The Year of Confusion

8

The first time I had seen Archelaus he had been with Cassius. The second time he was in the company of Hyrcanus’s ambassador. I had no idea where he lived. Unlike Egypt, Parthia had never maintained a permanent residence for its embassy. The Parthians sent embassies whenever there was something to discuss or settle with Rome.

Hyrcanus’s ambassador had a house on the Germalus, just a few doors up the Clivus Victoriae from the house where Clodius and his sisters had once lived. It was a very fashionable neighborhood, unlike the Subura, where I lived. The Subura was full of the poorest Romans and many foreigners, but I preferred it.

Some years before, there had been a dispute between princes over succession to the throne of Judea, a not uncommon occurrence in that part of the world. One of the brothers, Hyrcanus, had appealed to Pompey for aid that Pompey had supplied gladly. He was always looking to enlarge his clientela and loved to boast that he had kings among his clients. Now Pompey was dead and Hyrcanus had transferred his allegiance to Caesar. Hyrcanus was a weak man and the real power was his chief advisor, a man named Antipater.

I knew Herod, son of Antipater, from the time of Caesar’s eastern campaigns. The family was of Idumaean Arab origin, and they wore their Jewish religion lightly. Antipater was an enlightened man who selected the best aspects of Hellenistic culture and managed to reconcile them with the beliefs of Hyrcanus’s always recalcitrant and often violently reactionary subjects.

Herod was a man very different from his father. He shared many characteristics with Sulla. He was brilliant and fierce. He combined great personal beauty with a ruthlessness that chilled the hardest of men.

Like Cleopatra, Antipater saw clearly that Rome was the future, and Caesar was the man of the hour, and he guided Hyrcanus wisely. Naturally, he and Cleopatra hated one another with a blind passion.

I had gotten along well with Herod and had ridden with him on bandit-hunting expeditions, which he practiced with the fervor that most eastern monarchs devote to hunting beasts. He and Antonius had become great friends as well.

The ambassador at that time was a Hellenized Jew named Isaac bar Isaac. He was a courtly man and he received me with great courtesy. His hair, beard and clothing were Greek. His Latin was excellent, with only the slightest accent.

“Senator, what a pleasure this is. Do you bring requests from Caesar? Caesar knows that my king is his friend and wishes to put his kingdom at Caesar’s disposal.”

This took me a bit off guard. “Eh? Why, no, I come on another matter entirely. Were you expecting requests from Caesar?”

“Certainly. Caesar will go to war with Parthia. It is only natural that he will wish aid from his ally, King Hyrcanus, in the form of ships, supplies, troops, and so forth, all of which my king is most anxious to provide.”

“Yes, it’s good to have friends like Hyrcanus,” I said. “I take it that he approves of this war?”

He made an eloquent gesture of hands and shoulders. “How not? Parthia is an expanding power and casts envious eyes on Judea. Phraates would very much like to have our fertile lands, our city of Jerusalem and especially our seaports.”

This was news to me but it sounded likely enough. I never heard of a king who thought he had enough land, and since all land is claimed, the only way to get it is to take it from your neighbors. We Romans have taken quite a bit of it that way, though we usually had a good excuse.

“I am sure that Caesar appreciates King Hyrcanus’s manifest friendship with Rome.”

“Excellent. Now, how may I be of help to you?”

“A few days ago I saw Archelaus, the envoy from Phraates, in your company at the house of Queen Cleopatra.”

“Ah, yes,” he sighed. “Both Egypt and Judea are allies of Rome, and Archelaus had hopes of convincing us to intercede with Caesar and avert the war that must come. The queen was most tactful, but she made it plain that Caesar’s will was her own, and that it was futile to expect Egypt to take a separate course.”

“At least she and King Hyrcanus have one thing in common,” I said.

He sighed again. “I do wish that this enmity did not lie between the two monarchs. Yet I must represent my king, and he refuses to recognize the legitimacy of Cleopatra’s claim to the throne of Egypt.”

“Caesar may wish to have a few words with your king concerning that matter.” I had some vague memory that Hyrcanus had supported the claim of one of Cleopatra’s sisters and the sister’s husband to the throne of Ptolemy, but I did not care to get entangled in the affairs of the benighted land of Egypt and its equally benighted neighbors. They might resent it, but most people were far better off just doing as Rome told them rather than trying to manage their own affairs.

“I was wondering,” I said, “if you might be able to tell me where Archelaus is staying here in Rome.”

