The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits (16 page)

Sextus shook his head obstinately. Favilla could not repress a smile. But she had one more task to perform.

“I want to show you something, Sextus,” she said in a low voice. “I have used every connection I had to prevent an
open scandal – both for Gnaeus’s sake, to keep his name from being smirched through me and mine, and for yours, to save you from the disgrace of a public trial. But don’t think people haven’t suspected that there was something peculiar going on here, what with Aufidia’s sudden death, and your carryings-on, and now that affair at Clodia’s, with half of Rome as witness. Well, Sextus, yesterday one of the slaves called me and showed me an inscription that somebody had scrawled on the wall of our house. I had it removed at once, but I copied it first so that you could see with your own eyes the kind of thing to which you have exposed your sister.”

She went to a chest and drew out a wax tablet. She held it out for Sextus to read what was written on it.

Sextus shook with anger.

“Oh, vile!” he breathed. “Vile and false! We both know you never gave me a penny. And Aufidia had no money – she was a burden to you, not a prospective benefactress. And then to hint that
you
had anything to do with her death –!”

Favilla took the tablet from him.

“It’s not worth getting too upset about,” she said calmly. “From the allusion to Gnaeus, I take it that one of our political enemies is just being nasty.”

“Give it to me, Favilla,” exclaimed Sextus, reaching for the tablet. “I’m going to find out who wrote this outrageous thing and when I do, I’m going to thrash him roundly.”

“You’re going to do no such thing. I copied this for you to see, and now I’m going to destroy it. We’ve had enough gossip around here, and right now life is disturbed enough as it is. I only hoped that if you realized what you had let me in for, you would strengthen your resolve to make up for it by being a different person.”

“Oh, I will, Favilla – believe me, I will! This clinches it – I’ll never forget that disgusting libel. You, who’ve been more like my mother than my sister! Listen, Favilla, come with me to the atrium, and I’ll swear on the images of our ancestors that to the day I die I’ll never again do anything to make you ashamed of me!”

“Idiot!” laughed Favilla, tears in her eyes. “They’re Gnaeus’s ancestral images there, not ours. Ours, as you very well know, are in safekeeping till you have a wife and home of your own. And I don’t want you to swear; I have faith in your bare word. Wait a minute till I wipe off this tablet, and then I’ll have them bring in some wine to drink to your new life – and in memory of poor Aufidia, good old soul!”

Her heart was light as she seized the stylus and scraped the tablet clean. The slanderous verses had accomplished their purpose.

Yet she could not help a faint auctorial pang. Those verses had never been written on the wall of Gnaeus Manlius’s or any other house. It had taken her many laborious hours, while she planned that interview with her brother, to compose them herself.

“W
e’re trying to find his father’s will,” the big, soldierly-looking fellow informed me. The odd youth seated next to him just looked at me with a wide-eyed, reptilian stare. I detested him without even knowing who he was.

“I see, and who might this father be?”

“Caesar,” said the big man. A closer look told me he was little older than the other. His size and his tough looks made him seem the elder.

I contributed to the silence that followed. This was not the sort of thing one expected to hear on an otherwise unexceptionable morning in Rome. Now I gave the wide-eyed boy a closer look. He was scrawny, with a big head on a thin neck
and a shock of unruly, light-coloured hair. I couldn’t see much family resemblance. He had the beginnings of a straggly beard and wore a dark, dingy toga, both tokens of mourning. A lot of Romans were wearing mourning at that time.

“Then you would be young Octavius?” I said.

“I am Caius Julius Caesar,” he said stiffly, then added, “Octavianus.” He gestured to the larger man. “And this is Marcus Agrippa. I am Caesar’s son and I have come to Rome to receive my legacy.”

“Good luck,” I told him. “I hear that Antonius has pretty well laid hands on all of Caesar’s property and he’s not a man to provoke. I’d advise you to go back to Athens or wherever you were and write him a nice letter. He might let you have some of the land and Caesar’s library. Antonius doesn’t have much use for books.”

