The Blood of Caesar Page 3

  “What do you think, Marcus Regulus?” Domitian said. “Can we construct a syllogism?”

  Regulus’ mouth dropped open, showing us the egg he was chewing. “I’m sure you can, my lord,” he sputtered. “You are the princeps, after all.”

  “Yes, so I am.” Domitian giggled. “Dear Regulus, how do you endure to have the smell of my arse in your nostrils all day? Now, let’s see. A syllogism we must have.” He stroked his chin and looked at the ceiling for a moment. “First proposition: People make up a city. True?”

  We all nodded.

  “Second proposition: A city can rise from the dead. True?”

  Again we all concurred, not daring to look at one another, lest we have to admit what we all must have been thinking: this drunken lout was the ruler of the Roman world, the man who held our destinies in his hands.

  Domitian pointed to spots in the air. “City ... city. The middle terms of the syllogism agree. Ergo, people can rise from the dead!” Beaming, he turned to me. “What about you, Gaius Pliny? Do you think people can rise from the dead?”

  “That would be ... a valid inference from the ... premises you’ve stated, my lord.” My chest was so tight I could hardly breathe. He was driving me closer to the trap, I was sure, but I still couldn’t tell what it was or why he wanted me in it. “I can’t disagree with your logic.”

  “No one can, dear Pliny. I’m the princeps.” He slapped his hand on his couch, making us all jump. “But your uncle was a student of nature. He recorded extraordinary events. Did he ever hear of a man rising from the dead?”

  “I’m not sure, my lord. I haven’t yet had time to read all of his work.”

  “I have,” Josephus said. “Your uncle recorded a few instances of people presumed to be dead but who awoke or were revived during their funerals. Including one poor man who woke up after the pyre had been lit and no one was able to get him off, so he was burned alive.”

  “Now that would have been something to see.” Domitian flopped on his back and pretended to be wrapped tightly in grave clothes. “Help me! Help me!” he squeaked.

  Regulus was the only one who laughed.

  Domitian rolled over onto his stomach and took a sip of wine. “But someone being mistaken for dead is not quite the same as someone being indisputably dead for a lengthy period of time—say, cremated or the body tossed into the Tiber—and then being alive again, is it?”

  “No, my lord, it’s not,” I said.

  “There are cases in the Jewish holy books,” Josephus put in, “of people rising from the dead. For instance, the prophet Elijah—”

  “Speak to me when you’re spoken to,” Domitian snapped. “Like my other servants.”

  Josephus’ shoulders slumped, the gesture of a slave who’d been cuffed repeatedly.

  “The Jews’ holy books should have perished along with their holy city,” Regulus said. Tacitus cleared his throat.

  “What is it, son-in-law of Agricola?” Domitian asked.

  “Well, Caesar, don’t the Christians claim their leader was raised from the dead after being crucified?”

  “The Christians?” Domitian looked addled, whether from the wine or from this unexpected turn in the conversation, I couldn’t tell. “Aren’t the Christians some sort of renegade Jew? Josephus, on this topic you have permission to speak.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Josephus washed down his pride with a large gulp of wine. “Yes, the Christians began as part of Judaism, a school not unlike the Pharisees. But they have broken off from the main body because of the claim that their prophet was resurrected.”

  “Do they offer any proof?” Regulus asked.

  “Some witnesses say they saw him, mostly hysterical women and illiterate fishermen.”

  “Can we even be certain he was dead?” Domitian asked.

  “He was crucified, Caesar,” Tacitus said. “How could he not be dead?”

  “Men have been known to pass out from the pain,” Domitian said, “then come to after they’re taken off the cross. They have to be dispatched by the soldiers conducting the execution.”

  “I suppose that could have happened in this case, Caesar,” Tacitus said. We all nodded in agreement.

  “So,” Domitian said, “although it seems logically demonstrable that a man could rise from the dead, we can’t seem to find any sure instance of such a thing happening. Would that be a fair assessment?”

