The Sacrilege

"Right. I was just back in Rome. I might have picked up some horrid disease in Gaul. And since he was already having poor old Capito murdered that night, perhaps he didn't want to overdo it."

"So you think he had Capito done away with?" Hermes was enjoying this talk of murder far too much.

"He certainly had reason to." I told him about Capito's interference with Pompey's land settlements. The boy gave a low whistle.

"And I thought Clodius and Milo were dangerous men to deal with! These leaders of the Republic are even worse!"

I nodded. "Very true. Clodius and Milo are small-scale gangsters, with purely urban ambitions. These men are criminals of world stature. Do try to moderate your admiration."

"Well, what do you propose to do about it? Clodius you can always fight. Milo is your friend and his gang is as big and as powerful as Clodius's. You can't fight Pompey, if the whole aristocratic party in the Senate can't do anything about him."

For a slave, the boy was learning political nuance quickly. Suddenly, the family farm at Beneventum seemed like a good place to be.

"I think you'd better make your peace with him, master," Hermes advised.

"The problem is, I don't even what I've done to offend him, if he truly is the one who tried to have me poisoned. I could never prove anything against him in the past. Why should he care about me now?"

"You have a reputation for finding things out about people, don't you? Things they'd rather keep hidden? Well, maybe he's done something, or plans to do something, that he'd just as soon nobody found out about."

"Hermes, you amaze me," I said. "That is very astute."

"I told you I thought better on a full stomach."

There are stages in the investigation of a crime, conspiracy or other mystery that involves many people acting from many motives. At first, all is confusion. Then, as you gather evidence, things get even more complicated and confusing. But eventually there comes a point when each new fact unearthed fits into place with a satisfying click and things become simpler instead of more complex. Things begin to make sense. I now felt that things had reached that stage. It seemed to me that my guardian genius, my ferret-muse, hovered near and was aiding me to untie this knot of murder and intrigue. Or perhaps it was just the wine.

Chapter XII

Rome was decked out in full holiday attire, with garlands and wreaths and fresh gilding everywhere. Statues of heroes had been given fresh victory crowns so that they could share in the triumph. Incense burned before the shrine of every smallest god, and the greatest deities of the state were carried through the streets in solemn processions, seated in ornate litters borne on the shoulders of attendants.

It always did my heart god to see the city like this, even when it was to celebrate the triumph of someone I detested. Everywhere one looked, people were reeling through the streets, singing triumphal songs and giving the wineshops a tremendous business. Labor had ceased and the farmers had poured in from the countryside, along with what appeared to be the entire populations of several nearby towns. Children dashed about, freed from the tyra

All was gaiety, but my spirits were depressed by the thought that I would have to spend the morning at Pompey's theater, watching some tedious old Greek's contribution to Athenian culture. I would far rather have gone to see the mimes in the old wooden theaters, or to the Circuses, where lusiones and animal shows would be going on all day. But that was out of the question. The Senate, the equites and the Vestals would have to attend the theatrical display in the new theater. To fail to do so would insult not only Pompey, a prospect many of us would have relished, but also the gods of the state.

We marshalled in the Forum, and the state freedmen got us into the proper order, with the Consuls in front, followed by the Censors, the praetors, the Vestals, the pontifixes led by Caesar, the flamines, then the main body of the Senate with the Hortalus as Princeps in front, followed by the consulars and all the rest in order of their enrollment in the Senate. The result was that I was at the very end of the procession. Ahead of me were some men very nearly as undistinguished as I. It was a long march out to the Campus Martius and the complex of buildings surrounding the new theater.

Off we trooped, amid shouts of " Io triomphe!", showered with flower petals. It might be wondered that there were such petals available at that time of year, but Pompey was not about to let his triumph be marred by the season. Against just such an eventuality, he had collected vast quantities of them and had them dried, supplementing them with shiploads of petals brought in from Egypt at intervals to assure that there would be a leavening of fresh flowers for throwing and making wreaths. Huge baskets of them stood along all the streets.

"The whole city's going to smell like a whorehouse for weeks," groused a young Senator in front of me.

"It didn't smell all that good before," someone pointed out.

Because of the huge new building project, half the Campus Martius was a jumble of building materials, with heaps of cut stone and rubble fill everywhere, along with mountains of concrete and great stacks of wood for scaffolding. Half-built walls stood, abandoned for the holiday by the workmen.

"You know," I remarked, "if you aged things a bit and added a few lurking animals, this gives an excellent idea of what Rome would look like in a state of ruin."

"You're in a fanciful mood this morning, Metellus," said a Senator who had been a quaestor in the same year as I.

"Fancy is in the air," I said. "Take Pompey: that theater over there." I pointed to the squat hulk of white marble that had just begun to rise from its supporting platform. "I've heard that when it's finished, it will hold ten thousand spectators. Pompey has a most unrealistic idea of the Roman capacity for Greek drama."

"I don't think that's what he intends it for," said a Senator named Tusculus, who was rumored to be the great-grandson of a freedman. "I've spoken with his spectacle-pla

"That would give old Euripides fits," I said. "Roman tastes in entertainment are a bit more robust than those of the effete Greeks."

All this conversation with accomplished with rigid faces, barely moving our mouths, coupled with the most rigid bearing. It would not have done to allow our gravitas to slip before the eyes of the citizenry. Once we were within the nascent theater we could relax, because there was no seating for the lower orders, all of whom went off to see livelier entertainments. I wished I could go with them.

The more lordly personages took their seats nearest the orchestra, just in front of the stage. Only these seats had been completed, and were made of white marble. The rest were temporary bleachers of wood. The stage itself was also of wood, as was the immense, three-tiered proscenium that rose behind the scaena. Eventually, this would all be rebuilt in stone, but no effort had been spared to make the temporary structure sumptuous, and all was bright with new paint and colorful hangings. Fountains sprayed perfumed water in high arcs, helping to dull the odor of fresh paint and new-cut pine.

"If I get pinesap on my new toga," said an eques behind me, "I'll bill Pompey for it." This raised a laugh. Now that the mob had hied away, we could revert to our natural state, which is to say, a pack of outspoken Italians.

"Here comes Pompey!" someone shouted. We all stood up and applauded dutifully as the great man made his appearance. He was wearing a golden wreath and a triumphator's voluminous purple toga picta covered all over with golden stars.