The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits (17 page)

“Clodius came of the family of the Claudia Nerones, who are insane. Octavian’s heritage is that of Octavius and Atius and, most importantly, Caesar, all fine and sensible families.” She had a patrician’s grasp of family connections. She also had their blindness to the fact that it is wealth that determines any family’s importance, not any splendid qualities they are fancied to have inherited.

“He’ll be nothing but trouble. Listen to the way he uses that name, as if he had a right to it!”

“Caesar did adopt him,” she said.

“He adopted him in his will,” I pointed out. “Such a testamentary adoption has to be ratified by a praetor and a court. That’s not likely to happen while Antonius holds the whip.”

“Dear,” Julia said, “just go find those papers. I will handle relations with young Octavian. He’s my cousin, after all.” She poured me another cup of Falernian, rather than attempt to curb my intake in her usual fashion. I took this as an ominous sign.

*   *   *

My first call was upon Cicero. He possessed the finest legal mind in Rome, though his political acumen was deserting him. At this time he was engaged in making a series of mistakes which would culminate in his death a few years later. He had taken no part in the conspiracy to murder Caesar, but he had made no secret of his approval of it. This was understandable if he had intended to throw himself wholeheartedly into the cause of Brutus and Cassius, but he tried to hew to a middle course and please everybody, a sure recipe for suicide.

He received me hospitably, as always. “Decius Caecilius! How good of you to call. Come join me.” We went into his library and indulged in the usual refreshments and small talk, then I broached the cause of my visit.

“Ah, yes, that remarkable young man. I spoke with him just yesterday, and assured him of my good will and support.” This was typical of Cicero in those days. First, approve of the murderers of Caesar, then try to befriend his adopted son.

“I gave him no such assurance,” I told him, “but Julia prodded me into helping him.”

He laughed dryly. “The things we men do to assure domestic harmony, eh? As a matter of fact, I recommended you to him. You’ve undertaken many odd projects in the past.”

“I wish you hadn’t. But it seems I have to try. By what right does Antonius retain the papers?”

He laced his fingers across his small paunch and gazed at his ceiling. “Let me see – how many soldiers does Antonius command?”

“Several legions seem loyal to him,” I answered.

“And how many soldiers have you, or Octavian?”

“None.”

He spread his hands, his point made.

“And yet,” I said, “Antonius has never been, shall we say, one to place a high value on paper, be the contents poetry or a will. Why is he so determined to retain these?”

“Probably because he knows that simple, common men hold written documents in awe. The rabble of the city and the soldiers of the legions are just such men.”

“There has to be something else,” I objected. “Antonius can charm the populace and the legions alike. It’s his specialty.”

“It is true that he has few other talents,” Cicero sniffed. “He is a fine soldier, but Rome has many such. To hear him speak in public, one would never guess that he has the mind of an ox. Rome has seen many mediocre men in the ascendant, though few have risen as high as Antonius. Mind you, he had to wrap himself in Caesar’s bloody toga to do it.”

“So there is no legal pretext I can use to pry the papers from him?”

“You have the law on your side,” Cicero assured me. “But the law does not apply to a Dictator, and that is what Antonius is, though without constitutional precedent. He is what he is by threat and force of arms.”

So, having found no help from that quarter, I went to call on the next man on my list: the great Marcus Antonius himself.

I found him in the mansion he had built for himself on the Palatine. It was a gaudy place, worthy of Lucullus at his most ostentatious. Antonius had been noted for personal extravagance in his youth. Caesar had made him comport himself with greater dignity and simplicity, but now Caesar’s constraints were off. I practically had to kick aside the peacocks and other exotic fowl as I crossed his formal gardens, where scores of slaves planted and tended imported trees and shrubs, culled flowers, dug new beds, hauled water and so forth. Artisans installed fountains that showered perfumed water or
even wine; others inlaid the walkways with picture-mosaics. Everywhere stood fine Greek statues, stolen from the cities of Asia or seized from his Roman enemies. In short, everything was being done to create a setting worthy of Rome’s most splendid man, Marcus Antonius.