“It was Appolonia,” Agrippa growled. “It’s in Illyria.”

Of course I knew where Appolonia was. I’d been there. I also knew that young Octavian had been sent there. There was just something about the boy that made me want to needle him. A character failing of mine, I suppose, but nothing that happened later caused me to alter my first impression.

“I am Caesar’s heir and I’ve come to claim what it mine by right!” The way he said this was profoundly unsettling. In spite of myself, I was reminded of our recently deceased Dictator.

“You were Caesar’s friend,” Agrippa said. “You are married to his niece. You should want to see his will carried out.”

“I would very much like to see the provisions of Caesar’s will carried out,” I told them. “He left me a generous bequest. But what I really, truly want above all is not to be murdered like he was. Being murdered is a messy business and it can ruin a perfectly good toga. Defying Antonius is a
good way to get murdered. He’s a nice enough fellow, don’t get me wrong. I’ve always gotten on well with him and I’ve helped him out of a few scrapes. But he
is
an Antonius and the Antonii are a family of hereditary criminals. He likes to keep what he’s seized and he’s surrounded by friends who love to put obstacles out of his path.”

Agrippa snorted. “In Greece we were told that Metellus was a man who could get things done, that he’s a man who doesn’t frighten easily.” I was getting to be known by a single name in those days, mainly because the prominent men of my family had been killed or exiled in the last round of civil wars. They had backed Pompey and that was the sort of mistake you didn’t make twice. I was about the only prominent Caecilius Metellus left in Rome, and trying to keep my head down.

“Listen,” I said. “I was there when Caesar’s will was read at the house of Calpurnius Piso. Believe me, it was almost worth not getting my bequest just to see the look on Antonius’s face when he learned that the vast bulk of the estate was going to you,” I nodded at Octavian, “and your little brother. And of course there were the 300 sesterces per citizen and the great gardens, which he left to the public: Antonius didn’t dare interfere with those. He does love being the darling of the people.” I could see the boy’s jaw clench at mention of the gardens and the money. Clearly he thought it should all be his, no matter what his adoptive father had wished.

I was getting tired of this. “Rome has always been a hazardous place,” I told them. “Right now it is a very deadly place, especially for men of ambition. Soon, I fear, we shall see the old days of Marius and Sulla again: proscription lists and paid informers and blood in the streets. Only this time there will be no men of the stature of those two, just a pack of second-raters tearing at Rome and at each other like dogs
fighting over a carcass. At least Marius whipped the barbarians and Sulla gave us a fine constitution. The current lot will ruin the empire through pure incompetence.”

“None of that matters,” Octavian said.

“What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled.

“All the property, the money, even the provinces they are so busy apportioning to themselves. Caesar’s strength wasn’t in his wealth but in his soldiers. The one who commands their loyalty will be the new master of Rome.” Agrippa cut an impatient look at him, obviously wishing he’d keep his mouth shut. But, for some reason, the boy was the dominant of the two.

For my own part, I just gaped. We seldom encounter such presumption in one so young. Clodius at his worst wasn’t a match for this one. “I don’t think we need –” I was cut short by the timely arrival of my wife, Julia.

“Caius!” she cried delightedly, clapping her hands. She rushed to embrace the little lout. “And you must be Marcus Agrippa. Why, you’ve both grown so much since I last saw you!” As if that were some sort of accomplishment.

“How wonderful to see you, cousin!” said the boy, and to my amazement his face lit up with unfeigned pleasure. Well, Julia could charm a Parthian off his horse. “We’ve been speaking with this – with your distinguished husband, who seems to have been out of Rome on my previous visits.” This was not quite the case. I’d just never bothered to go to any of his appearances and Caesar had packed him off to Illyria when things got lively at home.

“We think your husband could help us with a difficulty we have,” Agrippa added.

