The King's Gambit (4 page)

On the way home, it struck me that I had neglected my obligations in not scavenging some scraps of Sergius's sumptuous meal for my slaves. That was what I should have been carrying in my napkin instead of the possessions of the unfortunate Paramedes. I considered stopping at a wineshop and buying some sausages and cakes, but the shutters were already closed for the night wherever I looked. I shrugged and continued on my way. They would just have to be content with kitchen fare. The good cheer of the afternoon was fading and my head was beginning to throb.

Cato, my janitor, opened the gate at my knock. He shook his head in disapproval of my behavior. Cato had been a gift from my father when I set up house in the Subura. He and his equally aged wife, Cassandra, did what modest housekeeping I required. Needless to say, both had been adjudged too old and feeble to be of use in Father's household.

Cassandra brought me a dish of fish and wheat porridge, supposedly a sure guardian against the chill of winter, along with heated wine, heavily watered. After the luxurious delicacies of Sergius's table, it was plain fare indeed. But I felt the better for having downed the mess, and quickly collapsed into bed, still in my tunic, and fell asleep.

It was perhaps two hours before dawn when I awoke to find someone in the room with me. It was black as Pluto's privy, of course, but I could hear scuffling and the sound of breathing.

"Cato?" I said, not quite awake. "Is that--" A dazzling white light flashed inside my head. When next I was aware of the outside world, it was to hear Cato reproving me.

"This is what comes of moving from your father's fine mansion to this Subura crib," he was saying, nodding in agreement with himself. "Thieves and housebreakers all over. Maybe now you'll listen to old Cato and move back..." He went on in this vein for some time.

I was unable to dispute with him because my head was swimming and my stomach heaving. It was not the effect of my excesses of the day before; I had been soundly bashed on the head by the intruder.

"You are lucky to be alive, master." This was Cassandra's voice. "You owe a cock to Aesculapius for your escape. We must wait till full light to find out what's been stolen." She was ever a practical soul. That was a question much on my own mind.

Before I could investigate the matter, though, there was still the tiresome routine of the morning report of the vigiles, and my clients' morning call. All were properly shocked and speculated upon the new depths to which the city had fallen. I am not sure why anyone should have been shocked that my house was broken into, since the crime was so common in the Subura, but all men are baffled when the prominent are victimized along with the poor.

When the light was sufficient, I went through my bedroom to see what was missing. It had already been determined that the intruder had been in no other part of the house. I first unlocked the safe-chest and made sure that everything was there, including Sergius's silver cup. There was little about that might tempt a thief, and nothing seemed to have been disturbed.

Then I noticed the little pile of personal effects left behind by Paramedes of Antioch prior to his journey to the Styx. Most of the items still lay on my unfolded napkin, resting on a bedside table. They were in some disarray, and the little figurine of Venus lay on the floor. I gathered the items together and at first thought that they were all present. Then I remembered that there had been an amulet of some sort. That was it, an amulet in the shape of a camel's head, flat on the reverse side, with lettering. It was gone.

That the thing should be missing was mystery enough, but what manner of cat-eyed thief could unerringly find so small an item in such utter blackness? Sorcery came immediately to mind, but I dismissed it. Supernatural explanations are a crutch for those who won't take the trouble to puzzle out a logical answer.

Despite my ringing head I attended my father's rising then we all went to the house of Hortensius Hortalus since it was a day when official business was forbidden Hortalus was a large man with a profile of immense dignity. He always seemed to be regarding something to one side of him, so as to present the world with his most gratifying aspect.

When Father presented me, Hortalus clasped my hand with power and sincerity, just as he would have the hand of a street sweeper whose vote he wanted.

"I have just heard about your narrow escape from death, young Decius. Shocking, utterly shocking!"