“But of course. He has taken a house not far from here, just off the Forum Boarium, on the street called Harness Makers.”

I thanked him and took my leave. Like everyone else I had interviewed, Isaac had given me a lot to think about. The politics of the east had always been complicated, which was unsurprising since the place was full of easterners. Its great wealth was always a temptation to our greedy and overambitious politicians. Whatever turmoil was going on in Syria or Bithynia or Pontus or Egypt or Judea had a way of poisoning life in Rome as well.

I had a feeling that Caesar’s one-man rule was all that kept our more warlike senators from falling into civil war over who was to have Egypt or Parthia. The day was long past when Roman statesmen put the good of Rome as a whole ahead of personal gain. What might happen should Caesar die? Much as I disliked dictatorship, I shuddered at the thought of the anarchy that must follow its demise.

Harness Makers Street lay near the Temple of Janus. So near the Circus Maximus it was natural that the many crafts that served the races were concentrated in the district. There were builders of chariots, wheelwrights, makers of axle grease, brewers of horse liniment, artisans who made the souvenir figurines that race fans bought by the ton and, of course, harness makers.

Tanneries smell so foul that they are banned from the city, so working only fully tanned leather is permitted. Thus the street smelled wonderfully of that most fragrant of substances, and I found myself inhaling deeply as I passed the many shops where tanned hides were cunningly carved into long strips, then stitched and riveted into the many kinds of reins, control lines, breast bands, and cruppers required by the specialized sport of chariot racing.

The two outer horses on a four-horse team are not yoked and must be controlled by the complicated strapping system alone, a tremendously demanding skill and only the finest leather work will do. Newly dyed harness hung from tall drying-racks after being given the colors of the four racing factions.

Still other workers applied the gleaming brass ornamentation to the finished harnesses. In one shop I saw chariots that were little more than skeletons having the webwork of leather strips that form the front, sides, and floor applied to them. Racing chariots are kept as light as possible and are little more than a pair of wheels and an axle with a tiny platform for the charioteer to stand on. The front of the chariot comes no higher than the driver’s knees. To look at them, they seem so flimsy one wonders why they do not fly apart under the stresses of racing.

Yet I had seen Britons go into battle in chariots little more substantial, though they carried two men rather than one. In fact I never saw a chariot without feeling a twinge in my leg. I was once run over by a British chariot and had almost lost that leg. The fact that I still had it was due to the skills and exertions of Caesar’s personal surgeon, a man whose mastery was as great as that of Asklepiodes.

A few questions led me to a three-storied house with a facade painted a vivid yellow, which was a sensible precaution in this part of town. To paint your house red, blue, white, or green would be to declare allegiance to one of the factions and could lead to its being attacked in one of the occasional riots that erupted between the supporters of one color and another. Nonetheless, the ground floor wall was decorated with paintings of the races, not an uncommon motif in the area.

The doorkeeper announced me and soon the tall, saturnine Archelaus appeared. “Senator, welcome to my house.” He took my hands as if no enmity at all lay between our nations. Or, rather, between Rome and Parthia, since he was not of that nation himself. “Please, come with me.” Instead of going to the usual poolside, he led me up three flights of stairs to the roof of the house, which had been turned into a garden with flower boxes, planters, and small trees growing in big clay pots. The arbors overhead were bare, but it was a warm day for the time of year and it was a delightful place to converse. It had a fine view of the imposing northern face of the Circus.

We took chairs beautifully woven from wicker and paused while the usual delicacies were laid out and then did not talk of important things while we ate. He was a Roman citizen from a long-Hellenized part of the east, but I knew that he would follow the eastern practice of eschewing business until a guest has eaten. This was not a difficult habit to gratify, because he laid a table that was a combination of modesty and sumptuousness. Nothing was so bulky as to suggest a full meal, which would have its own set of rituals, but the ingredients of the small dishes were all of the highest quality. The hard-boiled eggs had been halved and the yolks combined with a paste of anchovies, olives, and vinegar and the broiled quail were stuffed with pine-nuts.

Replete, I produced an appreciative belch and set to business. “First, Archelaus, let me express my sympathy for your plight. That scene in the Senate the other day was uncalled for. It was also very unlike Caesar.”

“A number of your colleagues have called upon me and have expressed the same thing. I will not take it as characteristic of the Senate of Rome as a whole.”

