The Year of Confusion

9

Now I had another complication in an investigation that was sufficiently complex as it was. Might Caesar be seriously ill, and, if so, what might this portend? I mulled this over as I crossed the Forum, closely attended by Hermes.

“I don’t see how Caesar’s being sick-” Hermes began.

“if he’s sick,” I said.

“-If he’s sick-should have anything to do with some murdered astronomers.”

“It shouldn’t. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a connection.”

“That sounds very profound. What do you mean?” We found a vacant bench just outside the enclosure of the Lacus Curtius and sat. Since I wasn’t very popular lately we weren’t disturbed by too many well-wishers.

“I’ve been concentrating on this almost to the exclusion of all else since my conversation with Asklepiodes and Balbus yesterday. Certain facts seem to come together and are probably related. Caesar is determined to outshine Alexander the Great, but Caesar is getting old. He may well be sick, perhaps deathly sick. He has always been the soul of rationality, so much so that even his seeming follies always prove to be shrewdly calculated. Yet now he has begun to behave irrationally. His brutal treatment of Archelaus in the Senate was perhaps the most public example.”

“Clear so far,” Hermes said, “though I fail to see where this is going.”

“Be patient. Asklepiodes noted that severe illness affects a man’s nature. A great and thwarted ambition can do the same. Suppose both factors were present here.”

“All right, I’m supposing it. I’m still not coming up with anything.”

“You aren’t thinking very clearly today. I think you need something to eat, maybe some wine to go with it.”

“It would be ill-mannered to indulge myself alone, in front of my patron. You must join me.”

“I accept your invitation.” So we went to a nearby tavern and loaded up on sausages and onions grilled over charcoal and chunks of ripe cheese, along with plenty of rough, peasant wine. This is the sort of fare that promotes clarity of thought. At length Hermes sat back and belched with satisfaction.

“Has anything come to you?” I asked, downing the last sausage.

“I think so. I’m not well read, but I’ve heard a bit about great and ambitious men, and we’ve encountered a few of them. Most are very concerned with their greatness and reputation and how they will be remembered.”

“I knew some food and wine would do you good,” I commented. “Continue.”

“Some of them, especially as they grow older, turn to oracles and fortune-tellers to reassure themselves that their fame will live forever. Marius and Sertorius were famous for it. Pompey, too.”

“Excellent. Now connect that to our current investigation.”

“Caesar may be consulting astrologers.”

“On the day Polasser was killed, Cassius hinted that he was seeking a horoscope for Caesar. He didn’t speak the name, but he could hardly have meant anyone else, and it was Polasser he wanted to consult with.”

“Caesar also showed up with Servilia at the house of Callista,” Hermes pointed out. “Do you think Callista may be involved somehow?”

“I would hate to think that, but it has crossed my mind, I confess. She knows all the Greek astronomers, all sorts of people attend her salons, not just intellectuals but politicians and wealthy parvenus and foreigners of all sorts. It’s an excellent venue for carrying out a conspiracy.”

“But a conspiracy to do what?” Hermes asked.

“That I haven’t figured out yet.”

Then he surprised me. “So where does all of this come together?”

“Eh?”

“Where do all the paths cross? Where is-what is the word? — where is the nexus?”

“That is an excellent question. There may be more than one. There is the Tiber Island, for instance. Both murders occurred there. And there is the house of that odd foreign woman. A lot of the women involved went there.”

“Maybe we should talk to her.”

I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of it first. “Splendid idea. Let’s go call on her.”

From where we were, the shortest way across the river was to take the Aemilian Bridge, which leads to the via Aurelia, the highway that goes north along the coast of Latium and Etruria. Once over the bridge we turned left, away from the via Aurelia and into the sprawl of the Trans-Tiber district, and thence up the slope of the Janiculum.

The crest of this “Eighth Hill of Rome” was the site of a fort erected in the old days to guard against attack by our old enemies, the Etruscans. The fort had long since fallen into ruin but its great flagpole still stood, flying its long, red banner. By ancient tradition, the banner was to be lowered at the approach of an enemy. More than one politician had forestalled a vote or closed a court by having a confederate go up the Janiculum and lower the flag. At an opportune moment, the politician would point to the hill and proclaim that the flag was not flying. By ancient custom all official business had to halt while the citizens assembled in arms, even though they knew that there could not be a hostile army within a thousand miles.