“And I am sure he will be most happy to render you every assistance,” said my ever-helpful wife. I tried to signal her, but as usual she ignored me. “What is the problem?”

“It’s Antonius,” Octavian said. “He’s confiscated
Caesar’s will and all his other papers. The provisions of the will are public knowledge but that isn’t worth much without the original document. Besides, I believe that in his other writings, my father makes it known that I am to succeed to his other offices and powers.”

I couldn’t help wincing every time he referred to Caesar as his father. I had had a decidedly mixed experience with that strange and difficult person, but he was the one truly great man I had ever known; as close to being a demigod as a mortal ever gets. To hear this little wretch claim paternity of such a father was ludicrous. And among Caesar’s many offices was that of Dictator. Surely he wasn’t claiming that, too?

“Intolerable!” cried Julia. “Antonius is such an odious man! I never understood Caesar’s regard for him, except as a soldier. He should have taken action against the assassins and other conspirators instantly. Instead, he has made peace with them. It is a dishonour and a disgrace!” I had explained to her the many very good reasons why Antonius had been unable to do so, but she refused to accept them. Julia had a blind spot where her beloved uncle was concerned.

“I could not agree more, cousin,” the boy said, with Agrippa nodding grimly beside him. “He is a vicious, rapacious villain and he aspires to all of Caesar’s honours.”

“Don’t be too rough on him,” I said, pouring myself a Falernian. “He gave Caesar a wonderful funeral speech. Lied through his teeth, of course, but he made the old boy look good and the conspirators look bad.” All three of them glared at me, for some reason. That called for yet more Falernian.

“The fact is, my lady,” Agrippa said, “we must have those documents to show the soldiers. They are simple men, very impressed by official documents, and they revere the memory of Caesar. Just now Antonius commands their loyalty, as
the commander nearest to Caesar at the time of his death, but they are confused just now and could be swayed by lies of the conspirators, or they could attach themselves firmly to Antonius. To press our Caesar’s claims, we must have his father’s papers.”

“I understand,” Julia told him. “And I am sure that my husband can get them for you. Don’t mind his gruff manner, it’s just his way. He will do whatever needs be to set things right.” No question of consulting me about this, you will notice.

“Very well,” I said. It had occurred to me that, if I made a nuisance of myself, Antonius might simply do away with the brat. “I’ll see what’s to be done.” I saw them to the door. “I knew your father, you know,” I told Octavian. “He once threatened me with execution. One day I was brawling with Clodius and practically cut his throat right in front of your father’s court. We’d been rolling through the streets and I finally had him down, had his head jerked back and my dagger applied to his jugular, when I looked up and there was the
praetor urbanus
Caius Octavius, big as day, seated on his curule chair and a Vestal sitting right beside him. Would’ve been death for me to kill Clodius right in front of those two, and I never got another chance as good.” I chuckled at the memory. Those were the good old days.

The boy turned at the door and said, coldly, “My father was Julius Caesar.” And they left.

I went back to the courtyard. “Why did you tell them I’d help them?” I demanded of Julia. “It should be enough that I don’t like him. More to the point, if I want to stay alive, I have to walk carefully around Antonius. He has no quarrel with me now, but if he even suspects I’m plotting against him with some rival –”

“Oh, don’t be so timid,” she said. “You’ll just be pursuing a legal matter, just like any senator. And young Octavian is
the coming man, did Rome but know it. You’ll do well to put him in your debt.”

“That child? What makes you think he’s ever going to amount to anything?”

“First, because Caesar adopted him. He wouldn’t have done that for anyone he didn’t consider a worthy heir. Second, what did you think of Marcus Agrippa?”

That took me aback. “Very impressive: soldierly, capable, tough and intelligent. He’s the one that looks like consular material, not the boy.”

“Yet you can see he all but worships Octavian. He is devoted and loyal. Doesn’t that tell you anything?”

She had a point, not that I was willing to concede it. “What of it? Clodius inspired loyalty in better men. Did that make him great?”