"Fulvia," Clodia said, "is betrothed to Clodius."
I looked at her with an eyebrow sardonically arched. I could not resist. "Aren't you jealous?"
She didn't flinch. "People such as we have a flexibility you cannot imagine, Decius."
She was underestimating my imagination, but I let it pass. "And was young Fulvia in Caesar's house on the now-infamous evening of the rites?" I asked, dragging her back to the subject at hand.
"The rites are only for married women, Decius," Clodia said. "Fulvia accompanied me there, but she could not take part in the rituals."
"And how did it come about that Clodius got in?" I demanded. "The mind boggles at the thought of him pretending to be a woman. Whom did he claim to be married to?"
"I'm sure I don't know," Clodia said. "He didn't tell me he was coming."
"I see. And just how was he found out?"
"Oh, that occurred during a:" She paused. "No, I'm afraid I am forbidden to tell you."
"Don't be absurd. When did you ever care about laws or rules, whether of human or divine origin? The cloak of piety doesn't fit you well, Clodia."
"Who speaks of piety?" she said. "This is a matter of law. Are you not sworn to uphold the laws of the Senate and People of Rome?"
"That is a debatable point," I said. On a sudden inspiration, I embroidered upon a recent conversation. "As a matter of fact, I recently was present at a debate involving some of the highest figures of government, where there was some question whether the cult of Bona Dea is of Roman origin at all. It may be that it is lawful to demand testimony concerning the rites." I had promoted our idle dinner chitchat to the status of senatorial debate, but she didn't have to know that. A look very much like fear flitted across Clodia's beautiful face.
"If that proves to be the case," Fulvia said, "then Clodius can scarcely face a charge of truly serious sacrilege."
I turned to her. "I see that you are a perspicacious as you are lovely." You meddling little slut, I thought. It hadn't occurred to me. But when I turned back to Clodia, she still looked upset. Quickly, she composed herself.
"I believe dear Fulvia is correct. The Censors may frown upon offenses against foreign gods, but the courts surely could not exact stiff penalties in such cases. That is reserved for the gods of the state. I must consult with Cicero on this."
"I hadn't thought that Cicero was kindly disposed toward Clodius," I said.
"Oh, but Cicero and I have become great friends lately," she said, her smile back in place. This was bad news. At first I was not inclined to believe her, but then I remembered Cicero's recent rather hasty insistence that Clodia could not be involved in the scandal. "Why would he say such a thing unless he, too, had fallen to her wiles? I was disappointed in Cicero, but I knew that I was in no position to judge. I had certainly been under Clodia's spell in the past.
"Can you go so far as to tell me who it was that discovered your brother?"
"It was a slave woman from the household of Lucullus. I think I can say that without risking divine wrath."
"Slaves attend the rites?" This was news to me.
"The musicians. I believe it was a harpist who betrayed him."
This seemed to me an odd choice of words.
"I wish I could have seen him," Fulvia said. She brought her legs from beneath the coverlet and sprawled belly-down on the bed. The Coan gown revealed her dorsal contours to be as shapely as her front. "Achilles was discovered in women's clothing, you know, and Hercules had to wear women's garments when he was enslaved to Omphale. She got to wear his lion's skin and carry his club. I've always found that exciting."
"You're very young for such recondite tastes," I observed.
"Some of us start earlier than others," she said. How very true, I thought. Her voice caused an uneasiness in the testicles. Clodia sat beside her and took her hand.
"Will that be all, Decius? Fulvia and I have things to discuss."
"And I would not think of interfering. I shall take my leave and let you ladies get back to: whatever it was. My condolences, Clodia, for your recent loss."
"Thank you, Decius. Poor Nero. So many of us die untimely." And with that cryptic but ominous pronouncement in my ears, I left.
As I walked from Celer's house I passed someone going the other way. It was a woman swathed in veils, and something about her seemed oddly familiar. I restrained myself from looking at her, but when she was past me I turned in time to see her step through the door of Celer's house.
A short way down the street I found a wineshop with an open front. The barkeep dipped me a cup from one of the big jars recessed into the counter, and I carried it to a table near the front. There I could sit and ponder what I had learned while keeping an eye on Clodia's door.
It was always inadvisable to draw hasty conclusions when dealing with Clodia, but I thought I knew a few things now: Clodia had not known of Nero's death, and therefore was unlikely to have ordered it. She had been visibly upset when I suggested that there might be a legal way to subpoena testimony about Clodius's doings at the rites. Fulvia had queered my plan when she pointed out that in that case he could scarcely be charged with serious sacrilege. I had been annoyed at the time, but the randy little twit had unknowingly supplied me with further food for thought, because Clodia had still been upset at the thought of herself or someone else being forced to testify. The charge of sacrilege was not the one she feared her brother having to answer to. What else had he been up to that night? Dalliance with Caesar's wife, who must be above suspicion? That was laughable. As serious offenses went in Rome, adultery ranked right along with failing to wear one's toga to the games.
This opened whole new vistas to delight my vindictive spirit. I wanted nothing more than a chance to prosecute Clodius for something really serious. Up to now, I had been engaged on a rather frivolous investigation, the principal aim of which had been to keep Celer's wife out of it. Now this bare-bones project was gaining some real flesh. And if I was right about the woman who had just gone into Clodia's house, the sacrilege and the recent murders and the attempt on my own life were intimately connected.
She reemerged just as I finished my wine, a bit of timing I deem propitious. As she walked toward the wineshop I turned away, then got up when she was past. It is never terribly difficult to follow someone through the streets of Rome in the daytime. The ways are narrow and the crowds prevent any fast movement. They also allow you to keep close without being detected.
Not far from the Forum Boarium, she went into a charming little public garden. Besides its plantings, it featured the usual image of Priapus and one of those quaint, miniature tombs we erect on ground where lightning has struck. She sat on a bench bearing a plaque that gave the name of the rich man who had donated the garden to the city, and another rich man who had undertaken its upkeep. I passed by that same garden not long ago. Now the plaque is gone and there is another, bearing the name and lineage of the First Citizen. He would claim that he founded Rome if he thought he could get away with it.
The woman started as I sat down beside her. "Well, Purpurea, we meet again!"
She got over her startlement quickly. "And not by accident, I'll bet."
"Yes, actually, I was wondering what you were doing in the house of Metellus Celer, which is also the house of his beloved wife, Clodia Pulcher."
"You were following me!" she said, indignant. "Absolutely. Now tell me what you were doing with Clodia, or I'll cause all sorts of trouble for you."
"I'm just a poor, honest herb-woman. You've no call to be harassing me!" She shifted the basket in her lap. Something rustled inside it.