The Year of Confusion

7

I have always been able to summon up some courage when it was absolutely necessary, as it was now. I have dealt with unpredictable Gauls and Britons, fearsome Germans, ferocious Spaniards, treacherous Syrians and Egyptians, and even a dangerous Greek or two, although those were really Macedonians, which is not quite the same thing. Now it was time to dredge up that courage once more. I was about to call on Servilia.

This was an age of dangerous women, and Servilia was more dangerous than most because she was more subtle than most. I knew she was ambitious because she was trying to win Caesar and you couldn’t get more ambitious than that. Calpurnia stood in her way, but I doubt that she ever let a mere wife thwart her plans. There was also Cleopatra, but she was a foreigner whom Caesar would never marry. Servilia on the other hand was a patrician and eminently suitable, could she but convince him.

Their relationship was one of long standing, dating from a time when Caesar was nothing but a debt-ridden young politician whom nobody credited with much of a future. Yet Servilia saw something in him, or perhaps he was just a formidable lover. Caesar’s dalliances were legendary, and almost all of his conquests were wives of senators. When news of his affair with Cleopatra reached Rome certain Forum wags proposed a day of thanksgiving to Venus that this didn’t mean yet another senatorial cuckold.

That morning I sent Hermes off to his practice at the ludus and walked alone to Servilia’s house on the Palatine. Hermes was useful and he was ordinarily good company, but I sometimes enjoyed being by myself. Julia thought this was terribly undignified, but I have never been perfectly conventional. I made my way, stopping from time to time to chat with shopkeepers and idlers. In a street lined with the stalls of cutlers, I found a dealer in luxury weapons and bought a new dagger, its ivory handle carved in the form of a Thracian gladiator. I decided that Julia would not upbraid me for extravagance because I wouldn’t tell her about it.

Whatever her plotting and scheming, Servilia maintained an exceedingly correct household, probably because she thought it was a fit setting for her beloved Brutus. The major-domo who greeted me at the door was a Greek of immense dignity, and educated Greek slaves were esteemed to be in the highest of taste. In fact, there was a notable absence of beautiful girls, which may have been because Servilia considered them a bad influence or because she didn’t want to be compared unfavorably with them. The Greek led me to the courtyard with its beautiful pool, and I admired the fine statuary around it, all of it original, from the Greek islands. The wall paintings were similarly tasteful.

“Senator Metellus!” Servilia swept in swathed in a saffron-colored gown of Coan cloth, layered to avoid the scandalous transparency for which that fabric was famous and for which it was frequently banned by the censors, to no effect. “Your dear wife visits me for the first time in ages, and now here you are. Can this be coincidence?” Servilia was nearing sixty, but her face was unlined and the years had served only to refine her loveliness, bringing out the fine bone structure that is the basis of true beauty. Admiring her, I had to remind myself that Medusa had been a beautiful maiden who turned out rather badly.

“As a matter of fact, it was something you said to Julia that brings me here today,” I said.

“Oh? What might that have been?”

“You are aware of the investigation Caesar has me working on?”

“About the murdered astronomers? Surely. How may I help?” While we spoke slaves hustled in and arranged chairs and a table. It was early in the day so they set out bread and sliced fruit and a pitcher of water instead of wine. This was more respectability than I cared for.

“According to Julia, when she inquired about a reputable astrologer, you told her that since Polasser of Kish was dead, the best to consult would be this foreign woman. I take this to mean that you had consulted with Polasser?”

“Why, yes, I did,” she answered coolly, offering no further information.

“When would this have been?”

“Several times in the last half-year.”

“Not to pry, but, what did you consult with him about?”

“You are prying.”

“And I apologize humbly, but I am trying to frame an impression of what this man was doing. Whoever killed him had a reason and that reason may have had something to do with his clients.”

“Why should that be? Demades was murdered as well. Why not inquire about him?”

“Demades was more of a cipher. Polasser was more colorful and, to be blunt, he was the sort of man to attract enemies.”