“Nor of the Roman people,” I said. “They love Caesar but few Romans are keen on another war with Parthia. They loathed the expedition of Crassus and think he got what he deserved at Carrhae. It was a great shame that so many good Romans died there as well, but it is to be expected when a fool is in charge. I, too, would like to get our eagles back through negotiation.”

“That is understood. Do you bring me a private message from Caesar?”

Everybody expected me to be Caesar’s messenger. I suppose it was a logical assumption. “I’m afraid not. Actually, I come on a matter concerning my investigation of the murdered astronomers.”

“I was wondering how that was progressing. Poor Demades. And he was soon followed by Polasser of Kish, I hear.”

“That is the case. You recall that the neck of Demades was broken in a most singular manner?”

“Vividly.”

“Polasser died in an identical manner. I have reason to believe that both were murdered by a professional assassin who hails from the eastern parts of the world.”

He considered this. “And I, although a Roman citizen, am from the east, but why would I want two astronomers killed?”

“Oh, please don’t misunderstand. I do not suspect you of any complicity. I think this killer is most probably a freelancer who has hired himself out, probably to a Roman employer. You have recently arrived from the east. You represent a great monarch, so I assume you traveled with an entourage befitting your station?”

“The king wanted me to have a much larger one,” he said, “but I urged upon him that in the west embassies are expected to be modest. However, he insisted that I take what he considered an absolutely minimal escort of guards and servants. I managed to avoid the entertainers and huntsmen and dog handlers.”

“Are any of those men with you here in Rome?”

“Just one or two here in the house. The rest are in quarters across the river, on the via Aurelia.”

“I will wish to go out there and have a look at them,” I told him.

“Assuredly. I shall send instructions that you are to receive fullest cooperation. Do you wish to inspect the household staff?”

“I hate to put you to the trouble, but I must. Only those who came with you from the east. Not your personal staff, but those pressed on you by Phraates.”

“No trouble at all.” He summoned his steward and ordered the staff be assembled. He did this with the greatest graciousness, but that was because he was a professional diplomat. Personally, I would have been offended by such a request, but my duties overrode personal feelings.

A short time later the steward reappeared, followed by a small group of men and women who wore puzzled expressions. Some of them had markedly eastern features. I dismissed the women. I had known a number of women to commit murder, usually by poisoning, a few who killed their victims with daggers, even one strangler, but I could not imagine a woman as a neck-breaker. It’s difficult enough for a man to do.

Of the men one was clearly too old so I dismissed him. The three who remained looked young enough and strong enough for the task. One in particular struck me as suspicious. He was a short but burly man with a scarred, pockmarked face and a massive beak of a nose. He wore a long eastern robe and he had the look of a man handy with weapons. Across his forehead lay a pale welt, such as is caused by wearing a helmet for many years.

“Where are you from?” I asked him.

He bowed and touched his spread fingertips to his breast. “I am from Arabia, my lord, but I have served in the army of King Phraates for many years.”

“Were you at Carrhae?” I asked him.

“No, my lord. I rode in the desert patrol until I was assigned to the bodyguard of Ambassador Archelaus.”

“What is the nature of your duty here in the City?”

“When my master must go out at night, I accompany him as a bodyguard, my lord.”

“Show me your hands.”

Mystified, he complied, displaying his hands palm-up. I took them in mine and examined them visually and by touch. They were callused from long practice with sword, spear, and shield, but they lacked the marks common to a wrestler’s hands, and the base between the wrist and the smallest finger was not hardened as on the hand of a pankratist.

“Your people do not practice unarmed fighting, do they?”

“No, Senator. Forgive me, but we consider such brawling beneath the dignity of a warrior.”

“I was afraid of that. All right, Archelaus, you may dismiss these to their duties.”

He saw me to the door. “I am sorry I could not be of more help.”

“Oh, one never knows what may turn out to be helpful. I thank you.”

“When will you wish to see my people on the via Aurelia?”

“Oh, I shall find time soon. Do not concern yourself.” Of course I did not wish him sending word ahead that I was coming. I had little suspicion of him or his people, but it always pays to be cautious.

By now the afternoon was well advanced. On most days I would have made my way to the baths and idled away the rest of the day with ease and gossip, but needed something more active. I felt that my waistline was going soft, and that I was getting slow. That would not do. Murder investigations can often be fraught with the danger of personal violence. Ordinary daily life in Rome at that time presented even more such danger. And, as Julia never tired of pointing out, Caesar might at any time put me in command of an army and send me off to fight Sextus Pompey or conquer Ethiopia or something of the sort. As a propraetorian I was supposedly qualified for such martial distinction, but I felt that merely having held the requisite offices did not make anyone a competent general, however hallowed with antiquity the custom might be. Still, the choice would not be mine to make.

