On the steps of the Basilica Opimia I found Cicero, surrounded as always by clients and friends. Ordinarily I would have waited upon his notice like everyone else, but my office and my lictor allowed me to approach him at once.
“Good morning, aedile,” he saluted, always punctilious in matters of office. He raised an eyebrow at sight of my lictor. “Does your office now carry imperium? I must have dozed off during the last senate meeting.”
“Good morning, Marcus Tullius, and no, I’m just carrying out an investigation for Varus. I would greatly appreciate your advice.”
“Of course.” We made that little halfturn that proclaimed that we were now in private conference, and the others directed their attention elsewhere. “Is it the murder of Aulus Cosconius? Shocking business.”
“Exactly. What were the man’s political leanings, if any?”
“He was a dreadfully old fashioned man, the sort who opposes almost anything unsanctioned by our remote ancestors. Like most of the men involved in city property trade, he supported Crassus. Before he left for Syria, Crassus told them all to fight Pompey’s efforts to become dictator. That’s good advice, even coming from Crassus. I’ve spent months trying to convince the tribunes not to introduce legislation to that effect.”
“What about next year’s tribunes?” I asked.
“Next year’s? I’m having trouble enough with the ones we have now.”
“Even if Pompey isn’t named dictator, he’s almost sure to be one of next year’s consuls. If the tribunes for next year are all Pompey’s men, he’ll have near-dictatorial authority and the proconsular province of his choosing. He’ll be able to take Syria from Crassus, or Gaul from Caesar, if he wants.”
Cicero nodded. “That has always been Pompey’s style — let someone else do all the fighting, then get the tribunes to give him command in time for the kill.” Now he looked sharply at me. “What are you getting at, Decius?”
“Be patient with me, Marcus Tullius. I have...” at that moment I saw a slave, one of Asklepiodes’ silent Egyptian assistants, making his way toward me, holding a folded piece of papyrus which he handed to me. I opened up the papyrus, read the single word it contained and grinned. “Marcus Tullius,” I said, “if a man were standing for public office and were caught in some offense against the ancient laws — say, he carried arms within the boundaries set by Romulus — would it abnegate his candidacy?” My own solution to the law was to carry a caestus. The spiked boxing glove was, technically, sports equipment rather than a proper weapon.
“It’s a commonly violated custom in these evil times, but if I were standing for office against that man, I would prosecute him and tie him up in litigation so thoroughly that he would never take office.”
“That is just what I needed to know. Marcus Tullius, if I might impose upon you further, could you meet with me this afternoon at the ludus of Statilius Taurus?”
Now he was thoroughly mystified, something I seldom managed to do to Cicero. “Well, my friend Balbus has been writing me from Africa for months to help him arrange the games he will be giving when he returns. I could take care of that at the same time.”
“Thank you, Marcus Tullius.” I started to turn away.
“And, Decius?”
I turned back. “Yes?”
“Do be entertaining. That’s a long walk.”
“I promise it.”
At the bottom of the steps I took the tablet thonged to the slave’s belt and wrote on the wax with my stylus. “Take this to your master.” I instructed. He nodded wordlessly and left. Asklepiodes’ slaves could speak, but only in Egyptian, which in Rome was the same thing as being mute. Then I gave the lictor his orders.
“Go to Quintus Cosconius, the man in mourning dress over there with the candidates, and tell him that he is summoned to confer with me at the Statilian School in—” I glanced up at the angle of the sun “—three hours.”
He ran off, and I climbed the lower slope of the Capitoline along the Via Sacra to the Archive. I spoke with Calpurnius, the freedman in charge of estate titles, and he brought me a great stack of tablets and scrolls, bulky with thick waxen seals, recording the deeds of the late Aulus Cosconius. The one for the Aventine townhouse where I had discovered his body was a nice little wooden diptych with bronze hinges. Inside, one leaf bore writing done with a reed pen in black ink. The other had a circular recess that held the wax seal, protecting it from damage.
“I’ll just take this with me if you don’t mind,” I said.
“But I do mind,” Calpurnius said, “You have no subpoena from a praetor demanding documents from this office.” One always has to deal with such persons, on public duty. After much wrangling and talking with his superiors and swearing of sacred oaths upon the altars of the state, I got away with the wretched document, to be returned the next morning or forfeit my life.
Thus armed, I made my leisurely way toward the river and crossed the Aemilian Bridge into the Trans-Tiber district. There, among the river port facilities of Rome’s newest district, was the ludus of Statilius Taurus, where the best gladiators outside of Campania were trained. I conferred with Statilius for an hour or so, making arrangements for the games that had already bankrupted me. Then Cicero arrived to do the same on behalf of his friend Balbus. He was accompanied by five or six clients, all men of distinction in their own right.
With our business concluded, we went out to the gallery that overlooked the training yard. It was an hour when only the fighters of the first rank were working out, while the tyros watched from the periphery. These men despised practice weapons, preferring to train with sharp steel. Their steel was amazing to see. Even Cicero, who had little liking for the public shows, was impressed.
Asklepiodes arrived as we were thus engaged, holding a folded garment. “This is the oddest task you have ever asked of me,” he said, “but you always furnish amusement of the highest sort, so I expect to be amply rewarded.” He handed me the thing.
“Excellent!” I said. “I was afraid the undertaker might have thrown it away.”
“Aedile,” Cicero said a bit testily. “I do hope this is leading somewhere. My time is not without value.”
I saw a man in a dark toga come through the archway leading to the practice yard. “I promise not to disappoint you. Here’s my man now.”
Young Cosconius looked around, then saw me gesturing from the distinguished group on the gallery. He came up the stair, very stiff and dignified. He was surprised to see Cicero and his entourage, but he masked his perplexity with an expression of gravitas befitting one recently bereaved and seeking high office. He saluted Cicero, ex-consul and the most important man currently residing in Rome.
“I am here on a matter of business,” Cicero said. “I believe your business is with the aedile.”
“I apologize for summoning you here,” I said. “I know that you must be preoccupied with your late father’s obsequies.” When I had last seen him, he had been busy grubbing votes.
“I trust you’ve made progress in finding my father’s murderer,” he said coldly.