“I can see that he might be more enjoyable to investigate, but I certainly wasn’t one of his enemies.”

“I would never suspect that you were.” That was a laugh. “But did anyone of your acquaintance perhaps make remarks indicative of a certain hostility toward the late astrologer?”

“Let me see-” she seemed to go into a reverie, doubtless studying the mental scroll of all her acquaintances together with whatever they might have said. I found this somehow unlikely. Servilia would remember instantly anything pertinent that had been said, who had said it, exactly when, and probably the phase of the moon on that date. For whatever personal reason, she was stalling me. Finally she returned to the world we all know, shaking her head. “No, I can think of nothing.”

“That is unfortunate,” I said. “Caesar will be very unhappy if I do not soon find the man’s killer.” I expected this to strike home considering she wanted to link Caesar’s fortunes to her own, but I was disappointed.

“Caesar,” she said, “will rather quickly get over the death of a foreign astronomer. He has had to cope with a great many deaths, and some of those were persons of importance.” Servilia, patrician to the core, had a fine appreciation of the relative value of people’s lives. To her, Roman patricians were of utmost significance and no one else, Roman or foreign, counted for much at all. I myself, being a Caecilian and a plebeian, was one of those persons of little importance. My wife Julia, who was not only a patrician but a Caesar, was another matter entirely. I could see that I had made a mistake. I should have sent Julia to pump Servilia for more information.

“Nonetheless, I have been charged with this investigation,” I said.

“Which I am sure you will fulfill to everyone’s greatest satisfaction,” she said.

“What’s this?” The voice came from the direction of the atrium and a moment later I saw Brutus emerge from the dimness of the colonnade. He was a dreadfully serious-looking man who always seemed to have deep matters on his mind, although I suspected he spent more time thinking of ways to collect on his outstanding loans than on philosophical matters.

“Decius Caecilius is looking into the deaths of those two astronomers on the Tiber Island, dear,” Servilia said.

“Oh, yes. Terrible business. I shall miss Demades.”

“You knew him?” I said.

“Yes, and I wish I had known him better. He was marvelous when he spoke of his astronomical observations. He could make you feel the excitement of discovery, which can seldom be conveyed on the written page.”

This was new. “I think I know what you mean,” I told him. “The first time I met Sosigenes at the Museum several years ago he almost managed to convey some of the excitement of his work, and I am usually immune to the charms of philosophy. I think it was the enthusiasm he brought to the subject.”

“Yes, that is it exactly. I truly enjoyed talking with him.”

“I marvel to hear you say so,” I said. “Others I have spoken to considered him a dull sort, a drudge.”

“Then you have been speaking with the astrologers and their followers. I prefer philosophy unpolluted with superstition, so I esteemed the company of Sosigenes and Demades and the true astronomers.”

“Now, Brutus,” his mother said through tight lips. To my amazement, Brutus was entirely uncowed.

“Mother, you and your crowd pursue those fraudulent mountebanks like children chasing after the crossroads magicians who make doves appear from empty purses and extract denarii from their ears.”

“That will be quite enough,” she all but hissed, but somehow her son had grown a spine.

“I’ve studied too much philosophy and come to appreciate the truth in it, Mother. I’ve put aside all that childish nonsense about the gods taking a personal hand in the affairs of men and placing the stars in the heavens to tell us whether it’s a good day to arrange an advantageous marriage for a daughter or begin building a house. The gods are far too majestic for such sordid matters.”

She unwound to her feet like a cobra rising and spreading its hood. “That’s not how you talked when your horoscope predicted the highest of destinies for you! And you have forgotten how to treat your mother with respect before strangers.”

“Oh, Decius Caecilius is hardly a stranger, Mother. We’ve known him for rather a long time, haven’t we?”

She turned to me and I confess I flinched back. “Senator, I fear I must be rude and take my leave. I hope my son will be able to help your investigation.” With this she whirled and stalked off, radiating anger in an almost visible miasma.

