others, nobody sheds tears because it’s a disaster for us.”

“I’m not passing judgment on you,” I assured him. “I know plenty of senators who are in your business, at one remove or another.”

“Buggering right,” he said. A man came into the office.

“Master, some wagons just came in from Apuleia.”

“Good,” Balesus said. Then, to us, “I bought this lot before it was planted. See what a risky business it is? Let’s go look at it. I’ll show you some things.”

“Lead the way,” I said. Hermes raised his eyebrows at me but I ignored him. We went out onto the balcony and down some stairs to a yard behind the building. Eight or ten wagons stood there, loaded with big leather bags.

“Late harvest in Apuleia this year, and these wagons were a long time on the road. Now the first thing you do is this.” He went to the third wagon and selected a bag apparently at random, opening its top. He reached in and took out a handful of grain. He held it up close to his eyes. They were fine, fat grains as far as I could see.

“Looks good so far,” he said. “No mold, properly dried, no mouse dung in it. Now this is the next thing you do.” He thrust his hand down into the grain until his arm was buried past the elbow. He withdrew another fistful of grain from deep within and examined it. “The same stuff. We’ll go through some other bags before I’ll take it, but it looks like I’m not being cheated. Now I’ll show you something else. Come along.”

So we followed him across the plaza to a rather splendid building decorated with reliefs of wheat sheaves, harvest implements, and various gods of field and storehouse. It was the guildhall of the grain merchants. He led us to a room where a bored clerk sat with a pair of scales and a number of weights.

“I want to show the senator those bags the thief from Neapolis brought here last month,” Balesus said.

“Help yourself,” the clerk said, indicating a number of the big leather sacks that leaned against a wall nearby. “It’s not needed as evidence anymore, the man’s been sentenced. I was going to throw it out and sell the sacks.”

“Then we’re just in time.” Balesus hauled out a sack and set it before me and opened it. “Here, Senator. Give it a try.”

I took a handful of grain from the top and looked at it in the light that streamed in through a window. These looked like healthy grains to my eye. “Looks fine.”

“Now dig deep, like I just did,” he said, grinning.

I stuck my hand down in as far as it would go and closed my fingers around a fistful and drew it out. This I examined as well. The grains were shriveled, showed signs of mold, and were laced with unpleasant black flakes. They even smelled foul.

“You see? You have to be careful in this business. The man should have known better than to try this trick in Rome, but he did. Tried to sell it out there in the great market at the peak of the harvest, thinking buyers wouldn’t look close when they had so many tons to move. Well, he was wrong. We hauled him before the curule aedile but he can only levy fines and judged this too serious and passed it to the praetor’s court. The man’s property was confiscated and he was sold as a slave. I hope he works shoveling other people’s grain for the rest of his miserable life.”

We went back outside and walked back toward his office. “You seem to know your business.” I said.

“That I do. Well, these star-men have their own schemes, and I wish I knew as much about them as I do about the grain business.”

“What do you mean?” I asked him.

“I didn’t try to take Polasser to court just because he’d gulled me with a false horoscope. I’d just look like a fool then, wouldn’t I? I learned he’d advised half a dozen other merchants, and probably others who wouldn’t admit it. Some he told to buy, like he told me. Others he told to sell. Any way it came out, he’d have a string of merchants who thought he’d given them a proper fortune. What do you want to bet he’d charge more for his services the next year?”

“Very clever,” I said. “Why didn’t the other men you mentioned join you in pressing for this suit?”

He snorted. “Not buggering likely, not after I told them who his patron was. Nobody’d touch it then.”

Hermes was bursting to say something, and he’d held his silence long enough, so I nodded to him

“Who recommended Polasser to you?”

“A patrician lady who was selling off the produce from her dead husband’s estate last year. Name was Fulvia.”

I had been very afraid that he was about to speak another name. This was bad enough, but it still came as a relief. “Did she advise the others as well?”

He shrugged. “I suppose so. They must’ve found out about the fraud from somewhere.”

“Well, I thank you, you’ve been very helpful. And now I know what to do when somebody tries to sell me grain in bulk.”

