The Blood of Caesar Read online

  I turned back to Nicanor, “So you saw Maxentius lying here and came over to help him.”

  “Ran over, as a matter of fact. But he was already dead.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “He wasn’t breathing or moving.” Nicanor seemed insulted. “He was just lying under the bookcases. He wasn’t making any effort to get out from under them.”

  “He could have been unconscious,” Tacitus said from behind Josephus.

  “Oh, does the son-in-law of Agricola have something to contribute?” Domitian asked over his shoulder.

  “We have worked together before, my lord,” I said. “One of us sometimes sees what the other misses.”

  Domitian took Tacitus’ arm and pulled him forward. “Son-in-law of Agricola, if you two are accustomed to work as a team, then get to it.”

  Tacitus, with his back to Domitian, gave me a rueful look, rolling his eyes. I wanted to tell him he should have kept his mouth shut, but, like an ox welcoming its yoke-mate, I was relieved to have someone alongside me to share this burden.

  I knelt beside Maxentius and took a deep breath. The death smell, though not yet overpowering, was becoming noticeable at close quarters—not a stench yet, but an unpleasant staleness. I touched his face and his left arm. His skin was cold, his arm stiff. I examined the fingers of the hand which I could see. They told me this man had not led a pampered life. Lifting his tunic, I looked at his back and shoulders.

  “I may not be a necromancer,” Domitian said, looming over me, “but I do recognize the marks of a whip.”

  “Yes, my lord. From some time ago, before he was freed, no doubt.” What Domitian didn’t recognize, but I did, were the livid blotches on the man’s back, especially on his shoulders and buttocks.

  Tacitus knelt beside me, reluctantly. Although he had helped me a great deal in our earlier investigation, he prefers to keep his dead bodies at a safe distance—to be precise, the distance from his seat to the floor of the arena.

  “See this?” I said, trying to bend the dead man’s right arm.

  Tacitus nodded and raised his eyebrows, acknowledging the significance of that stiff arm.

  I knew what it meant because of what I had found in a collection of 160 scrolls I inherited from my uncle. In those scrolls he recorded things he felt it would be impolitic to publish, among them scientific observations that run counter to the wisdom of our day. He recorded what happened to the bodies of soldiers and slaves after they died. Bodies cool and stiffen at a regular rate, he noticed, allowing for how cool or warm their surroundings may be. After about four hours, the muscles begin to stiffen. After a day and a half, they begin to relax again.

  Although my uncle observed this phenomenon numerous times, he could offer no explanation for it. An old slave of mine, while preparing my uncle’s body for his funeral, told me it was because the spirit of the deceased was terrified by the monsters of the Underworld and could not relax and feel safe until it had crossed the River Styx and entered the Elysian Fields. No wonder Plato wanted nursemaids and their myths banished from his ideal state.

  “I’d like to have him turned over,” I said.

  Domitian motioned to the Praetorian and the slave who had accompanied us. They rolled the dead man onto his back. I lifted his tunic and quickly inspected his body to see if he bore any wounds.

  “What was this man doing back here today,” I asked Nicanor, “since he wasn’t a scribe?”

  Nicanor’s face showed how completely off guard he was caught by what I had deduced about the dead man as soon as I looked at his hands. I didn’t look at Domitian, but I felt sure he wanted to know that I knew it.

  “Not a scribe? Why, uh, sir, he was ... working, like the rest of us, don’t you know.”

  “I believe he was ... repairing some bookcases,” Domitian offered.

  I directed my attention on Nicanor. I wasn’t about to undertake an interrogation of the princeps. “Wouldn’t it disturb your scribes to have someone hammering on the bookcases?” Which Maxentius couldn’t have been doing, since there were no tools with him.

  “Well, sir,” Nicanor said, “on a cloudy day like this, don’t you know, it’s difficult for the scribes to copy anything, since we can’t use lamps or candles. They spent most of the morning smoothing and lining pages for another day’s work. We stopped work at the fourth hour.”