Slowly, new houses were encroaching upon the slopes of the hill. It had been so long since a foreign army had attacked Rome that people had little fear of building outside the walls, and land here was much cheaper than within the City. Some imposing homes now stood on the Janiculum, mostly those of wealthy equites and foreigners, as an address outside the pomerium was considered unfitting for patricians and consulars.

We climbed until the buildings thinned out and found a fine, new house that looked as if it had to be the one Julia had described. It was surrounded by new and very expensive plantings. The formal garden was as impressive as Julia had intimated, with numerous fruit trees planted in huge tufa pots. I wondered how the inhabitants got water so high up, as the Trans-Tiber was not served by a great aqueduct in those days.

“I know land is cheap here, compared to the City proper,” Hermes noted, “but somebody has spent substantially on this place.”

“My own thought,” I concurred. “This woman is not the sort who tells fortunes in the Forum for a few copper asses.”

We went to the door and Hermes knocked. To my surprise, Ashthuva herself opened it. I knew it had to be Ashthuva, as Julia’s description had been so thorough. Briefly, I wondered why someone so obviously prosperous had no doorkeeper for this task, but the woman herself had a way of driving all lesser thoughts from a man’s mind.

In my life I had encountered many beautiful women, some of them exotic in the extreme, but I had never beheld one quite like this. Her regularity of feature and glowing, tawny skin were astonishingly set off by the dots and lines of color painted on her forehead, cheeks and chin. The gown, or rather wrapping, as Julia had described it, was gold this day, covering her as securely as an Egyptian mummy, but with tantalizing glimpses of flesh here and there. The huge red navel jewel was in place. But most enticing of all was her perfume, which Julia for some reason had not mentioned. It was an amalgam of flowers and spices and something indescribable, just below the level of consciousness, but not above the level of the testes, which this fragrance sent into an uproar.

“Yes, Senator?” the woman said in a voice so furry that it constituted a full-body caress. She placed her hands together, scarlet nails pointed upward just below her chin, and performed that serpentine bow Julia had described as wonderfully graceful, and that I perceived as unutterably lascivious. I had never seen every part of a woman’s body in such enticing motion except among certain supremely accomplished Spanish dancers of the sort that were frequently forbidden by the censors to enter Rome lest they endanger public morals.

“Ah, well, I am Senator Metellus and I-ah, that is to say-” I had been more articulate in the presence of German chieftains bent upon my torture and slow death.

“Good lady,” Hermes said, no less stimulated than I, but in better control of himself, “the senator is engaged in an investigation on behalf of the dictator. We must ask you a few questions, if we may.”

“Of course. Please come in.” We passed within and like Julia I smelled fresh paint and new plaster. The decorations were astrological and clearly had been done by artists trained in the Greek tradition; I saw no Chaldean or Egyptian influence.

We followed her and the rear view was as maddening as the front. Hermes’ eyes popped and his breathing became labored. I nudged him in the ribs, but I had no cause to pride myself upon my self-control. I found that I had to adjust the front of my toga for the sake of decency.

She led us to a room Julia apparently had not seen. It was illuminated, amazingly, by a skylight composed of a framework of lead strips in which were secured hundreds of small panes of colored glass. They formed no recognizable picture, but they seemed to be arranged in some subtle pattern I could not quite make out. It shed an unsettling light.

“Please be seated, gentlemen,” she said in a way that turned that commonplace phrase into something sublimely seductive. There was no proper furniture, but the floor was nearly covered by heavily stuffed cushions, colorfully dyed. We collapsed with unseemly haste. Fragrant herbs were included in the stuffing of the cushions. It seemed that no sensual refinement went overlooked in this household.

“Please excuse me while I go see to your refreshment.” When she was gone Hermes turned to me.

“Did Julia mention that this woman is like some sort of Syrian fertility goddess?”

“No, but that was an all-female group that night. Maybe her magic only works on men.” But I remembered that Callista had said Ashthuva had exercised seductive tactics upon her.

Moments later the woman was back with a tray of delicacies and a pitcher. We had just eaten, but the formalities had to be observed. The snacks seemed to be an amalgam of meats, fruit, vegetables, and eggs, chopped and mixed so that nothing was recognizable, fried and served on tiny squares of crisp, unleavened bread. It was highly seasoned and I found it delicious. The wine was excessively sweet and I judged it to be Syrian. Might that be where this woman was from?