“She isn’t going to forgive me for witnessing this little scene,” I sighed.

Brutus put a friendly hand on my shoulder, another unexpected gesture. “Pay no heed. Servilia’s day is done. She is an old woman trying to be a young one.”

“She seems to have regained Caesar’s favor,” I said. “I saw him squiring her about just a few days ago.”

“Caesar is the greatest man in the world at this moment,” Brutus said ponderously. “He can have any woman he wants. He already has Cleopatra and even an incredibly rich queen of Egypt is not enough for him. No, he retains a fond memory of his former connection with my mother, that is all.”

“Well, it’s none of my business anyway,” I said. “What is my business is these murders and I would greatly appreciate any help you could give me. I had not known you were acquainted with Demades, much less fond of him.”

He frowned at the pitcher of water and turned to a slave. “Bring the senator something more suitable to drink. The Campanian, from the estate at Baiae.” For once I found myself actually liking Brutus.

“How did you come to meet Demades?” I asked him.

“It was at one of Callista’s salons, shortly after the astronomers arrived from Alexandria. Callista made sure that they were introduced to Rome’s scholarly community. I met Sosigenes and the others at the same time. After that, I saw him from time to time at various gatherings of the philosophical set.”

“You found that they appealed to you?”

“The true astronomers, not the fortune-tellers. As you may have gathered I learned to regard the latter with some distaste. I have studied philosophy for much of my life, but the astronomers struck me as the men of purest thought, matched only by the mathematicians.”

“You mean like the Pythagoreans?” I asked. “I’ve known a few of those.” The slave returned with the wine and it was excellent.

Brutus snorted. “Pythagoreans are to real mathematicians what astrologers are to true astronomers. They are just mystics who cloak their mummery in some of the trappings of philosophy. They propound absurd doctrines of transmigration of souls and commerce with spirits and ridiculous dietary practices and try to justify it all with some basic geometry and progressions of musical notes.”

“I always thought it was rather silly,” I said.

“Men like Demades and Sosigenes are the farthest thing from all that trash. They draw their theories and conclusions only from observable phenomena, eschewing all mysticism and supernatural explanations. If their observable data cannot explain a thing, they look for more data instead of resorting to the supernatural.”

“Admirable,” I murmured.

“Exactly.”

“But where does that put our auguries?” I asked him. “Where does it put most of our religious practice, for that matter?”

“I would never suggest that the gods do not exist,” he said, “but as I told my mother, they are not petty creatures that take an interest in the affairs of individual mortals. They are not Homer’s Olympians. It may be that they take an interest in the fates of entire nations, though I rather doubt the efficacy of discerning their will in the flights of birds, or in thunder and flashes of lightning. These are the beliefs of our primitive ancestors.” He’d been hanging around those Greeks on the island, all right. “At least,” he went on, “the augurs are more dignified than the haruspices, with their examinations of the entrails of sacrificial animals.”

“I’ve never liked that business either,” I agreed.

“The people must have religion and they must see that their leaders are suitably pious. This is essential to social order. One of the wisest provisions of our constitution was to make the priesthoods a part of official office. Thus we have always avoided the dangers of religious fanaticism, and of hereditary priesthoods contending for power with legitimate government. You have been in places where these things prevail, have you not?”

“I have. Things can get quite awful. Egypt, Gaul, Judea, the list goes on.”

“Yes, religion has a place, but it must be a clearly restricted, controlled place. And I feel that the childishness of fortune-telling, divining, astrology, and so forth have no place at all. If I were censor I would drive them all from Rome, and from Roman territory.”

“They’d just come back,” I told him. “They always do. I’ve seen the mountebanks and the mystery cults expelled from Rome three or four times in my lifetime. I would say that right now they are more numerous than ever.”

“You are correct, of course. Something stronger than expulsion is called for. Caesar was rather thorough in cleansing Gaul of Druids.”