“Anything for the Senate and people. And, Senator?”

I was turning to go but turned back. “Yes?”

“There was nothing wrong with our old calendar. Why did you have to saddle us with this new one? It’s caused me no end of trouble. Contracts have dates on them, you know.”

We made our way back toward the Forum. “Fulvia, eh?” Hermes said.

“Well, I knew she was part of Servilia’s little group. So what has this told us? It could be nothing. She must have wanted to sell off the produce from Curio’s estates before his other relatives could lay hands on them. I don’t know what the disposition of those estates has been, now that she’s married to Antonius.” Curio had been a remarkable man, at first a conservative, then an adherent of Caesar and a tribune of the people, and very successful in every role. He’d had a brilliant future ahead of him and had married Fulvia, who always furthered her husbands’ careers to the best of her ability, which was saying something. Then he had gone to Africa in Caesar’s cause and had been killed in some obscure skirmish, a sad end for such a man.

“It could be nothing,” I said. “She may have been besotted with these astrologers and babbled about them to anyone who would listen. I’ve known others like that.”

“And Polasser may have looked at how the grain business works and decided that there was a killing to be made. Still, Balesus seems like a hard-headed man, not likely to be taken in by such a fraud.”

“You never can tell. I’ve known many men to be sensible and no-nonsense in their own line of work, but gullible fools when out of their depth. A fraud artist I once knew said that a self-made man was often the easiest victim.”

“Why should that be?” Hermes wanted to know.

“He said it’s because they think they know everything. Starting with nothing they build great fortunes and they think they have perfect judgment. They won’t consult with more knowledgeable people because they think they’ve made it where they are by always knowing exactly what they are doing. In fact, they often succeeded because they were lucky, or just hard-working or shrewd in a very narrow field. So they will trust a transparent fraud when a five-minute conversation with someone like Cicero or Sosigenes or Callista would show them the error of their ways. They have too much confidence in themselves.”

“Like the ones who come out from Rome and think they’re great natural military leaders because they’re born into famous families?” He was remembering some bad experiences we’d had in Gaul.

I shuddered. “Exactly. The world is full of people who have perfect confidence in themselves for all the wrong reasons. They cause no end of trouble.”

Still, this was another name that had come up more than once in all this business: Fulvia. I had known her slightly for a long time and avoided closer acquaintance. She was one of those bad women to whom Hermes had hinted I was too attracted. The first time I had seen her she was in the house of Clodia. In Clodia’s bed, in fact. She’d been no more than fifteen and even then had struck me as some sort of anthropophagous creature. We had had a few encounters in the years since, none hostile but always tricky. Fulvia plus Antonius made a combination I was particularly anxious to avoid, especially now that I no longer had the protection of a family of enormous political importance. I had not realized what an advantage I had had being a Caecilius Metellus until the family fortunes had collapsed in the civil war.

We went among the throng of afternoon frequenters in the Forum, taking hands and trading political gossip in the immemorial Roman fashion. All the time I was pondering what I had learned and how it all fitted together. Surely Polasser had not just hit upon his grain scheme in a fit of inspiration. I ran through my mind a list of Roman rogues, villains, and lowlifes I numbered among my acquaintance, and I found depressingly many.

“Hermes,” I said at last, “I think we need to call on Felix the Wise.”

“Him?” Hermes said, unbelieving. “I’m all for it. I hear he holds court at the Labyrinth these days.”

“Then let’s go there. Julia will be attending the evening sacrifice at the Temple of Vesta, then going on her mysterious errand with Servilia. So we have the evening all to ourselves. Let’s go to the Labyrinth.”

The establishment thus named was at that time Rome’s largest, most fabulous, and most successful brothel. It was located in the trans-Tiber, which gave it both more space and less oversight from the aediles. People visiting Rome for the first time always made it a point to visit the Labyrinth. It attracted more of them than the Temple of Capitoline Jupiter.