“What interest might so exalted a person as the dictator Caesar have in me?” she asked when we had downed a few bites.

“The dictator has assigned me to investigate the murders of two astronomers on the Tiber Island.”

“Oh, yes, I had heard about that. How terrible.” She made a strange gesture of head and one shoulder that is difficult to describe. I remembered my conversation with Callista about how each culture has its own vocabulary of gestures and I wondered what this one might signify. Horror, perhaps.

“One of the victims was a notable astrologer, the one who called himself Polasser of Kish. Did you know him?”

She made another gesture, this one a flick of her right hand, which I guessed to denote denial. “No, Senator. There is no guild of astrologers. We tend to be solitary, not gregarious. An astrologer may have apprentices, but rarely colleagues.”

“That seems odd,” I said. “Astronomers are always flocking together to talk and argue.”

“That is because, like philosophers, they are always coming up with something new and want to discuss it with their peers. Astrology is a very ancient art, and it never changes. All was discovered before human memory, and there are no new findings.”

“I never thought of it that way,” I admitted. “That is an observation worthy of Callista herself.”

She inhaled sharply. “Ah! I met that learned lady just a few nights ago. She is the most remarkable woman I have ever encountered.”

“She was quite impressed by you, as well,” I said. I could have bitten my tongue. It was stupid of me to let her know that I had been discussing her with Callista. This woman’s awesome sexuality drove my cautious instincts clear out of my head. “But I fear she has little regard for your art,” I went on.

She smiled unsettlingly. “But, Senator, I have many arts.”

I’ll just bet you do, I thought. “She has a philosophical aversion to astrology, I fear.”

“And I have little use for Greek philosophy. People need not agree on everything to find one another appealing.”

“Just so,” I said, wondering how our conversation had taken this odd turn. Then I remembered that I had started it by mentioning Callista. “So, you never met Demades?”

“Demades?” she said.

“The senator meant Polasser,” Hermes said, coming to my rescue. “Demades was the other murdered astronomer, the one who did not practice astrology.”

“I knew neither of them,” she said. “In fact, I know none of the men who have been working on Caesar’s new calendar.”

“Is this because most of your clients are women?” I hazarded.

“No, because they are Greek philosophers and would seek out an astrologer of their own nationality, should they have need of one. But it is true that most of my clients are women.”

“Rich and well-born ones at that,” I said.

She surprised me by not denying it. “Such women have the greatest concerns, especially for their husbands and sons. Not all are well-born, though. Some of my clients are freedwomen, especially those whose men are risk-taking merchants and travelers. The well-being of such people is always precarious.”

“Servilia is one of your clients,” I said. “I assume she is concerned for the future of her son, Brutus. Does she want to know if he is to be Caesar’s heir?”

“Senator, you must understand that I cannot discuss the affairs of my clients. It would be unethical.”

I wondered of what the ethics of an astrologer might consist. “Ashthuva, I am here at the behest of the dictator. I am empowered to demand the cooperation of anyone I feel it necessary to question.” As long as they are not too powerful and influential, I failed to add.

“I assure you, Senator, that the dictator Caesar would not wish me to answer that question, nor any other about either himself or the Lady Servilia.” This was accompanied by a gesture of her whole body that put me in mind of several venomous serpents I had encountered in Egypt. This was one gesture, however unfamiliar, the meaning of which was unmistakable: It was pure threat.

I knew when to back off. “I’ll discuss it with him, then.”

“I regret that I can be of so little help to you.”

“Your presence alone is gratifying,” I assured her.

She beamed, all menace gone and the seductiveness back in full force. “And it is a great pleasure to me to meet one of the most interesting men in Rome. I have been hearing about you for some time, and meeting your wife made me even more intrigued with you.”

“The horoscope you cast for Julia predicts a rather dreary future for me,” I said.

“Only at the end. And, Senator, I have foreseen far worse futures than yours.”

Something occurred to me. “Is Queen Cleopatra among your clients?”

“I have met her,” she said, “but not in a professional capacity. I was invited to one of her parties shortly after her arrival in Rome.”

“Invited personally by the queen herself?”