Caesar had considered the Druids’ habit of mass human sacrifices distasteful, but it was their political influence he could not countenance. Kings followed their counsel and they were a uniting force among the very disunited Gallic tribes. Caesar had solved the problem by slaughtering them all. I wondered whether that was the fate Brutus had planned for the fortune-tellers. I didn’t like them myself, but it seemed a bit drastic. I decided it was time for a change of subject.

“Did Demades have other admirers? Conversely, did he have enemies? I already know that he disputed with Polasser, but they are both dead, which pretty much clears Polasser of the charge.”

“Why so? Demades was killed first, wasn’t he? Perhaps Polasser killed him, then someone else killed Polasser.”

“That would be a consideration, were it not for the fact that they were killed identically and in a fashion so strange that even Asklepiodes, who knows all about killing people, is having a hard time figuring out how it was done.”

“Really? That is intriguing. What is so unique about it?”

I saw no harm in explaining about the broken necks and the odd marks flanking the vertebrae. Like many other aristocrats Brutus fancied himself an expert amateur wrestler, though he couldn’t have gone a single fall with an expert like Marcus Antonius. With his hands he pantomimed various grips and agreed that it didn’t seem possible with the hands alone. “And the garotte is ruled out, you say? I’ve known some Sicilians who are excellent with the garotte.”

“Asklepiodes says it would leave unmistakable marks.”

“I am sure that I heard Demades mention a person or persons with whom he was in dispute, but it doesn’t stick in my memory because I was far more interested in his teachings and discoveries than in his conflicts, which I assumed to be of an academic nature, not something that might cause his murder.”

“Some people take academic matters seriously,” I said, “but I agree that the killer was proficient in more than the studies of Archimedes and the lectures of Plato.”

“Actually, Plato was better known for his dialogues.”

“Well, whatever it was those philosophical buggers did. I think the killer was more likely a professional assassin.”

“Probably hired, then. He would be the most dangerous sort of assassin, too.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“You can’t disarm such a man by searching him for weapons, can you? It looks as if he doesn’t use any. He could get close to his victims unsuspected. If I were a person of power who feared for his life, it would make me most uncomfortable to know such an assassin was at large.”

“That is an excellent point,” I conceded. “I am not certain that it is germane to this particular case, but I would think that a man like this could be very unsettling, indeed. Of course, killing your victim is only half the job. Getting away alive presents special challenges if you’ve just killed a king.”

“Be sure to let me know when you have this man in custody,” Brutus said. “If you don’t find it necessary to kill him upon apprehension, I would like to interview him. I think he must be a very interesting sort of person.”

“I will be most happy to gratify your wish, should he survive. Should I survive, for that matter. Killers often object to being taken into custody, in my experience.”

“Well, take care. I can lend you a few good bullies should you require a little muscle power.”

“Thank you. I have some of my own. Everyone needs them from time to time.” I rose. “Do send word should you remember any names Demades might have mentioned that I might find interesting.”

He stood and took my hand. “I shall be sure to do so. Good luck, and I wish I could be more helpful. And I do apologize for my mother’s behavior. She hasn’t been the same since Caesar returned.”

“None of us have, I fear.”

Back out on the street I tossed some new thoughts around in my mind as I made my leisurely way toward the Forum. Now I had yet another factor to consider: a professional killer loose in Rome who was far more dangerous than the usual, common murderer. He had a way of killing that was unknown in Rome and could foil most precautions taken by those who had reason to fear assassination.

We Romans of the political classes had always disdained extraordinary precautions against attack. It smacked of unmanliness. We are a martial people and a grown Roman was expected to be able to take care of himself. You were a poor prospect for the legions if you couldn’t. Bodyguards weren’t considered a sign of timidity. It just meant that an attempt on your life would mean a street fight and we always enjoyed street fights.

Assassination of the sort that we associated with the Orient was a different matter. We have always had a horror of poisoning, which is associated in Roman law with witchcraft. We reserve some of our most savage punishments for poisoners, who are usually women who wish to eliminate rivals or objectionable husbands. The idea of a professional with an exotic means of killing was repugnant to the Roman mentality.