  “Certainly, my lord,” Regulus said. The rest of us murmured our agreement.

  “Then why,” Domitian said in a petulant voice, “have I heard stories, since I was a boy, of Nero returning from the dead?”

  Silence.

  “Why is that?” Domitian’s voice rose. “I want someone to give me an answer.”

  “It may be, Caesar,” Tacitus ventured, much to the relief of the rest of us, “because the only witnesses to Nero’s death and the burning of his body were a few of his personal slaves.”

  “The young man is correct, my lord,” Josephus added. “Nero did not have a public funeral. Under such circumstances rumors find fertile ground. The common people will believe anything. A few months after Nero’s death a man who strongly resembled him appeared in the province of Asia and stirred up quite a tumult until he was captured and executed.”

  Domitian started to say something but was interrupted by a man appearing at the door of the triclinium. When the Praetorians blocked his way, Josephus said, “He’s from the archives, my lord.” Domitian signaled for the man—a low-ranking servant, to judge from his clothes— to be admitted.

  “Forgive me, my lords,” the man said, “but something awful has happened. Nicanor requests that Josephus come to the archives at once.”

  “What’s the matter?” Regulus said with a chuckle. “Somebody knock over an ink pot?”

  “No, my lord. Someone’s been hurt. I believe he’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Josephus’ alarm seemed genuine. “My lord, if you’ll excuse me ... ”

  “Yes, of course,” Domitian said. As the slave attending Josephus helped him put on his sandals, the princeps added, “For that matter, why don’t we all go? This sounds more interesting than the entertainment I had planned for the evening.”

  As we sat up and slipped on our sandals I whispered to Tacitus, “You were right. This is a trap, and we’re being driven right into it.”

  II

  THE FIVE OF US, accompanied by a troop of Praetorians and slaves, hurried back the way Tacitus, Josephus and I had entered. The colorful silk of Regulus’ slaves caressed the leather and silver of the Praetorians. Even Ajax the dwarf tagged along, running to keep up with us. Domitian’s steady stride showed no trace of the influence of the wine he’d been drinking. Or had appeared to be drinking.

  We turned right as we came out of the house and followed a walkway to the temple of Apollo. A passageway beside that temple opened into the portico in front of the libraries that Augustus built on the western edge of the Palatine, which we were now approaching.

  Each princeps has added to the archives which Augustus established, separate from the public records stored in the Tabularium at the base of the Capitoline hill. Exactly what the imperial archives might hold I could only speculate, since access to them was closely guarded. It seemed safe to assume they would contain personal correspondence. Beyond that ... Did imperial spies file reports, like provincial administrators?

  Could there be something in there worth dying for?

  The rain had resumed but we kept dry under the colonnade. Even the small trees, which added a sense of height to the buildings, seemed weary of the rain, their branches drooping from the weight of the moisture. The air itself felt like a heavy blanket draped on my shoulders. If the rain kept up at this rate, the lower parts of the city would soon start flooding.

  I couldn’t have walked with Domitian and Regulus if I had wanted to. The Praetorians encircled the two of them. Even Regulus’ gaudily dressed slaves had to fall back. I found myself walking between Tacitus and Joseph
us. My slaves and Tacitus’, out of habit, formed a ring around us, even though there was no crushing throng from which to protect us, and they could offer no protection against the Praetorians.

  “I don’t understand,” I heard Josephus say, more to himself than to me, the way older people sometimes start talking to themselves. I’ve even noticed my mother mumbling under her breath recently.

  Since I didn’t understand what was happening either, I decided to turn Josephus’ musings into a conversation. “What don’t you understand, sir?”

  He looked up in surprise. “What? Oh, I’m just not sure why I was summoned. Nicanor is in charge of the archives. I do spend most of my time there, working on my books, and he sometimes asks me about things, but I have no official position. If someone’s been hurt, it’s Nicanor’s responsibility to look into it. There was no need to interrupt our dinner. And certainly no reason for this ... this parade.”