She put her palms together and bowed over them. “I am far too lowly a person to merit the personal attention of a great queen. I attended as the guest of one of my clients, a lady of high position. It seems that, at Queen Cleopatra’s parties, it is customary for invited guests to bring along as many friends as they please. It is expected that such persons should be interesting and amusing.”

“This lady could hardly have chosen a more interesting person,” I assured her.

“You are too kind, Senator.”

“Not at all,” I said, rising, “and now I fear I must tear myself away from you. I have other calls to make.”

She rose, but far more sinuously than I. “Please call again. If you like, I can cast a far more detailed horoscope for you.”

“Please do not,” I urged. “The last thing I want is to know what is going to happen to me. Some forms of ignorance are a blessing, and that is one of them.”

She smiled again. Even her teeth were dazzling, the whitest I had ever seen, beautifully set off by her dark complexion and red-stained lips. “More people should possess your wisdom, though it would ruin my profession.”

Once outside, we walked a few paces from the house, then I stopped. “Wait a bit,” I told Hermes. “I have to get my breathing back to normal.”

“Maybe a plunge in the frigidarium would help,” he said.

“That woman could turn an Egyptian eunuch into a stallion.”

“She could inspire an erection from an Egyptian mummy,” Hermes said. “She may be wealthy from her fortune-telling, but if she ever turns professional whore she’ll be as rich as Cleopatra.”

We started down the hill. “Hermes, I would rather hold a bridge single-handed against an invading army than meddle in an affair as full of dangerous women as this one.”

“It doesn’t help that Caesar is withholding information from you.”

“That is the truth,” I said bitterly, “but then, just about everybody I’ve questioned so far is lying and holding back. Nothing new about that. Cleopatra has me shot in the nose when Servilia’s name comes up; Servilia gives me the viper treatment when I dare to question her about anything. Cassius drops dark hints about obtaining a horoscope for Caesar-” I threw up my hands in disgust. “So far, it seems only Brutus has been straight with me, not that he knows much. Even Callista-” Some fragments of memory clicked together.

“Callista?” Hermes said.

“Callista said that Brutus had been at one of Cleopatra’s parties and he talked for a long time with that Indian astronomer, not about astronomy but about some Indian belief in the transmigration of souls.”

“What of it?”

“She said that it was because Brutus was studying Pythagoreanism. The Pythagoreans also believe in transmigration of souls. Yet when I spoke with Brutus he spoke disparagingly of them. He said they were to true mathematicians what the astrologers are to true astronomers.”

“Maybe it was a temporary interest and he grew disillusioned with them,” Hermes said.

“That could be it, I suppose. One more anomaly to cloud the waters.”

“So what next?”

“Something I’ve been trying to avoid. Now I have to talk to Fulvia.” Hermes began to grin broadly. “It won’t be much fun this time,” I told him. “She lives in the house of Antonius now.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, his face falling. “I’d forgotten that.” In previous years, when we had called on Fulvia she had lived in a house famous for the beauty of its female and male slaves. The house of Antonius would undoubtedly be different.

We made our way to the Palatine where that domicile lay. The doorkeeper looked like a professional wrestler and the major domo who received us was clearly one of Antonius’s soldiers. The atrium was full of war trophies, weapons, and other masculine accoutrements. On the other hand, the courtyard to which he led us was full of beautiful sculpture, some of which I remembered from Fulvia’s other houses. Clearly, interior decoration was a matter of some contention in this household.

The lady herself came out to greet us and we went through the usual formalities. Fulvia was tiny, voluptuously formed, and had a husky voice. I had thought she was the most alluring woman in Rome, but having just come from the presence of Ashthuva, she seemed no more seductive than a rather pretty statue.

“Polasser of Kish?” she said, eyebrows going up. “Wasn’t he murdered recently?”

“Exactly,” I told her, “and Caesar has commissioned me to discover who killed him and another stargazer named Demades. How well did you know Polasser?”

“Scarcely at all. I met him at one of Cleopatra’s gatherings, but I’d heard of him before then.”

“Heard of him? How?”

She frowned with thought. “Let me see, somebody mentioned him … you realize that astrologers are all the rage in my social circle, don’t you?”

“I’ve heard of little else since this business began.”

“So the ladies I know are always babbling about this one or that one. Anyway, I heard about him, and when I met him at Cleopatra’s, he seemed so fascinating and knowledgeable that I decided to consult with him about my dear Antonius’s future.”

“Weren’t you put off by the fact that he was a Greek dressed as a Babylonian?”