We made the long, leisurely walk across town and across the river into the trans-Tiber and got to the Labyrinth just as the sun was going down. The building towered five stories high and was as large as any of the apartment blocks in Rome. Before it stood its infamous sign, a larger than life-sized sculpture of Pasiphae and the bull rendered in excruciating anatomical detail. The queen was depicted as splayed quadrupedally, the cow disguise devised by Daedalus merely hinted at with hoofed boots and gloves. The bull was well endowed even for a bull.

We went through the long corridor that led from the entrance to the vast courtyard within. There were about a hundred long tables inside beneath a canopy worthy of the Circus where people feasted and watched the entertainment. I was recognized instantly, being a well-known public figure, of course. The madam, an immensely tall woman who emphasized her height by wearing an actor’s buskins and a towering wig, greeted me with a resounding kiss on the cheek.

“Senator Metellus!” she said in a voice that echoed off the walls, “you haven’t honored us with your presence in far too long!” Heads turned from all directions to gape at me. There was a good deal of laughter.

“Ah, yes. Well, as it occurs I’m here on official business. I need to consult with Felix the Wise. Is he here tonight?”

She hooted a great laugh. “Business! Oh, that’s a good one, Senator! Business! Well, all right, I’ll go along with it. Felix usually comes here later in the night. Come along, let’s find you a table and get you something to eat.” We followed her elaborately swaying bottom to a small table near one wall, beneath a fine plane-tree that was hung with colored lanterns made of parchment. Its centerpiece was a wonderfully obscene statuette depicting Ganymede and the eagle.

The madam clapped her hands and servants laid the table with a remarkably fine dinner and a pitcher of first-rate wine. “Senator, can’t you convince Caesar to pay us a visit? It would do me ever so much good with the patrons and it would convince the aediles to accept smaller bribes to leave me alone.”

“Doesn’t he ever come here?” I asked her.

“Never once. Nor to any other lupanar that I ever heard of. Not that I blame him for avoiding them, they’re pigsties. But the Labyrinth is the most illustrious lupanar in the world. Do you suppose those stories about him and old King Nicomedes are true? Well that’s no matter, I have boys of every race and age if that’s to his taste. Or does he just prefer that his whores have patrician pedigrees?” Once again she threw her head back and hooted out her great laugh. “Now Sulla was a proper dictator. Practically lived in the whorehouses and chummed around with actors and entertainers, so my grandmother told me. She was running the Palace of Delight across the river back then.” She sighed. “Those must have been great times.” Another Roman pining for the good old days.

“Perhaps the good times will come again,” I told her. “In the meantime, you’ll just have to be content with being the most stunningly successful madam in the history of Rome.”

“Oh, you’re too kind, Senator. Well, I must toddle off. I’ll send word when Felix gets here. Business, indeed!” She swayed off, laughing and snorting.

So with nothing better to do we set teeth to our dinner, which was better than most great houses could provide. Granted, it was a menu she reserved for her highest ranking guests, but even the ordinary fare was better than you could get at any tavern.

“Rack of venison in wine sauce,” Hermes marveled. “Roast duck stuffed with quail eggs, octopus cooked in ink, poached pears-we must come here more often.”

“She’s buying favor,” I told him. “In case I should be praetor again, or city prefect, or have any of the new titles Caesar is busy inventing. She wants to be safe.”

“What of it?” he said, stuffing his mouth. “We rarely get to eat like this. I don’t anyway. You sometimes get to eat at Caesar’s table.”

“And there I dine miserably,” I informed him. “Caesar cares nothing whatever about food or wine. I don’t think he can even taste them. I’ve seen him pour rancid oil over his eggs and never notice it.” I tore off a rib of venison and it was superb.

“He doesn’t care about food and his only use for women is their pedigrees,” he mused. “What’s wrong with Caesar?”

“Some men care only about power. That’s Caesar. He wants to accomplish things and he has to have power to do so, so he has pursued power with a single-mindedness such as I’ve never seen. It makes him uncomfortable to be around. I prefer a brute sensualist like Antonius. He wants power, but that’s just so he can accumulate more wealth and more women and wine and food and houses. Power to him means things he can taste and feel. To Caesar”-I shrugged-“to Caesar I don’t know what it means. I can’t fathom him.”