"Not all that great a matter, sir," I said. "Just a break-in by some--"

"How terrible," Hortalus went on, "should Rome lose her young statesmen through her lamentable lack of civic order." Hortalus was a mealymouthed old political whore who was responsible for at least as much of the city's violence as any of the gang leaders. "But, to lighter things. Today I sponsor a day of races, in honor of my ancestors. I would be honored if you and your clients would attend me in my box at the Circus." At this, my spirits rose considerably. As I have said, I am passionately fond of the Circus and the amphitheater. And Hortalus, for all his bad qualities, owned the finest box in the Circus: on the lowest tier, right above the finish line. "You Caecilii are supporters of the Reds, are you not?"

"Since the founding of the races," my father said.

"We Hortensii are Whites, of course, but both are better than those upstart Blues and Greens, eh?" The two self-styled old Romans chuckled away. The Blues and Greens in those days were the factions of the common men, although their stables were greater than those of the Reds and Whites, and their charioteers better and more numerous. It was a notable sign of the changing times that a rising young politician like Caius Julius Caesar, of an ancient patrician family which traditionally supported the Whites, ostentatiously favored the Greens whenever he appeared in the Circus.

A slave passed out vine wreaths for us, somewhat brown and wilted at this season, and we all trooped gaily to the Circus. All thoughts of official business were forgotten for the moment, with the prospect of a day's racing ahead of us. The whole city was flocking toward the flats by the Tiber where the wooden upper tiers of the Circus reared against the sky.

The carnival atmosphere lightened the dismal season, and the open plaza around the Circus was transformed for the day into a minor Forum with traders, tumblers and whores competing for the coins of the audience, turning the air blue with raucous shouts and songs. It is at such times, I think, that Rome turns from being mistress of the world and reverts to her true character as an Italian farm town in which the folk have left their plows for the day.

Father and I were honored by being seated next to Hortalus, while our lower-ranking clients took the lesser seats higher in the box. Even those seats were better than any others in the vast stadium, and I saw my soldier, freedman and farmer preening themselves, the envy of all eyes, trying to act as if these privileged seats were their customary lot.

To keep the people entertained and in good humor while the first race was being readied, some swordsmen were going through their paces with wooden weapons. Those of us who were fond of gladiatorial exhibits, which is to say nine tenths of the spectators, took a keen interest in this mock fighting, for these men were to fight in the next big Games. Throughout the stands, handicappers wrote furiously in their wax tablets.

"Do you favor the Big Shields or the Small Shields, young Decius?" Hortalus asked.

"Give me a Small Shield every time," I said. Since boyhood, I had been a keen supporter of the men who fought with the little buckler and the short, curved sword or the dagger.

"I prefer the Big Shield and the straight sword, the Samnite School," Hortalus said. "Old soldier and all that. Those were the arms we fought with." Indeed, Hortalus had distinguished himself as a soldier in his younger days, when some patricians still fought in the ranks on foot. He pointed to a big man with a shield such as the legionaries bear, which covered him from chin to knee. "That's Mucius, a Samnite with thirty-seven victories. Next week he fights Bato. I'll put a hundred sesterces on Mucius."

I looked about until I saw Bato. He was a rising young fighter of the Thracian School and was fencing with his little square shield and short, curved practice-sword. I could see no signs of injury or other infirmity. "Bato has only fifteen victories to his credit," I said. "What odds?"

"Two to one if the Thracian fights with the sword," Hortalus said, "and three to two if he uses the spear." The small Thracian shield gives a man more freedom to maneuver a spear than does the big scutum of the legions.

"Done," I said, "If Bato wears thigh armor. If he wears only the greaves, in a fight with swords, then I want five to three in his favor. If he uses the spear, the bet stands as you've made it."

"Done," Hortalus said. This was a fairly simple bet. I've known real devotees of the fights to argue for hours over such fine points as whether their man wore simple padding for his sword arm, or bronze plate, or ring armor, or scale, or mail, or leather, or fought with the arm bare. They would quibble over the exact length and shape of sword or shield. The superstitious would shave points over such matters as the colors of his plumes, or whether he wore a Greek-style crest in a quarter-circle, a square Samnite crest or paired feather tubes in the old Italian style.