She shrugged, making her abundant breasts quiver. “I’ve never seen a Babylonian. For all I know, that’s what they look like.”

“So you got Antonius’s horoscope. I take it that Polasser predicted a glorious future for your husband?”

She beamed. “He said that Antonius would become the greatest man in Rome.”

“Did he say for how long?”

“No.”

“A grain merchant named Balesus has told me that you recommended Polasser to him.”

“Did I? I suppose I might have. That would have been when I sold off the last harvest I had from poor Curio’s estate. It’s the only time I ever went to the grain market.”

“It surprises me that a patrician lady would stoop to such a transaction. Why didn’t you send a steward?”

“The only steward I had at the time was Curio’s, and he was sure to be on the side of Curio’s family. Selling grain is far from the most scandalous thing I’ve done.” Fulvia was totally indifferent to her bad reputation.

“In any case Balesus didn’t do as well as you. Polasser told him to buy when it was time to sell. He lost a fortune.”

“Did he? Serves him right. Why should an astrologer be expected to give accurate advice to a petty businessman? The stars proclaim the fortunes of great men, not little money grubbers like Balesus.”

“Spoken like a true patrician,” I said.

“And why not? It’s what I am.”

“Now that Polasser is no longer among us,” I said, “whom do you consult upon celestial matters?”

“Recently I’ve been seeing Ashthuva. I think her knowledge of the art is even more comprehensive than Polasser’s and she is the most delightful company.”

“I daresay,” I said, remembering.

“Do we have visitors?” said Antonius, entering the courtyard from the direction of the street. He was dressed in his usual brief tunic, sweating abundantly, and covered with sand, straw, and grime.

“Marcus, have you been fighting again?” Fulvia said.

“Just wrestling. Hello Decius, Hermes.” With this perfunctory greeting he stepped into the pool, sat, and began washing himself down. The word informal does not begin to describe Marcus Antonius.

“Marcus, dear, Senator Metellus has been asking me about that murdered astrologer.”

“He’s been pestering everyone in Rome about the matter,” Antonius said. He ducked his head beneath the water and came up blowing like a porpoise. “But Caesar ordered him to do it so there’s no help for it. Are you any closer to finding the guilty party, Decius?”

“I hope so. I’ve learned a great deal, it’s just a matter of putting it all together coherently.”

“Well, that’s your specialty.” He stood up, dripping. “I just went three falls with Balbus.”

“Who won?” I asked. So much for Asklepiodes’ advice, I thought.

“He did. He’s the only man in Rome who can beat me consistently.”

“From the look of you, you weren’t wrestling at the baths or the gymnasium,” Fulvia noted.

“No, I encountered him at the cattle market and proposed a match right there.”

“How entertaining it must have been for the market idlers,” Fulvia said.

“I suppose it was. You don’t get to see two real experts contending every day. I don’t suppose there’s any wine in the house?”

“I will take my leave of you, then,” I said. “I must be about Caesar’s business.”

“Oh,” Fulvia said. “I just remembered.”

“Yes?”

“I remember now who told me about Polasser. It was Servilia.”

We left the house and I stood in the street a moment, pinching the bridge of my long, Metellan nose. “My head hurts.”

“This business is fit to give Hercules a headache,” Hermes said.

“Everywhere I turn I encounter Servilia, the one woman in Rome I don’t want to face without a legion at my back.”

“Not to mention she’s the woman Caesar doesn’t want you to suspect of complicity in the murders. If she doesn’t have you killed, he will.”

“You do know how to brighten my day. What are we to do now?”

“It’s as if we’ve walked down a blind alley with enemies chasing us,” Hermes said, “and there we are staring at a blank wall and no place to go.”

“A simile worthy of Homer,” I commended. “So, what do we do when we’re stuck in a blind alley?”

He grinned. “We duck into the nearest doorway.”

“Right. Let’s stop attacking this problem head-on and approach it obliquely.”

“Whatever that means, I’m all for it. What now?”

“I’ve set a number of things in motion. Let’s check on one of them. Let’s go down to the docks and visit Ariston.”

The big seaman looked surprised when we walked through his doorway. “Senator! This is convenient. I was just about to send a boy to track you down.”

“You’ve found something?” I said eagerly.