  That term was appropriate, I thought as I looked around me. We had soldiers, we had people in bright costumes—all we needed was a crowd lining our route and waving to us.

  Our procession came to a halt in front of Augustus’ library. The building is actually two basilicas side-by-side, with a double clerestory. A row of Corinthian columns runs along the front, their green acanthus leaves tipped with gold. Two of the Praetorians swung open the outer doors, which appeared to be made of solid bronze. Scenes from the lives of Julius Caesar and Augustus were portrayed, one on each door, as though on the shields or breastplates of heroes in an epic poem. I caught glimpses of battles on land and sea—Pharsalus and Actium?—and of barbarians prostrate at the feet of Roman generals.

  Homer or Virgil would have described these doors as hammered out by the gods. Before hearing what Tacitus had said outside Domitian’s door and before meeting Rome’s princeps in person, I might have enjoyed that poetic conceit, even though I don’t believe in gods. Now, like a man finding it painful to open his eyes against the sun, I was squinting directly into the glare of imperial propaganda. I wanted to look away.

  As we stepped into the library that feeling was reinforced. The vestibule was lined with statues and portrait busts of emperors and gods, as though one could not—should not?—make a distinction. A fresco on the far wall showed the founding of Rome by a Romulus who bore an unmistakable resemblance to Augustus.

  Tacitus leaned over to me. “Funny, I’d always heard that the other twin’s name was Remus.”

  To fight down the wave of anxiety sweeping over me, I took a deep breath. The smell of freshly rubbed papyrus and ink, mingled with the slight mustiness of the older documents, is as gratifying to me as culinary aromas to most people. Directly in front of us and to our left were the openings for the main rooms of the library. As in any library, they were long and narrow, with boxes stacked along each wall, open ends outward, holding the documents. Nailed to the top edge of each box was a list of the works contained in it. At the far end of the room closest to me I could see work tables and materials for the copyists.

  But we weren’t going into the main rooms. To our right was a door, which the slave who had summoned Josephus now unlocked. On a signal from their officer the Praetorians formed a line in front of the door. Only Domitian, Regulus, Josephus, Tacitus and I were permitted to enter, followed by the Praetorian officer. The slave locked the door behind us.

  We stepped into a vestibule containing a table and writing materials. To our left opened two rooms of documents, running parallel to the main rooms in the public part of the library. I use the word ‘public’ advisedly. Only members of the Senate and other favored persons can get permission to use this library. No one outside the imperial household, I was sure, ever set foot in this part of it, the princeps’ own archives.

  So, why was I here?

  “He’s down there,” the slave said, pointing down the last aisle of shelves, the one on the exterior wall of the building.

  With Domitian and the Praetorian leading the way, we turned a corner. At the end of this row of bookcases an apse opened to our right. I could see the feet and lower legs of a man protruding from the apse. He lay face down, with scrolls and stray pieces of papyrus scattered about him. When we reached the end of the aisle we were met by a man anxiously wringing his hands. About forty, dark-haired and with a broad, flat nose, he bowed his head to Domitian.

  “That’s Nicanor, Domitian’s freedman,” Josephus told me. From his tone of voice he might as well have added ‘officious ass.’

  “Well, let’s see what we have here,” Domitian said. He motioned with his hand and the Praetorian kicked some of the scrolls aside and started to turn the man over with his foot.

  “Please don’t move him yet,” I blurted out. Domitian and the Praetorian turned around, as surprised as I was by what I had said. I felt like an actor who had stumbled into the wrong play and was trying, without any notion of the plot, to make up lines that fit what he saw happening on the stage before him.

  “What difference does it make?” Domitian asked irritably. “He’s obviously dead.”

  “In a situation like this, my lord,” I said slowly, “it is helpful to have the scene undisturbed.”

  He cocked his head, like a dog that doesn’t understand something its master has said. “Helpful to whom? Certainly not to this poor wretch.”

  “To someone who’s trying to understand what happened, my lord.”

  “Are you such a person, Gaius Pliny?”