There were exercise facilities at the baths, of course, but I needed something livelier, so I crossed the river and went to the ludus. Hermes was still there, and for once I wasn’t displeased. He was supposed to be attending upon me by noon, even if I didn’t want him with me but he would spend his life at the ludus if I let him. Since I had imprudently given him his freedom, he abused his new status shamefully.

Just then I needed a sparring partner and the gladiators were seldom satisfactory for this purpose. Either they were overawed by my senatorial status and wouldn’t give me a good fight or they were vicious brutes who would beat me bloody for the fun of it. Hermes had long experience of both my abilities and my temper.

When I entered the training yard the head trainer strode up to me. “Are you here to see the doctor, Senator? I’m afraid he went off somewhere this morning and he’s not back yet.” This man, like all the trainers, was an old champion. His arena name was Petraites and his many dreadful scars displayed Asklepiodes’ expert stitching. He belonged to what we still called the Samnite school in those days. That meant he fought with the large, legionary-style shield and the short sword, usually with a helmet and at least one leg guard, and always wearing the wide, bronze belt of our old Samnite enemies. The biggest and strongest men fought in this category. Since the Samnites have been citizens for the last generation, the First Citizen has renamed this style of fighter the Murmillo. He has a passion for putting everything into strict categories.

“No, Petraites, I’ve come for a workout. I’m getting soft.”

“Always a good idea to keep up your sword work. Some of your fellow senators are here today. With a big war coming up, a lot of them want to sweat a little lard off before they have to go off to Parthia.”

It was not at all unusual for highborn men to train with the funeral fighters back then. That is another thing the First Citizen has cracked down on. He doesn’t like aristocrats to mix with the scum. In those days the fighters were mostly volunteers and even condemned criminals and prisoners of war often re-enlisted after they’d survived their sentences, because it was a good life for a poor man with no marketable skills. You could get killed, but then senators got killed, too. Everybody else, for that matter.

For a while I watched the men train. Slave and free, volunteer fighters and condemned men, equites and senators, they were slashing and sweating with a will. Some of the highborn men were surprisingly expert. I saw the great senator Balbus practicing with a famous Thracian named Bato. That is to say, he belonged to the Thracian school and fought with the small shield and the short, curved sword, with both legs protected by armor. He was Illyrian by birth. Balbus of course used legionary weapons, similar to the Samnite.

“Senator Balbus could be a top professional,” Petraites said admiringly. “I think he’s the strongest man in Rome, and he fights like he was born with a sword in his hand. Maybe it’s the Spaniard in him. They’re great warriors.” Balbus was a rare non-Roman in the Senate, a man who had gained his rank through his services to Rome and his personal friendship with Pompey and Caesar. “Your boy Hermes could make you a fortune in the arena, Senator, if you’d let him. He’s an excellent light swordsman. Not enough bulk for a Samnite and he’s not comfortable with Thracian armor, but as a Gaul, with the narrow, oval shield and light helmet and no armor, he’d be perfect.”

“He’d like nothing better,” I said, “but I’ve forbidden him to fight professionally. And he’s not my ‘boy’ anymore. I freed him a while back. Luckily, I still have some control over his more foolish leanings.” At that moment Hermes was sparring with a dreadfully earnest-looking youth whose tunic had the stripe of an equites, doubtless recently made a Tribune of the Soldiers and soon to join a legion. Hermes was a joy to watch. He fought with grace and style, but he lacked the true brutishness that a professional must have to survive for years in the arena. When they were done with their bout I joined them. Hermes looked only a little shamefaced.

“Senator, this is Publius Sulpicius Saxo, who will be serving with Voconius Naso next year.” Naso was one of that year’s praetors, and sure to be given a legion command if not a province. You could never tell, with a dictator in power.

“Family connection?” I asked.

“I’m his son-in law.” He didn’t look old enough to be married, much less hold a tribuneship. I wondered if I could ever have been that young. Then I recalled that I had been this boy’s age when I was sent out to Spain as a military tribune to fight Sertorious. That was where I acquired the biggest of my facial scars.