The house was full of his sycophants. They paid decent respect to my ancient and illustrious name, if not to me personally. Everyone remembered that my family had taken sides against Caesar, though I had not. A few were his legates and senior commanders; serious military men. Most, however, were merely the sort who always attach themselves to any man whose star seems to be in the ascendant, and who desert him as swiftly when his star sets. I have forgotten almost all of their names.

One of the few I do remember came to greet me. “Decius Caecilius! We haven’t seen you in too long!” It was Sallustius Crispus, a man I always despised. “Have you come to pledge your loyalty to Marcus Antonius at last?”

“Why?” I asked him. “Has he been voted king while my back was turned?”

He sidled closer. That was the way Sallustius was: he sidled. “Don’t be foolish, Metellus. I advise you for your own good: make peace with Antonius and give him your loyalty.”

“I was never at odds with him in the first place,” I insisted, wondering even as I said it why I bothered explaining myself to this worm. It was just the sort of man he was. Sallustius could infuriate me by wishing me a good day.

“Didn’t say you were, I assure you. It’s just that lines are being drawn just now. A man must take sides.”

“True. I’ve decided to side with young Octavian.” I don’t know why I said it. Perhaps I just wanted to see the expression on his ugly face change, which indeed it did.

“Octavian? He’s a nobody!”

“Well, I’ve always liked long odds at the Circus,” I told him.

“In this game, it’s not chariots,” he spat. “It’s more like pitting a fifth-rate tyro against a champion of the arena.”

This man Sallustius was an especially egregious specimen of the sort of senator we had in those days, the ones who contributed so much to the downfall of the Republic. He had served as an ineffective Tribune of the Plebs, been kicked out of the Senate by the censor Appius Claudius, wormed his way into Caesar’s favour and got reinstated with his help. After that he clung to Caesar like a limpet and rode that man’s fortunes to the top. He was given Africa to govern and plundered the place thoroughly and at that time was accounted one of the richest men in Rome. But in a time of contending warlords a man of no family only kept his wealth by adhering to a powerful man, and Sallustius had chosen Antonius. He also had pretensions to being an historian and man of letters.

“I’m here to see him on a legal matter,” I said impatiently.

“Oh, well. I’ll take you to see him.” Apparently, he had appointed himself Antonius’s steward or major-domo, an office usually occupied by a slave. But some men are slaves by nature, and love to ingratiate themselves by servile acts.

We found Antonius amidst his cronies, and the sight of him took me somewhat aback. They were in a courtyard, enjoying the sunshine, some of them wrestling or fencing with wooden weapons, as if this were the
palaestra
. In the midst of this athletic throng Antonius held forth, dressed in a brief tunic that appeared to be made largely of silk, a fabric so precious that it was forbidden by the censors from time to time, and forbidden to women at that. Men weren’t even supposed to think of wearing the stuff.

Under pretext of mourning, he cultivated a full beard.
Antonius never needed much excuse to go bearded. He fancied that it increased his resemblance to Hercules, the supposed ancestor of his family. The name supposedly came from Anton, a son of Hercules. His hands gleamed with golden rings and he even wore a necklace of heavy gold links.

This whole rig would have been thought effeminate, had Antonius not been such a hulking brute of a man. He caught sight of me and waved me over. I complied and he draped a massive arm over my shoulder, making me a present of some of his manly sweat. He’d been wrestling despite his priceless clothing, and sand still clung to his limbs and dusted his beard and hair.

“Metellus!” he roared. “What an honour! I haven’t seen you in far too long! Come to join me, have you? Well, there’s work to be done! War with Parthia, for one thing!” As you may guess, he had a declamatory style. “Plenty of positions for experienced soldiers. Gallic cavalry’s your specialty, Metellus. Do you want a command? I’ve recruited whole troops of Gallic horsemen.”

“Decius Caecilius tells me he has decided to support Octavian,” Sallustius said nastily. I expected Antonius to fly into a rage, but he shot me a calculating look instead. The rest of the men fell silent and some of them tried to put distance between themselves and me.

“And why not?” Antonius grumbled at last. “Octavian’s his wife’s cousin, and we all know Caesar thought the world of the boy.” He glared around him and the rest shuffled about, uncertain how to react.