The question of the dead Greeks was almost driven from my mind by this new possibility. Maybe this assassin was in Rome for something far different. Maybe the astronomers were a ruse. Maybe this man had been brought to Rome to hunt far bigger game. There was only one victim I could imagine being important enough for such a plot.

* * *

I found him in his new basilica, going over some huge drawings spread on a table. “Ah, Decius Caecilius, come here and tell me what you think.”

“Caesar, I-”

“In a moment. First take a look at this.”

I went to the table and studied the drawings. They seemed to be the plan of a city, one with broad avenues and generous open spaces. It was on a river and I saw the unmistakable outline of the Circus Maximus. “Surely this can’t be Rome!”

“Why not?” Caesar said. “This is Rome as it ought to be, not the overgrown, overcrowded, chaotic village we inhabit. I am going to rebuild the city with streets as wide as Alexandria’s and temples worthy of our gods. It will no longer be subject to disastrous fires and will be a much more healthful place to live.”

“But what will you do with the Rome that is already here?” I asked him.

“Much of it will have to be demolished, of course. I am sure there will be objections at first.”

“I can promise you that. Everyone will have to be relocated. It will be like being transported to an alien city.”

“But a much finer city.”

“That will not matter. Romans love the Rome they know, filthy and chaotic firetrap that she is.”

“They will get used to it,” he maintained imperturbably. “Now, you had something for me?”

“Caius Julius, I think there is an assassin in the city who has come here with the intention of murdering you.”

“Is that all?” He did not look up from his plan, to which he was adding notes and sketches with a reed pen.

“Isn’t it enough?”

“People have been trying to kill me for a long time. None has succeeded.”

“But this man is subtle. He is the one who murdered the astronomers and he is skilled at killing swiftly and without weapons. Guards will turn up nothing by searching him.”

“I have never had anyone searched before coming into my presence, you know that. I am going to widen the open area around the Temple of Vesta and plant a grove there.”

“Very pleasing, I’m sure, but I think you are in serious danger.”

“When the gods decree that I shall die, then I shall die. In the meantime I have much to accomplish.”

“Now you sound like Cleopatra,” I said.

“The queen of Egypt and I have much in common. A sense of personal destiny is one of them. It ill behooves us to fret over things like danger and death. The best thing to do with this assassin is to catch him first. I was rather hoping you could take care of that.”

“I am striving to do so. It is just that I had thought his crimes to be more limited in scope, and I thought you should know about it.”

“I am touched by your concern, Decius. Now be about your duties.”

I walked away fuming. The man just didn’t appreciate either his own danger or my value. He dismissed first-class investigative work as if it were some sort of clerk’s function. I was about ready to join the crowd of anti-Caesarians, but then I reminded myself where the real power lay and what a pack of second-raters they all were. I could swallow a little pride if I had to.

Once again I checked my roster of criminals and lowlifes. Who in Rome might have an idea of where I could find a foreign assassin? Back when my friend Titus Milo was the most prominent gang-leader in Rome he could have turned the man up for me within hours. But Milo was long dead and my own influence was lamentably low these days. Then I remembered Ariston. I headed toward the river port.

Ariston was an ex-pirate who had been of great help to me a few years before, when I was playing admiral and putting down a resurgence by some of his former colleagues. When Pompey had suppressed the pirates in his great campaign, those who wanted to live had surrendered and vowed to move inland and never go to sea again. Ariston had violated this agreement by taking up the sailor’s life once more and had been liable to execution, but with Pompey dead I had secured his pardon. Now he was a more or less a legitimate importer and occasional merchant captain. I hoped he was in his place of business and not sailing to Trapezus or some such faraway place.

The port was always a bustling, smelly place where you could hear every language in the world and see some very odd people indeed. The wharfs were stacked with bales and amphorae and ingots of metal. That day an endless string of barges were being unloaded, their cargo nothing but fabulous marble for Caesar’s endless building projects.