There was a flourish of trumpets and the gladiators trotted from the arena. Their places were taken by the charioteers, who made their way around the
spina
in a solemn circuit while the priests sacrificed a goat in the tiny temple atop the
spina
and examined its entrails for signs that the gods didn't want races that day.

The priests signaled that all was propitious and Hortalus stood, to tremendous applause. He intoned the ritual opening sentences, and it was a joy to hear him. Hortalus had the most beautiful speaking voice I ever heard. Cicero on his best day couldn't match him.

He dropped the white handkerchief into the arena, the rope barrier fell, the horses surged forward and the first race was on. The charioteers dashed around the
spina
with their customary recklessness for the seven circuits. I believe a Green was victor in that first race. They showed equal elan for the rest of the twelve races that made up a regular race-day at that time. There were some spectacular crashes, although there were no deaths, for a change. The Reds won heavily that day, so my financial condition was bettered at the expense of Hortalus and his fellow Whites. Hortalus took his losses in good part, making me instantly suspicious.

As we left the Circus, I saw the troop of gladiators marching in formation back to the Statilian school. Accompanying them was the Greek physician, Asklepiodes. I excused myself from my party after promising to attend dinner at Hortalus's house that evening. I crossed the plaza, which was still heavily redolent of the previous day's fire, and stopped the Greek, who greeted me courteously.

"Master Asklepiodes," I said, "your skill at reading wounds has been much on my mind of late. I am investigating a murder, and something about the death-wound bothers me. Lacking your skill, I can't decide what it is that is so singular."

"A murder?" said Asklepiodes, intrigued. "I have neverheard before of a physician being consulted on a police matter. But then, why not?"

"You understand," I went on, "I can't ask this of you officially, because today is a holiday. However, you must view the body before it is taken away for burial this evening."

"In that case, young master, consider my expertise to be at your service." I led him through the dismal streets to the house of Paramedes, where I had to bribe the guard to let us in. Since I could not be on official business that day, he did not have to admit me. Petty power is a truly pernicious thing.

Due to the chilly weather, the smell was not overpowering and the body had not bloated. The stiffening had worn off and Paramedes looked almost freshly killed, except for the blackened blood. Asklepiodes examined the corpse quickly, pulling back the edges of the wound to look inside. When he was finished, he straightened and gave me his analysis.

"Knife wound, from right hipbone almost to the sternum. Done with a
sica
."

"Why necessarily a
sica
?" I asked.

"The curvature of a
sica
blade keeps the point from piercing the inner organs. The wounds on this man's organs are clean cuts, with none of the ripping characteristic of the straight-bladed
pugio
. Also, only a man of extraordinary strength could drag a straight blade upward through a body like that, while the curved
sica
blade makes such carving easy." He though a moment. "Also, this blow was delivered by a left-handed man."

Of course. That was what had bothered me about the wound. Nine out of ten wounds one sees are on the left side when delivered from in front by a right-handed assailant. An armorer had once told me that helmets are always made thicker on the left side for that very reason.

We left the importer's house and strolled toward the Forum. We passed through a small side-market and there I bought a gift for Asklepiodes: a hair-fillet made of plaited silver wire. He thanked me profusely and begged me to call on his services at any time I thought he might aid my investigations. I would have to see whether I could get Junius to reimburse me for the fillet out of the Senate's semiofficial bribe fund. He was sure to refuse, the officious little Greekling.

I stopped at a favorite wineshop and sat at a bench sipping warmed Falernian and studying the murals of Games twenty years past while many facts sorted themselves out and many disturbing associations raised ugly questions. I knew that my wisest course would be to turn in the mere form of an investigation. Tomorrow, I should report that Paramedes had been killed during a botched robbery, that the arson at his warehouse was a coincidence, probably ordered by a jealous competitor. (The Senate is made up primarily of landowners, always willing to attribute the basest motives to businessmen.) I could leave it at that. Marcus Ager need not come into it. The break-in at my house need not come into it.