"What do you think, Quaestor?" Thorius asked. "About the murder, I mean?"
I shrugged. "Probably just another murder and robbery. I think he was knocked on the head when he walked home and was dragged back there and had his throat cut. That's where all the blood is."
"Doesn't it seem to you that a lot of equites are being murdered lately?" Aurelia asked.
"Who has more money?" I replied. "There's little gain to be had in robbing a poor man. Anyway, I'm not here to investigate the murder, just to clear up some questions about the man. Treasury business." I told the lie on a sudden impulse, and it seemed to me that a little of the tension left the shoulders of the two hirsute youths.
The gallery opened into the stands about twenty rows up, and directly above the loggia, where the giver of the games or the presiding magistrate in charge would sit on race days. A loose group of men stood there that morning, observing the horses and the charioteers as they practiced. It was a beautiful morning, and on the slopes of the Aventine above the Circus the beautiful Temple of Ceres gleamed as if carved from pure alabaster. Here and there were the shrines of other, even older deities. Now that we have all become imitation Greeks, we have forgotten that once our gods were purely Italian. They lingered here in the Valley of Murcia, once a myrtle-draped site of our harvest festivals, when the circus had been a mere dirt track. The sanctuaries of Seia, Segesta, Tutilina, and other half-forgotten goddesses of the harvest stood nearby. The goddess Murcia herself, for whom the valley was named, was already being confused with Venus, who was in turn being absorbed by the Greek Aphrodite. For a people in love with our religious ceremonies, we Romans are remarkably confused in our attitudes toward the gods.
"What a glorious morning!" Aurelia exclaimed, rousing from her usual half-somnolent abstraction. We descended the steps to the loggia and she strode to the marble railing and stood beside the statue of Victory that crowned one of its corners. Below, the chariots roared by, the charioteers garbed in their tunics of red, white, blue or green, their heads encased in close-fitting leather helmets, some of them wearing padded leather leg-guards, their bodies harnessed in the complicated system of leather straps and thongs intended to protect them in case of a fall and relieve the tremendous strain of the four-horse reins.
"Silverwing!" Valgius cried, pointing, his eyes gleaming like those of a man who has seen a vision.
Silverwing was, indeed, a beautiful animal. All racehorses are beautiful, but Silverwing stood out like a god even among these. He belonged to that rare, ancient breed of striped horses, now all but bred out of existence. He was deep gray, with white stripes, brightest on his shoulders and withers and from these he was named. That morning he was not pulling a chariot, but was instead being ridden by one of the Numidian handlers. With only the slight, brown man for a burden, the beast truly seemed to fly.
Near us two men argued in low but heated voices. One had his back to us, and the other I did not recognize. The other people on the loggia stood well away from them, as men do when they do not wish to be noticed by someone who is both angry and important. Aurelia, it seemed, was not so overawed.
"I need to talk to him," she said, walking over to the two men. Not wishing to give up her company so easily, I followed. The one with his back to us turned at her approach and I wished that I had not been so eager to stay with Aurelia. It was Marcus Licinius Crassus.
The anger swept from his face and he smiled. "Aurelia! You make the morning twice as beautiful." He bestowed a properly chaste kiss upon her cheek and looked at the rest of us. "Let me see, I know Decius Caecilius, of course, but I don't believe I've met your other companions." Aurelia introduced Thorius and Valgius. Crassus's blue eyes were as cold as always, but he displayed no particular hostility toward me. He introduced the man with whom he had been arguing, and who also had regained his composure.
"This is Quintus Fabius Sanga, who is here to see his horses run." I glanced at the man's sandal and saw the small, ivory crescent fixed at the ankle, the mark of a patrician. I took his proffered hand.
"My father has spoken of you," I told him. "He says that your estates in Gaul produce the finest horses in the world."
Sanga smiled. "I did business with Cut-Nose when he was proconsul. He has a sharp eye for horseflesh. He insisted on personally inspecting every horse bought for the auxilia." Farming and livestock raising are among the few businesses that patricians are allowed to practice, but nobody ever said you couldn't get rich that way. "If it weren't for the lupercalia, I'd be up in Gaul with my horses right now." The Fabian and Quintilian gens had charge of that very strange and ancient festival.
"But it is more than four months until lupercalia," I pointed out.
"But that would mean crossing the Alps or traveling by sea in January, and who wants to do that? Besides, some of my Gallic clients are here in the city and need my guidance." He looked out onto the track. "There are some of mine now." I looked to see a quadriga of four splendid Gallic bays thundering from the gates, cutting swiftly to the left to put the chariot in the best position next to the spina . It was beautifully done, but in a real race it was a dangerous maneuver, because all four charioteers would be trying for that position. More smash-ups happen during the initial scramble for the spina position than at any other time in a race. The charioteer was a handsome youth with long, yellow Gallic hair streaming from beneath his helmet. There was something familiar about him, but in the moment it took him to flash by us I could not pin it down. We all praised Sanga's horses and then Aurelia brought up her business with Crassus.
"Marcus Licinius, I belong to the college of priestesses of Ceres. Our temple"-she pointed at the beautiful structure on the hill-"is in need of repair. Will you undertake the needed restorations?" It was customary for rich men to do these things.
"Haven't the market fines been sufficient this year?" he asked. The plebeian aediles had their offices in the temple, and the fines they collected in the markets were supposed to pay for its upkeep.
"I'm afraid not. The mundus shows signs of collapsing. It could bring down the whole temple."
"That does sound serious," he admitted. The mundus was very important to us because it was the only passageway into the underworld. There are others in Italy, but only one in Rome. All those offerings and messages had to reach the underworld gods and our dead somehow, so we couldn't just let our mundus collapse.
"Restorations are so tedious and complicated," Crassus said. "Perhaps I should just build you a new temple." He was not joking. Crassus used to say that a man could not claim to be rich unless he could raise, equip and pay an army out of his own purse. He was that rich.
"Absolutely not!" Aurelia exclaimed. "We want to keep our old temple. Restorations only, if you please, Marcus Licinius." In this I heartily concurred. I hated the way people were always tearing down our ancient temples so they could build something modern and carve their name all over the pediment in letters three feet high. Not that the Temple of Ceres was all that ancient. It was a bit under four and a half centuries old, making it respectably venerable. At least, when the great Temple of Jupiter had burned twenty years before, Sulla had had the good taste to restore it to its original design and condition. They don't make tyrants like Sulla anymore.
"Then it shall be done. Report to your sisters that I will send my architect and building manager to make a preliminary survey and report tomorrow."
She clapped her hands delightedly. "Thank you, Marcus Licinius! The goddess thanks you. Now, you must do me the further favor of accepting an invitation to a reception I am giving for the Parthian ambassador tomorrow evening."