I should have seen it coming. "You aim high, my friend." The moment I said it I knew how stupid it was. Why would a man who planned to control Rome aim low?
"I don't think the lady herself will see it that way," Milo said. "She is a Cornelian, but her father came of the poorest branch of the family. Sulla was a patrician beggar who rose high. And she realizes it. Fausta knows that the day of the patrician is past and the future of Rome belongs to men like me." This was characteristically blunt and perfectly true. Milo was clear-sighted in a way that even Cicero, with his preconceptions and ideals, could never match.
"I shall, of course, be happy to help in any way I can. What would you have me do?"
"As yet I lack the prominence to call upon Lucullus casually. You can do that. Fausta seems to have complete freedom of the house. You should have little difficulty in finding ways to speak with her. Press my suit and see how she reacts."
"Ahh, Milo, my friend, it is usually customary to approach a woman's parent or guardian in these matters. In accordance with Sulla's will, Lucullus has that authority."
Milo waved a hand, peremptorily dismissing all custom. "As I have said, certain aristocratic practices are of diminishing importance. They are of no concern to me, and I doubt that the lady in question has any use for them either."
"In that case, I shall be pleased to act for you."
I left his house amid effusive thanks. This was behavior I did not expect from Milo, whose words were always sincere but usually laconic. It was an indication of how his infatuation with Fausta was altering his manner. I had never seen him change countenance in the face of mortal danger, but this woman made him preoccupied.
It grows dark early at that time of year, so Milo provided Hermes with a torch to light our way home. I was pleasantly befuddled by the wine and greatly bemused by my new commission from Milo. I did not like the idea, but he had done me many favors and I could not refuse him this. I felt that by pursuing Sulla's daughter he was storing up much trouble and grief for himself, and I was right, but it was not something I could say to him when his motivation was so obviously emotional rather than political.
There were some families I thought it best to avoid. The whole pack of Claudians bore that distinction, as did the Antonines. The family of Sulla was another such. People who have a tyrant among their immediate ancestors are apt to have a magnified idea of their own importance.
Thinking about this led me back to the thing Julia had said that morning that I still could not call up to the surface of my mind. I could not think what the connection might be, but I knew that it was there. I was being more than ordinarily dense, I knew. I could attribute this partly to the wine and partly to the very complicated turns my life had taken since my return from Gaul. And I was about to receive a distraction that would drive it completely from my mind.
"It's black as Pluto's bunghole out here," Hermes groused as we neared my gate.
"That's because it's night," I reminded him. "Night is when it's dark. It's daytime that is light."
"It's just that it's dark even for Rome on a moonless night. This torch is about as much use as a one-wick lamp on a night like this." A second later, he squawked and fell and the torch went out. Without thought on my part, my hands went into my tunic and reemerged with my caestus on one and my danger in the other.
"What happened, you little idiot?" I demanded.
"I slipped! There's something slippery on the cobbles." He cursed mightily as he struggled to his feet.
"Someone's probably dumped a chamberpot here," I said. "See if you can get that torch going."
"Doesn't smell like shit," Hermes insisted. "It's sticky, though." He whirled the torch around his head and the flames sprang to life again. By their light he examined the stains on his hands, legs and tunic.
"If you've ruined that tunic, I'll flog you to-"
"It's blood!" he cried, interrupting rudely. Now we both saw a whitish heap on the cobbles a few steps ahead. "A body!" he cried again.
"You'll see lots of them after you've been in the Subura a while," I informed him. "I wish the gangs wouldn't do their dirty work so close to my door." We went closer and Hermes lowered the torch. That was when I saw the red sandals decorated with the ivory crescent at the ankle. I gripped my weapons more firmly.
"Uh-oh. Not an ordinary corpse after all. Well, let's see who we have here." I crouched by the head and Hermes lowered the torch further. "Well, well," I said. "Here's somebody we know. Pity it isn't Clodius, though."
"Pollux!" the boy exclaimed. "It's that little patrician shit who tried to poison you!"
And sure enough, there lay young Appius Claudius Nero, with a neat puncture in this throat and a circular dent in his brow.
Chapter VIII
I left him there until morning. He'd been no friend of mine, and I saw no point in waking up a lot of citizens just to come and gape at the little lout. Still less did I feel like losing a night's sleep on his account. I'd had a long day and I was tired. So I just tossed a handful of earth over him and went inside. I bade Hermes soak his tunic in a bucket of water before he retired. As usual I was low on funds and did not want to have to buy him a new tunic.
I slept like a corpse myself and woke feeling much better. Cato brought in a basin and my breakfast at first light. I splashed my face and downed a mouthful of bread and cheese as I laboriously recalled the previous day's sequence of events. As the cobwebs of sleep cleared, I realized that it had been a more-than-usually-eventful day. I ordered my thoughts while I munched on boiled eggs and fruit and finished off with a crust soaked in sweet wine. My father always told me I was a degenerate for eating breakfast in bed. Eating breakfast at all, for that matter. He thought it was an un-Roman practice and effete to boot. He was probably right, but I did it anyway. Just as I finished, Cato came back in.
"Master, there's some sort of commotion out front."
"Whatever might it be?" I said innocently. I had decided to keep quiet about finding the little wretch the previous night. "Where is Hermes?"
"Sick. Says he has a bellyache. I found his tunic soaking in a bucket this morning, so he must have fouled it last night."
"Tell that malingering little swine to get in here immediately," I said.
"He's not faking it, master," Cato insisted. "He's puked all over his room."
"How does that boy find so many ways to annoy me?" I said. I got up and went to his room. The reek of vomit was strong as I opened the door to his cubicle. The boy lay on his side on a pallet, his body curled around his fists, which in turn were pressed into his stomach. I squatted by him and felt his brow. He was not feverish and I sighed with relief. All I needed was pestilence in the house.
"When did this start?" I asked.
"In the middle of the night," he groaned. "I woke up with cramps." His scarlet face drained and turned pale. He sighed and sat up. "They come and go. I'm all right now, but it'll start again in a few minutes."
"Are the spasms getting worse?" I asked him.
He shook his head. "No. They're not as bad as they were a few hours ago, and they're farther apart."
"Did you eat at Milo's last night?"
"Yes. A couple of his men took me to the kitchen and I ate better than I do here."
"They probably slipped an emetic into your food. They have a rough sense of humor. Be careful around them. Milo may be my friend, but his men are all murderers and criminals of all kinds."
"Yes, sir," he said weakly. He didn't fool me. He yearned to be just like them.