Ariston was in his warehouse, a long, rambling building that fronted on the river with a tile roof and no wall on the river side. He was a big man with a scarred and battered face. He was burned dark brown from constant exposure, which made his blond hair and bright blue eyes even more striking. He grinned when he saw me.

“Senator! You don’t come down here very often. I haven’t seen your accountant lately. Has this new calendar affected our agreement?” As his patron I naturally received a small percentage of his profits every year.

“Not at all. I came to consult with you.” I took his hand.

“Any way I can help. Are you planning a voyage?”

I shuddered. “No, for which I thank all the gods.… It’s a rather sensitive matter.… I’m starving. Let’s find a tavern and get something to eat.”

“I know just the place.” He gave some orders to his slaves and we went a block cityward and into a low-ceilinged dive that had a distinctively smoky aroma. We sat at a table and a server brought the usual bread and oil along with a bowl of roasted and salted peas and another of tiny smoked fish and smoked sausages. That explained the smell of the place. They had big, brick smokers in the back. I took a handful of the crunchy, salted peas, then a few of the fish. The rough red wine common to such places was the perfect accompaniment. “This is excellent,” I told him. “Is the cook a Spaniard?”

“The cook, the owner, his wife, and most of the servers. They brought their smoking process from Cartago Nova.”

I tore off a piece of the tough brown bread and dipped it in oil. “Ariston, I am trying to find a foreigner. He is very dangerous. He’s already killed two men I know about, and I suspect he is not done. Within the last few days he murdered two of the Alexandrian astronomers who have been staying on the Tiber Island.”

“Why do you think it’s a foreigner?”

I told him about the distinctive method of homicide. “Have you ever heard of anything like that?”

He shook his head. “I’ve known men who could break necks bare handed, but it wouldn’t leave marks like that. It may be something oriental, maybe Egyptian. Those people would rather kill a man in some complicated fashion than step right up and stab him, like we would. I’ll ask around. If he’s a professional far from home, he’ll probably be offering his services for pay. You don’t do that right out in the Forum. You go the taverns and brothels and drop a few hints. Sooner or later someone will find you and make an offer.”

“Do that. You’ll do very well out of it if you can help me find him.” I reached into my purse to pay for our lunch and came out with the strange brass coin. I handed it to Ariston. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

He glanced at both sides. “You see them all the time in the Red Sea trade. They’re from India.” He tossed it back, and I caught it and tucked it back.

“Oh,” I said, disappointed. “I found it near the quarters of the Indian astronomer. He must have dropped it. I was hoping it might be something significant. What do the Indians trade for?”

“Spices, dyestuffs, but mainly frankincense. It’s as important in their temples and ceremonies as ours. Speaking of which, I have a line on a cargo that includes some chests of the white Ethiopian frankincense, the most valuable kind. I can get you some cheap.”

“Cheap because it was smuggled or cheap because it was pirated?” I asked.

“Now, Senator,” he chided, “there are some questions you don’t ask.”

“I’ll pass. If you get this cargo, please don’t tell me about it. Sometimes the less I know the better.”

He grinned again. “As you like it, Senator. Your wife wouldn’t mind a gift of white frankincense next Saturnalia though, would she?”

“I don’t see why she should,” I said. There is such a thing as carrying incorruptibility too far, after all.

I left him and trudged back toward the Forum. His remark about Egyptians had set me to thinking. It would not be unlike Cleopatra to have an assassin in her employ. In many quarters, such a specialist is considered merely a tool of statecraft, but she was the one person in Rome I could not suspect of plotting Caesar’s death. What reason would she have for killing her own astronomers? Of course, an Egyptian assassin living at the old embassy could well hire himself out secretly, just to keep in practice. I also had not forgotten that I had almost lost my nose to a pygmy’s arrow in Cleopatra’s house.

Still, there were other easterners in Rome, and among them there was the envoy sent by King Phraates of Parthia. The envoy Caesar had so publicly humiliated just days before.