He looked faintly relieved. "I am Appius Claudius Nero," he said, "and I know who you are, Senator Metellus."
I took his hand. "I am always glad to meet a new-made citizen. You must have donned the man's toga while I was away in Gaul. Are you the son of the Appius Claudius who was legate to Lucullus in Asia?"
"No, I am his cousin. His father and my grandfather were brothers." That made the whelp second cousin to Clodius and Clodia. Clodius had changed his name from Claudius when he decided to become plebeian, and his sister had imitated him.
"It's good to see that our ancient patrician families still produce sturdy young men," I said, beaming at him. One more Claudian was like one more rat as far as I was concerned, but I would give him the benefit of the doubt. Every century or so the Claudians produced a good man. The elder Appius was a decent sort. The fact that this one was consorting with Clodius was definitely not a mark in his favor.
"Thank you," he said. "I-I do not wish to be rude, sir, but I have an-an appointment and I must hurry," he stammered nervously. "I must go."
"By all means," I said, "don't let me detain you. And you must call on me soon. I would like to become better acquainted." I took his hand in both of mine and noticed that it was trembling. Then I noticed something decidedly odd: On the forefinger of his hand he wore a great, bulbous poison ring.
I stared at his fear-stiffened back as he walked away. Why on earth was he wearing one of those? I suppose I should explain here. Back in those days poison rings were not really uncommon, but barbarians often think that we used them to poison our enemies. They fancy that the rings had spring-loaded lids to facilitate the surreptitious sprinkling of poison into an enemy's cup. Actually, they were a means of quick suicide. The domed chamber was cunningly wrought as a seamless capsule filled with poison. There was no access to the poison save by breaking open the capsule. In times of civil strife, when picking the wrong faction could mean death, you saw them everywhere. They were rare in tranquil times. These were relatively tranquil times.
I wore a poison ring myself from time to time. When you knew that at any moment a rampaging mob might break your door down, or your enemies were chasing you through the alleys, it was comforting to have a fast escape. Just bite through the thin gold, suck out the poison, and you might avoid being tortured, or hurled from the Tarpeian Rock, or dragged on a hook into the Tiber.
The boy was far too young to have serious enemies. Perhaps, I thought, he was just trying to get a little drama into his life. It is the common practice of boys just come to manhood to do things like that: wear poison rings or conceal swords beneath their tunics or write dreadful poems. However, nothing remotely connected with Publius Clodius was too trifling to rouse my suspicions.
The booth was typical of the sort: a flimsy construction of poles, roofed and walled with cheap, heavy cloth. Unlike the vendors' booths, this one did not have a table out front for the display of wares. Instead, the front and sides were decorated with magical symbols: crescent moons, snakes, owls and the like. I pushed aside the curtain and ducked through the low doorway. The interior was full of baskets containing all manner of herbs, vials of scented oils and nameless articles, of interest solely to the practitioners of magic. In one rustling basket I saw a knot of writhing black snakes.
"May I help you, sir?" The speaker was an absurdly ordinary-looking peasant woman. She might as well have been selling turnips in the produce market.
"I am the Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger," I said portentously. "I want to know what the noble youth who just left was doing here."
She looked me over. "Is there any reason I should talk about my clients to you?"
"Your sort is forbidden within the city, you know," I said.
"The stripe's on your tunic, not your toga," she pointed out. By this she meant that I did not wear the purple-bordered toga praetexta and therefore plainly had no judicial power.
"No, but my father is the Censor Metellus," I said.
"Is that so? I don't follow political matters much. Well, if that's the case, he's the one I should be talking to, I suppose. Why don't you fetch him here and we'll sit down and have a little chat?"
"Woman, you try my patience. Don't you know how to show the proper respect to a Senator?"
She looked at me pityingly. "Now, sir, you know perfectly well a Senator's just a citizen with a purple stripe on his tunic. If you only knew how many Senators come to me wanting a poison to get rid of their wives, or an abortion for a slave girl, and me just a poor, honest fortune-teller and herbalist. The wives come, too, because the noble husband's been away all year and they're going to have a baby that'll come out looking just like the Gallic stableboy. You'd be shocked at what your peers get up to, sir." Unfortunately, I would not be a bit shocked.
"And you, of course, would have nothing to do with such things?"
"I should hope not!" She made a number of gestures against the evil eye and other supernatural misfortunes. "I read the signs and give advice. Come to me with a cold or a hangover and I'll mix you up a potion to relieve your suffering, but don't ask me to do anything illegal."
Well, I could scarcely expect her to admit selling poisons for purposes other than suicide, since the punishment was a horrible death. '
"Fortune-telling is illegal," I pointed out.
"Well, there's lawbreaking that gets you run out of town and there's lawbreaking that gets you nailed to a cross. It's that last kind that I call illegal."
"I am going to stay here until you tell me what that boy was doing here. Then what will you do for customers?"
She threw up her hands in exasperation. "Oh, sir! Wasn't you ever that young? Didn't you always go running to a fortune-teller every time your heart went thump over some neighbor's pimply daughter? Lovesick boys outnumber embarrassed Senators any day."
"Very well," I said, "I will accept that for now, but I may be back. What is your name?"
"Purpurea, sir. You'll find me here most days."
I left fuming. Sometimes I envy Asiatic nobles, whose inferiors have to grovel in the dirt before them and lick their toes. Purpurea! When women get to make up their own names, they come up with some strange ones. And her pose of innocence did not impress me. In my lifetime I have known thousands of criminals, and the best of them could make a newborn infant seem a veritable monster by comparison. One thing was certain: That boy had been afraid to be seen emerging from her booth.
If you seek any prominent Roman at midday, it is usually futile to look for him at home. Your best bet is to go to the Forum and wander around until you bump into him. That was how I found Milo. He stood near the Temple of Castor and Pollux, surrounded by a group of tough-looking men, most of them dressed in dark tunics. He was the only one who bothered with a toga. He grinned his great, white-toothed grin when he saw me.
We had been friends for years, a thing most of my peers thought disgraceful. He was the most powerful gang leader in Rome, with Clodius as his only rival. He was a huge man, still young and extraordinarily handsome. He had been a rower in his younger years and was as strong as any professional gladiator or wrestler. We exchanged the usual embraces and greetings and he invited me to his house, where we could talk privily.
The minor fortress Milo called home occupied a whole block in one of the better slums. It was fully staffed with street fighters, many of them veterans of the legions or the arena. We sat at a table in Milo's enormous assembly room, and one of his men brought us watered wine. Milo was never one for the amenities, so I launched straight into the matter at hand.