  “Why so early?”

  “My lord Domitian instructed us to, sir.”

  “So no one was in here after midday?” I asked.

  “I didn’t think so, sir.”

  “But you didn’t come back until a few moments ago to lock up?”

  “Oh, I locked the door when we stopped work,” he said with a nervous glance at Domitian. “I’m very careful about that, don’t you know. And I always check it, the last thing before going to my quarters for supper.”

  “And you did not see Maxentius back here earlier in the day?”

  “No, sir. I found him just before I sent for help.”

  “Why did you send for Josephus? He has no official position here, does he?”

  “No, sir. But he works here so much ... I thought he might know better than I what to do.”

  “Did Maxentius have a key?” Tacitus asked.

  “No, sir.”

  Like most slaves and former slaves, he offered only the information asked for. To get more, we had to ask more precise questions. “Who does have a key?” Tacitus continued.

  “I have one, sir, and my assistant, Lysias.”

  Domitian heaved an impatient sigh. “Gaius Pliny, I have a key. What’s the point of all these questions?”

  I rocked back on my heels. Domitian had set a trap, as well concealed as a net covered with brush, and he had driven me right into it. Now, like an animal in the forest which has spotted the trap, I had reached the decisive moment. If I froze in fear, he could take his time springing the trap on me. But if he saw me flinch, ready to jump, he would close the net in an instant.

  Two bad choices are the same as no choice.

  Domitian glared at me. “Well, Gaius Pliny?”

  “Forgive my hesitation, Caesar. I’m having difficulty understanding how this man could have died some time early in the morning—around the second hour—and yet have gone unnoticed by others in the archives.”

  Domitian’s face showed surprise mixed with fear. “What makes you think he died in the morning?”

  “It’s not what I think, my lord. That’s what his body tells me.”

  “Ah, yes, the necromancer speaks. Do you reveal your secrets?”

  “Only to my acolytes, my lord.” I meant it as a joke—a bold one at that—but Domitian seemed to accept it as a serious response.

  “Well, then, does his body tell you how he died?”

  He wasn’t asking me for just any answer to that question. He wanted to see if I knew the right answer. “It says he was struck on the head by something sharp and heavy, my lord.”

  “These bookcases are heavy, and the corners are sharp,” Tacitus said helpfully. “And there’s a bit of blood on this one.”

  We stood and, with Domitian looking over our shoulders, Tacitus pointed to the corner of the top bookcase on the stack. “Well, that’s clear enough then,” the princeps said.

  “So it might seem, my lord,” I said. I knelt again and examined the wound on Maxentius’ head. “But in addition to the blood in his hair, there is a reddish dust. There’s no such dust on the bookcase.”

  “Where could it have come from?”

  “From a brick, my lord. I think Maxentius was struck by a brick.”

  Domitian regarded me for a moment before he said, “But I don’t see any bricks in here.”

  “He wasn’t killed in here, my lord.” Since there was no escape from the trap, I might as well speak my mind. Not speaking it wouldn’t save me.

  “And what leads you to that conclusion, Gaius the necromancer?”

  I signaled to the Praetorian and the slave to turn Maxenti
us back over. Then I pulled up Maxentius’ tunic to show the princeps what I had observed earlier. “These purple splotches on his shoulders and buttocks tell me that he lay on his back for a time after he died. Then he was moved in here and arranged in this position.”

  “Fascinating. Now, who could have done such a thing?”

  “Someone with a key, my lord.” I heard Tacitus gasp as I said it.

  Regulus erupted like a long-dormant volcano. “You insolent pup! You’re practically accusing the princeps of murder.”

  “Is that what you’re doing, Gaius the necromancer?” Domitian’s voice quavered with excitement, his eyes locking on to mine and not letting me look away.

  “Certainly not, my lord. I’ve answered the questions that I can answer. For the rest of it, that’s an investigation which should be conducted by your Praetorians. I don’t have any authority in this matter.”

  “You didn’t have any authority in Smyrna either,” Regulus snapped.