“I may have. Take a seat.” We sat and he bawled to a servant to bring wine for his distinguished guests. Moments later we were sipping a fine rose-colored Judean. These wines lack the body for drinking with meals, but they are an excellent light, refreshing afternoon pick-me-up.

“I put out the word as you asked,” he began, “and pretty soon a sailor named Glaucus came to me with an odd story. A year ago he was on a ship called the Ibis, that sails a regular route between Alexandria and Rome, going up the eastern seaboard to Greece, then across to Italy. Seems that in Tyre they picked up a pair of passengers, easterners of some sort, a man and a woman. The woman was so swaddled in veils that they couldn’t get a real idea of what she looked like. The man was tall and sort of willowy, in robes and a headcloth. The two of them spent a good part of each day sitting crosslegged on the deck, chanting long, monotonous prayers that got to setting the sailors’ nerves on edge.” He took a drink of his wine.

“Anyway, some of the men got to thinking it’d been a long time since they’d had a chance to visit the whores ashore, and here was this woman who wasn’t a citizen protected by any laws that applied at sea. They had no idea what she looked like under all those veils but…” he spread his hands eloquently.

“Sailors are famously undiscriminating in such matters,” I said. “So, these sea-lawyers decided that rape was a good idea?”

“Right. But it turned out it wasn’t such a good idea after all. Somebody must’ve tipped the man what was afoot, because one morning they found three men dead on the deck, all with their necks broken. They were the ones who’d been doing the plotting.”

“Didn’t the surviving crew take any revenge?” I asked.

“I suspect the dead men weren’t the most popular aboard, and who wants to face up to a man like that? They were sure that he was in league with some god or demon. What kind of man can break the necks of three strong men without alerting the men on watch? Would you want to deal with such a man?”

“It looks like I may have to,” I said.

“Ah, Senator,” Ariston said, “would you like for me to accompany you for a while? I can leave my business to my freedmen for a few days.”

His offer was tempting. Ariston was a fighter of stupendous ferocity. I had once seen him kill a man in a manner I would have thought to be physically impossible. In sheer deadliness he was very close to my old friend Titus Milo. Hermes bristled a little at the suggestion that I might need a more accomplished bodyguard, but only a little. He had been present when Ariston had performed that feat with his broad, curved knife.

“I thank you, my friend,” I said, “but I think that this matter will take more cunning than muscle power.”

“Whatever you say, Senator, but don’t hesitate to call on me if you should feel the need of backup.”

“I won’t hesitate a moment,” I assured him.

Back outside Hermes and I conferred. “Sounds like we have our man,” Hermes noted. “If, that is, we had any idea who he might be.”

“We still have to determine his identity,” I concurred, “but this bit of information allows us to eliminate a few suspects. He boarded in Tyre and was traveling with only a single companion. That pretty well clears Archelaus of suspicion. Not entirely, of course. He could have hired the man here in Rome, but I no longer suspect that the assassin was a part of his retinue. He’s been here almost a year and Archelaus has been in Rome no more than a month or two.”

“Something doesn’t add up.”

“A great many things don’t add up. What particular anomaly strikes you?”

He frowned. “This man is a professional assassin, yet he only struck a few days ago. Why did he wait so long to exercise his skill?”

“A good point. I can think of a number of possibilities.” I loved this sort of thing. “One, he may use other methods of elimination, perhaps reserving the neck-breaking for special occasions. Two, he may have used it, but we never heard about it. Such a death can easily be made to look accidental, and not every killing in Rome comes to my attention. There may have been a number of such that we never heard of. I was only engaged to investigate these deaths because the murdered men were Caesar’s astronomers. And three, there are other places in Italy besides Rome. He may have been working elsewhere for a while.”

“I suppose we can cross Cleopatra off the suspect list, too,” Hermes said.

“Why?”

“Because Servilia is still alive.”

“You’re getting good at this. You’ve been paying attention. Of course, the two of them might be up to something together.”

“There is that possibility,” he agreed. “Is there some way we can find out if he has been active elsewhere in Italy?”

“None that I know of,” I admitted. “We hear of exceptional murders from time to time, but ordinarily they are none of Rome’s business and are handled by local authorities. Plus, remember this man can make his killings appear to be accidents. It’s a good thing he’s been in Rome such a short time.”

“Why is that?”

“A man so talented would never go long without employment in Rome. There would be entirely too much demand for his services.”