By the time we finished dinner the evening’s entertainment had begun: a troupe of actors who played Atellan farces with great energy. Then there were singers and Spanish dancers and tumblers and mimes. Wrestlers and pugilists from the nearby Statilian school put on an exhibition and while these were performing, the madam sent a dwarf to inform us that Felix had arrived. The dwarf was dressed in a stylized burlesque of a gladiator’s outfit, with the addition of a huge stuffed leather phallus protruding in front, painted scarlet and gold.

We rose a bit unsteadily and made our way to the alcove where Felix lorded it over his minions. In Rome proper he would have come to me, but this was his little kingdom so I called upon him. The alcove was lined with huge cushions on which Felix and the others sat with little Arabian tables in front of them.

Felix the Wise was Rome’s premier gambler, handicapper, and tout. Whether it was fights, athletic competitions, or races Felix would bet on it or advise you how to bet, for a percentage. He knew intimately every racehorse in every stable in Rome and for many miles around. He took a percentage from every gambling establishment and his strongarm boys acted as his collectors and enforcers. His gang prospered when all the others were crushed because unlike them he avoided politics as others avoid noxious disease. Gambling was his only interest and passion and it had served him well.

“Well, this is an honor, Senator. Have a seat.” Some men moved aside and Hermes and I sat. Felix was a small, white-haired old man with sharp features and he always carried a faint scent of the stables, since he spent the better part of every day in them. He poured us cups ceremoniously and waited until we had tasted the wine, then said, “What will it be, a tip on the upcoming races?”

“Perhaps later,” I told him, “but right now I’ve run into a puzzling operation and I’m wondering if you could enlighten me.”

“Anything to be of service to the Senate and People.” His bright old eyes glittered. I told him what I knew of the game Polasser had been playing.

“Have you ever run into anything like it?”

He nodded a while, stroking his chin. “I’ve never heard of an astrologer doing it, but it’s an old handicapper’s dodge.”

“How so?” I was surprised that he had recognized it so quickly.

“It works like this. You have four racing companies, right? The Reds, Greens, Blues, and Whites. Now everybody backs one faction or another and claims to bet only their own color, but there are plenty of people who prefer to bet on whoever they think will win. So you select, say one hundred men you know are gamblers. When the next big races come up, say the first race of the Plebeian Games, you tell twenty-five of them the Reds will win, twenty-five the Greens will win and so on. After the race, you eliminate the seventy-five you gave a bad tip to. The twenty-five you gave the good tip to, you do the same. Here’s why: You have to wait until you’ve got a few left that you’ve steered right in three straight races, then you start charging big money for your tips. In time you’ll have a fool who’s won at least four or five straight races and thinks you’re infallible. Then you take him for everything he has. With luck, he’ll steer some friends your way and you can make extra off of them. Of course, you can’t pull this one too often. It’s a good idea to keep traveling to towns that have big circuses.”

“Amazing. It’s so simple, absolutely elegant. Is there anyone here who’s known for that sort of dodge?”

“They don’t work in Rome once I learn about them,” he said grimly. “Oh, I’m not against a bit of chicanery now and again. The gods send us these fools so they can be fleeced, and it angers the gods when you turn down their gifts. But a big job like that can give us all a bad name, especially when the fool is rich and well connected. That’s the sort of thing that brings the aediles down on all of us.”

“Who has tried it most recently?” I asked him.

“Let me see-there was a man called Postumius, a freedman who worked for a while at the headquarters of the Reds. See, having that position, it was easy to convince people that he had all sorts of inside information, when he was nothing but a clerk. I gave him a warning-just broke his arm and told him I’d cut out his tongue if he tried that trick again in Rome.”

“Admirable forbearance. Do you know if he’s still in Rome?”

“He is. I’ve seen him around these last few months. He took my advice and traveled Italy and Sicily for a while, but the problem with a habit like his is that it makes you real unwelcome quick, so you have to keep traveling. He just couldn’t stay away from the Great Circus for long, I guess. But I’d know if he was up to his old tricks.”

“Have you any idea where he might be found?”

“Well, Senator, last I heard he was clerking at the Temple of Aesculapius, on the Tiber Island.”