  Domitian held up a hand to quiet Regulus. “You’re quite right, Gaius Pliny,” he said. “You have no authority in this matter. I will have my men look into it.”

  “Then is there anything else you require of me, my lord?”

  “No. This has been most informative.” He glanced at Regulus.

  No one said anything else until Josephus asked, “Shall we return to dinner now, my lord?”

  “I’m too upset over this matter to eat,” Domitian said. “It’s quite distressing. If you’ll forgive my rudeness, my servants will see that you have something to take home.” He gestured to the Praetorian officer, who herded Tacitus, Josephus, and me toward the door. Regulus stayed at Domitian’s side. The last I saw of them, they were examining the purple splotches on Maxentius’ back, drawing up their garments to be sure they didn’t touch the body.

  * * * *

  As we walked down the aisle I felt like Orpheus emerging from the Underworld. As long as I kept my eyes straight ahead, I told myself, I would be safe.

  And yet such is my damnable curiosity that I couldn’t help but glance at the lists of contents attached to each box of documents. This would, in all likelihood, be my only visit to the imperial archives. Why not learn a little something about them while I had the chance? But a little is exactly what the lists revealed. NERONIS EPISTULAE several said. Letters of Nero. To whom? About what? It’s a curious, and sometimes frustrating, characteristic of Latin that the possessive case “of Nero” can mean letters which Nero wrote or letters written by others which belong to Nero.

  The stacks of papyrus sheets came almost to the tops of the boxes. And in some of them scrolls—most of them missing the titulus which bore the title and author of the work—lay on top of the piles. Had some of Nero’s letters been recopied into one document? Or had something else been tossed into the wrong box?

  “How do you find anything in here?” I asked Josephus.

  “It can be a challenge,” the historian said. “I have two freedmen working with me. Sometimes it takes us an entire day just to sort through a single bookcase, looking at every document. It’s appalling how much material is out of place.”

  “The same is true in my library,” I said. “My uncle was an avid reader and collector of books, but, because of his phenomenal memory, he didn’t worry about how he organized his library. He knew where his books were and what was in them. It took me and my scribes almost two years to sort through everything.”

  “Did you find many documents done in Tironian notation?”

  “A few.” The Tironian system of rapid writing was devised by Cicero’s chief scribe. It consists of over four thousand characters. I’m fortunate to have a slave who has mastered it. “I thought it was used to take notes to be transcribed later.”

  “Sometimes, I believe,” Josephus said, “it has been used to record things that weren’t meant to be read by just anyone. The most personal letters, diaries, that sort of thing. Not that it makes much difference in what language or notation a thing is recorded. We often find the papyrus on the bottom of a case is already starting to decay. But you must have observed this in your own library.”

  “Yes. I sometimes wonder if we’ll have any records left a hundred years from now.”

  Our slaves rejoined us in the vestibule of the library. Three of the Praetorians escorted us back to the head of the steps leading down to the Forum, where Domitian’s slaves were waiting with so many baskets of food I wished we had come in a wagon. Clearly they had been preparing the baskets while we were in the archives. Domitian never meant for us to return and finish our meal.

  Josephus accepted a single basket with a heavy sigh. How often can you insult a man before he can take no more? I wondered.

  “It has been a privilege to meet you, young sirs,” he said. “Gaius Pliny, I regret we did not have time to discuss your uncle’s work, but I think he has found a worthy successor. The way you met the princeps’ challenge was quite remarkable. Quite remarkable indeed.” He leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I knew that man, Maxentius, was no scribe. I’ve never seen him in the archives. How could you tell?”

  “Simply by looking at his hands.”

  “His hands?”

  “They were calloused and had no ink stains on them. Turn your right hand palm up.” I didn’t want to touch him because I felt unclean after pawing Maxentius’ body and I had heard in Syria that Jews—if he still considered himself one—have even stronger prohibitions against contact with the dead than we Romans do.