“Hermes is a good instructor to teach you swordplay,” I told him. “Have you considered the gear you’re going to take with you?”

“Ah, I am not sure I understand,” the boy said.

“Simple enough. If it’s Spain or Gaul, you want the best sword you can buy. Get Gallic swords if you can, both a short sword for foot-fighting and a longsword for horseback. If it’s Macedonia, you want the best horses you can get. If it’s Parthia, don’t stint on your armor, because those buggers love to shoot you full of arrows. Greek plate armor is the best over there, the arrows just glance off.”

“Ah, thank you, Senator. I shall remember your advice.”

“No you won’t. You’ll probably just get killed like all the other young fools who go out to join the eagles with their heads stuffed with Homer and stories about Horatius.”

He wandered off, shaking his head. “A little rough on him, weren’t you?” Hermes chided.

“I just gave him almost the same advice my father gave me when I went off to Spain. Only the probable theaters of operation are different. I didn’t listen, why should he?”

I went to one of the equipment racks and tossed my toga atop it, then selected a wicker practice shield and a wooden sword. These were weighted to give them the feel and balance of real arms. Gladiators often trained with double-weight and even triple-weight arms, to build up strength and to make the real arms feel light when they went to fight seriously. I had always considered this a questionable practice and Asklepiodes concurred. He said that it caused more injuries in training than anything else.

“All right,” I said to Hermes, “Let’s fight.”

“I’m tired!” he protested. “I’ve been here all day!”

“That’s your fault,” I told him. “Now suffer for it.” I launched an attack at his face, forcing him to raise his shield, then I went low with a stab at his leading thigh. He evaded both easily. Tired or not, he was about fifteen years younger and trained daily with the sword. We contended for a long while, and I almost got the better of him a few times, but in the end he wore me down and I had to call a halt. We got a polite round of applause from the spectators and Balbus relieved me of my shield and sword, which I could barely lift by that time.

“You’re not too far off your best form, Decius Caecilius,” he said.

“You are too kind. I’m getting old and slow.”

“But you have a lot of sneaky and treacherous moves. That makes up for a bit of slowness brought on by age.”

“I’ve always prided myself on my utter lack of honor on the battlefield.” I saw Asklepiodes standing by in the crowd that had been watching. “Please excuse me, I need to speak to the physician.”

“I need to confer with him myself,” Balbus said. So we went over to him.

“Fine fighting on both your parts,” the Greek commended.

“I’m not a patch on Senator Balbus,” I said truthfully.

“Doctor,” Balbus said, “I have some sort of strain in my right leg that needs attention. Come, I’ll treat all of us to dinner.”

“I’ve been out all day,” Asklepiodes protested. “Let’s go to my apartments and I’ll have dinner brought in.” Physicians are usually eager to sponge dinner off somebody else, but Asklepiodes had grown wealthy with his uncanny ability to cure wounds. Treating the gladiators of the school took up no more than half of his time. There was so much fighting among Romans of the ruling class in those days that he made a fortune sewing up the cuts and stabs that adorned aristocratic hides like military decorations. He once reduced a depressed skull fracture right in the Curia Hostilia when the clubbed senator was too severely injured to be moved.

In his spacious receiving room we sat and relaxed among his vast collection of weapons. He gave orders to his silent slaves in their incomprehensible Egyptian dialect and then he went to Balbus. “Let’s have a look at that leg.”

Obediently, Balbus put his foot on a sort of footstool that Asklepiodes had devised for displaying and immobilizing the leg. The Greek set about feeling that brawny limb and making wise noises.

“What will it be, Balbus?” I asked. “Parthia?”

“Almost certainly. Caesar is my patron, and just now he’s on the outs with Antonius, so I’ll probably go as his legate, if not Master of Horse. Antonius is to stay in Rome.”

“So I’ve heard. My wife thinks he’ll loot the whole city.”

“Unlikely. He’ll squeeze, but he’s a better politician than that. Caesar will return someday, and Antonius will want to be in his good graces.”

“I am not so sure. Antonius’s propensity for extreme behavior has astonished men even more cynical than I.”

“Then we shall see how much he fears Caesar.”

Asklepiodes finished with his examination. “You will have to give this limb a rest for at least a month. You have strained the tendons of your knee and they need time to heal. I know it is difficult for a man as active as you to rest and relax, but I must insist upon it: no running, wrestling, or fighting for at least a month. You may ride, but be very careful in dismounting and remember to favor this leg.”