“Actually, I’ve come to confer with you on a legal matter, Marcus,” I told him.

“Well, let’s go inside. I’m sure these gentlemen can spare us for a few minutes.” He swept the others with his gaze and they drew away to talk among themselves in little knots. Sallustius looked as if he wanted to follow us, but he held
back as we went into the house, the sandy, sweaty arm still around my shoulders.

Antonius had a study of sorts, though I am not sure how he could reach his books, what with the great clutter of armour, swords, horse-gear and other masculine objects. His helmet sat on the head of a marble Apollo carved by Praxiteles and he kept daggers in a priceless Corinthian vase. The nearest thing to scholarly appurtenances close to hand were some maps, most of them depicting the east from Greece to Egypt. I noted a single desk with the usual honeycomb-style book holder with all but two or three of its cells empty. Its writing table was clear except for inkpots and a penholder.

Antonius bawled for wine. Then, unlike most arrogant men, he waited until the slaves had withdrawn before he spoke.

“The papers, right?” he said.

“Exactly. As Caesar’s adopted son, they belong to Octavian.”

“Adopted only provisionally. And the will was read publicly, everyone knows what was in it. Why should the boy want the document itself?”

“Why do you wish to retain it? And why the other papers as well?” I tried the wine, which was predictably splendid.

“I need them for research,” he said. “I’m writing the life of Caesar.”

It is greatly to my credit that my nose did not erupt with expensive wine.

He shook his head. “Listen, Metellus. I am doing all I can to avert another civil war. People take it ill that I haven’t avenged Caesar as I should have. I’ve driven Brutus and Cassius and the others from the city. But they are alive, and they shouldn’t be. The last thing we need is another contender for the loyalty of Caesar’s men. You know perfectly well that is what the ambitious little monster wants the papers for.”

This was true enough. “You know as well as I that he has no chance of gaining power,” I assured him. “Why not let him have the will?”

“In time, in time,” he said airily. “When I am through with it and the other items. There are projects to finish, alliances to be made and, eventually, wars to be fought.”

“You mean the Parthian campaign?” I asked. Caesar had been about to depart for the war with Parthia when he was murdered. He wanted to avenge his old friend Crassus and take back the eagles lost at Carrhae. That defeat still rankled, though the whole war had been stupendously unpopular and most people thought Crassus got what he deserved. Still, the loss of the better part of seven legions was a humiliation hard to bear.

“Yes, that one – and others.”

“Others?” This sounded ominous. “You don’t mean another civil war, do you?”

“Not necessarily,” he hedged. “Sextus Pompey is still active in Spain, you know.” As if fighting yet another Roman army, led by a son of Pompey the Great, did not constitute civil war.

“Excellent,” I said, “because you just said that you were trying to avoid one.”

“It’s not a good time for a civil war,” he affirmed, meaning that he didn’t feel himself strong enough just yet. Either he was less foolhardy than in his younger years, or he knew something I didn’t. I suspected the latter. Nothing ever taught Antonius good sense but he could sometimes be impressed by bald facts.

Something had struck me. “Just what else is there, besides the will?”

“A great heap of paper,” he said. “You know how Caesar was – you were practically his secretary for a while, in Gaul. Always scribbling stuff: campaign histories, observations of
the natives and their customs, letters, even a few poems. It will take my librarian a while to go through it all.”

“Librarian? I didn’t know you had one.”

“Sallustius volunteered to take care of my paperwork. He’s arranging those things now.”

This was more like it. “There is no way that you are going to give Octavian those papers?”

“I’m afraid not.”

I rose. “Then I won’t trouble you further.”

“You had to try. I understand. He is a relation, after all.”

“Don’t remind me.” I stepped to the little desk, as if to admire its fine woodwork. On the few scrolls it held I could see Caesar’s unmistakably terrible handwriting. “I’ll be going.”

“Come back soon,” he urged. “That offer stands open. I’ll need all the good officers I can get.” He didn’t know the half of it, as events later proved.

I made my way home and summoned my freedman, Hermes. I gave him a brief account of my mission and its failure. He nodded grimly; bored as usual by anything that did not portend danger and violence.