  “I’m sure you bathed before coming to dinner, sir, but your thumb and first two fingers still bear traces of ink.”

  He chuckled. “I scrub myself raw and it won’t come out.”

  “A scribe, or anyone who has done his own writing for any time at all, will be as permanently marked as if he’d been branded.” That was a conclusion I had drawn from my own observation, not from my uncle’s notebooks. “Or circumcised,” I added.

  Josephus looked at me, uncertain whether I was baiting him.

  “Maxentius was a Jew,” I said.

  Josephus nodded in understanding. “One of those enslaved after the war, no doubt.” He took his leave, shaking his head in bemusement.

  Tacitus and I started down the steps. “So,” Tacitus said, “Maxentius wasn’t a scribe. But if he was a carpenter working on the bookcases, where were his tools?”

  “You noticed that, too? The white material under his fingernails was plaster. That means he was most likely building Domitian’s new house.” I pointed to stacks of red bricks waiting for the masons. “For me the more important question is whether Domitian had him killed just to pose this test for us.”

  “But ... but why would he do that?”

  “I can’t begin to answer that question.” The Praetorians at the bottom of the stairs saluted us as we passed. “If I try to, I’m afraid I’ll be walking right back into Domitian’s trap.”

  III

  THE RAIN HAD STARTED again with renewed intensity after I went to bed—but not to sleep. The sky was still leaden at the second hour of the next morning. This mid-July soaking would spawn the diseases that would sweep over Rome in the heat of August. It would soon be time to move the household to my villa at Laurentium for a while.

  The rain blowing into my atrium was not hard enough to threaten the freshly painted walls. The new frescoes depicted some of the exotic locales and unusual animals described by my uncle in his Natural History. I was pleased with the results, except that the hippopotami didn’t in the least resemble my uncle’s description. Not even the added realism of the rain improved their looks.

  “So you’re finally up.” My mother’s voice took me by surprise. I turned to see her coming out of a room on the opposite side of the atrium. Perhaps the dismal light was tricking me, but she looked smaller and frailer than she had even yesterday. “You missed the morning salutation,” she said. I couldn’t miss the disapproval in her voice.

  “I’m sorry. I had a restless night.” My servants hav
e been instructed that, if I’m not up on time, it’s because I haven’t slept well and I’m not to be disturbed. I take the morning salutation seriously. If my clients are expected to don a toga and trek to my house at the crack of dawn, no matter what the weather, the least I can do is walk from my bedroom to the atrium to receive their greetings. I assumed my steward had seen to the distribution of the daily dole. “Did Demetrius take care of everyone?”

  “Yes. And he was far too generous with your money.”

  Since the eruption of Vesuvius and my uncle’s death four years ago she has become increasingly anxious about our family’s finances, in spite of my regular assurances that all is well.

  “And he sent everyone on their way,” she said in a scolding voice, “as if they didn’t have to do anything for the money.”

  “I have no need of their services today, Mother.” I turned toward my tablinum, intending to go over more accounts and try to get my affairs back in order after a year away on provincial service. “In this weather I certainly won’t be going to the Forum. Only the hardiest souls would be out on a day like this.” As soon as the words left my lips someone pounded on the door, like an actor on his cue.

  “There is at least one of those, it seems,” my mother said. She kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll leave you to your business.” Summoning the slave girl who had been working with her, she withdrew into the back part of the house.

  The knock was repeated, vigorously. A tardy client would hardly be so bold. Moschus, my doorkeeper, groused as he went to answer the summons. The old man complains more and more of aches in his joints. He groaned as he slipped the bolt and pulled the door open.

  Through the open door stepped Tacitus, shaking himself like a dog and accompanied by three slaves. He wore a broad-brimmed traveler’s hat and a leather cloak coated with animal grease to ward off the rain. In spite of his best efforts to keep dry, his wet brown hair was matted to his head. The rain had even washed away his sardonic smile.

  “What on earth brings you out on a morning like this?” I asked. Tacitus is a man fond of his bed, even on a sunny morning.