  I had no idea what my next line should be. Tacitus inserted one that made me cringe. “Pliny is practically a necromancer, Caesar,” he said. “He can learn so much from a dead body that you’d think the victim had sat up and told you how he died.”

  A bully’s smile played around the corners of Domitian’s mouth. “That’s what I’ve heard as well. Mestrius Florus says in his report that you have an uncanny ability to ferret out the truth in a case like this.”

  “And to make the most outrageous accusations,” Regulus said from behind him, like a little boy who feels safe shouting insults over his big brother’s shoulder.

  Without looking at him, Domitian raised a hand to silence him and then motioned for me to approach the dead man. I caught my first glimpse of his purpose in staging this little drama, for I was certain that was what was happening. He had heard from Florus, governor of the province of Asia, about my part in an investigation in Smyrna a few months earlier. Now, for whatever reason, he was testing me to see if the report was true.

  As the princeps looked from me to the dead man this trap began to feel like the mythical labyrinth. I had been drawn in far enough that I could no longer see the entrance behind me. Ahead of me I could hear the raspy breathing of the Minotaur, who looked for all the world like the princeps.

  To give myself a little time I walked around the dead man. Domitian’s and Regulus’ eyes followed my every step as I took note of the man’s position. He was short and heavy-set, his age difficult to determine. Clad in a workman’s dirty tunic, he lay on his stomach, with his right leg straight and his left knee slightly bent. His left arm was under him, his right straight down beside him. His left cheek was on the floor. His mouth hung open, and his wide-spaced eyes were rolled back under the lids. With his puffy face, he wasn’t a handsome man, even when alive. The back of his head displayed a sizeable wound, and his hair was matted with blood.

  When I felt I could keep my voice steady I started with the most obvious question I could think of. “Who found him?”

  “I did, sir,” Nicanor said, stepping forward and bowing his head.

  “This is my freedman Nicanor,” Domitian said. “He oversees the archives.”

  I wished I could ask the princeps to step back and not interfere, but I had as much chance of doing that as I did of telling the dead man at my feet to rise and walk.

  “Who is he?” I pointed to the body.

  “His name is Maxentius, sir. He’s a freedman.”

  “Please tell me how you found him and exactly what you saw.”
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  Nicanor thought for a moment, looked at Domitian and then down the aisle, as though visualizing the scene again. Or trying to remember his lines. “I was making sure everyone was out before I left for the day. He was lying under a couple of the bookcases. I guess they toppled over on him.”

  That would account for the scattered scrolls, if that was what happened. “You set them back up, I gather.”

  “Of course. I had to see if I could help the poor man.”

  I could understand that impulse, but I wished he had left things where he found them. In some of his unpublished writings my uncle described his own investigation of a couple of murders, one among his slaves, another among his soldiers. He concluded that everything about the scene of a crime, even the placement of seemingly incidental objects, could help him understand what had happened there. Once objects were moved, that information was lost.

  “What were Maxentius’ duties here?”

  “He did ... whatever he was told to do.” Nicanor glanced nervously at Domitian.

  “Why does that matter?” the princeps asked.

  “I’m just wondering, my lord, why he was here, in this particular spot.”

  “Because, my dear Pliny, this is where the bookcases fell on him,” Domitian said in exasperation.

  “Yes, of course, my lord.” What better logic could I expect from the mind which concocted that atrocious syllogism a few moments ago? “What’s contained in the bookcases in this apse?” I asked, glancing at the lists of contents on the bookcases that hadn’t been toppled. Claudius’ name appeared on most of them.

  “Letters! Reports!” Domitian snapped. “The same as in all the other damn cases.”

  Clearly I was trying the imperial patience, and I was not going to be able to conduct my inquiries the way I wanted to. Just as a trained animal in the arena must perform at its master’s pace, I would have to do what I knew how to do within prescribed limits, stumbling where I might otherwise have moved gracefully. The result would be clumsy and inane, but that was the fault of the man holding the reins, not the animal.