“That sounds like a bore,” Balbus said.

“Nonetheless, it is what you must do,” Asklepiodes insisted. “If you injure it further it may give you trouble for the rest of your life.”

Balbus eyed his thick knee dubiously. “It looks all right.”

Asklepiodes sighed like any other expert having to put up with the objections of an ignoramus. “The damage is internal and therefore not visible, but you can feel it, can you not? It needs time to heal just like a cut or a broken bone. Therefore I adjure you to do as I say.”

“I’ll do it,” he grumped.

“Some people must be convinced to stay alive and well,” the physician observed.

“Any progress on the neck-breakings?” I asked.

“I’ve heard some talk about this,” Balbus said. “What is the problem?”

So yet again we had to explain about the broken necks and the strange marks and the physician’s puzzlement over the leverage applied. Like Brutus, Balbus pantomimed the act with his enormous hands, with which he could probably have twisted a man’s head clean off had he so wished. “I see what you mean,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Somehow you have to bring the two first knuckles of each hand to bear against the spine just below the skull, one hand to each side of the spinal column, and exert enough force to separate the vertebrae.”

“You have a fine grasp of anatomy,” Asklepiodes commended.

“My old wrestling instructor probably knew as much about the subject as you, doctor.”

“A Greek, I presume?” Asklepiodes said.

“No, a Phoenician from Cartago Nova.”

“I see. They are also quite expert in the anatomical arts, for barbarians.”

“I can almost picture in my mind how it could be done,” Balbus said, frowning, “but somehow it will not become clear. Tonight I’ll sacrifice to my family gods and maybe they’ll send me a dream that will reveal the technique to me.”

“I hope your gods are more cooperative than mine,” said Asklepiodes. “I’ve been sacrificing regularly with no results so far.”

The slaves brought in our dinner and we applied ourselves to it, speaking of gossip and inconsequentialities for a while. My mind wandered to my recent conversation with Archelaus.

“What do you think of that extraordinary scene in the Senate, Balbus?”

He set his cup down. “You mean Caesar’s dressing down of the Parthian ambassador? It was rough, but I’ve known Spanish kings to skin an offending ambassador alive and send his tanned hide to his sovereign as an answer.”

“We are a bit more sophisticated here in Rome,” I said, “and Caesar is sophisticated even for a Roman.”

“Caesar isn’t a young man anymore,” Balbus observed. “Old men sometimes get cranky.”

“That’s just what Rome needs,” I said. “A cranky dictator. Peevishness isn’t something you want in a man who holds absolute power.” It made me think of all those oriental tyrants to whom the anti-Caesarians were always comparing him.

“Do you think Caesar may be ill?” Asklepiodes said.

“Eh?” said Balbus.

“I have known him only slightly,” said the Greek, “but he has always seemed the soul of congeniality, and of course he is famed the world over for his clemency. But any man’s good nature can be warped by debilitating disease, especially so if it is one of the terribly painful ones.”

“Now I think of it,” Balbus said, “that day he came in by way of the door to the rear of the consular podium, and left the same way, instead of coming up the front steps.”

“You’re right,” I said. “In all the excitement I forgot that. Maybe he didn’t want to be seen looking infirm.”

This gave me much to think about and that evening I spoke with Julia concerning this alarming possibility.

“Why would he conceal an illness?” she asked, frowning.

“Because a man who holds absolute power dares not show the slightest hint of weakness. It could be eating away at him, too. He still feels he has great things to accomplish, but the years and infirmity have crept up on him. It’s the sort of thing that can make even Caesar ill-tempered. He hasn’t yet outshone Alexander so he has to win this Parthian war and after that, I suspect, India.”

“Nonsense! He only wishes to set the republic back in order. Then he will retire.”

“Retire? Caius Julius Caesar? He’ll retire when Jupiter retires from Olympus. I want to know about this. Pay a call upon your uncle. Pump Servilia for information. She’s been with him more than anyone else lately.”

“I’ll do it, but I think you are wrong. This Archelaus must have done something to provoke him. You’ve said yourself that my uncle was rather sharp with Gallic and German envoys when their rulers had behaved haughtily.”

“So Archelaus did, but a Roman citizen is not the same thing as a barbarian, and the king of Parthia is a monarch worthy of respect, even if he is an enemy. It is unlike Caesar to treat one he considers a peer disrespectfully.”

“It does seem odd,” she said, not protesting that Caesar would never consider a king his peer.