“If you will come inside, Caesar and Pompaedius, but please, no others. It is already quite cramped enough.”
Caesar entered. “And how is my favorite niece today?” he said to Julia, as always the soul of courtesy.
“A bit upset, I’m afraid. The dead priest is in the most deplorable condition.”
“Priest?” Caesar said, leaning over the pit. The linkboys gaped at the Dictator’s splendor. They were certainly getting an eyeful that day.
“Well, we think he was a priest,” Julia said. “He’s in the robes of Angitia’s priesthood, anyhow. In fact, we thought it was Lucius Pompaedius here. I see now that we were mistaken.”
Caesar straightened. “May I know the meaning of this?”
“It is precisely that meaning that I have been trying to ascertain,” I told him. “Perhaps your client Pompaedius can enlighten us.”
“This man has died from the bite of a swamp adder,” the priest said. “That much is clear. It must have been he who purloined the sacred serpent. You all bear witness to how the goddess has punished him for the sacrilege.”
“And his identity?” I asked.
“Just some imposter,” Pompaedius said. “All the priests of Angitia wear the saffron toga, but only I, the high priest, am entitled to this.” He touched the yellow fillet encircling his brow.
“I see.” Caesar turned to me. “Decius, as you should know, in my office of pontifex maximus I pronounce judgment on all matters pertaining to the state religion. Bring me a problem involving Jupiter, Juno, Saturn, Mars, and I can sort it out for you. Quirinus and Janus fall within my realm of authority. I do not pronounce on matters concerning foreign deities. For that, one usually consults with the quinquidecemviri and they in turn consult the Sybilline Books. Typically, this is done when the fate of the state is involved, and I fail to see such a matter here.” Caesar could lay on the sarcasm when he wanted to.
“Actually, Caesar, I am afraid that I stooped to a subterfuge,” I admitted. “Your presence here is required in your capacity as the supreme magistrate.”
Caesar looked annoyed and began to reply when Julia said, “Everyone be very still.”
“Eh?” I said with my usual quick wit.
Very slowly Julia raised her arm and pointed toward the statue’s feet. “One of those snakes is alive.”
“By Jupiter, so it is,” I said, eyeing the slowly wriggling form with horrified fascination. “The light in here is too uncertain to determine coloration, but I am willing to hazard a guess that this is a swamp adder.”
“Somebody kill that thing,” Caesar said with distaste in his voice. He never did like snakes.
“Caesar, you cannot!” Pompaedius protested. “That is the sacred Serpent of Angitia!”
“That does present us with a problem,” Caesar said. “I wouldn’t want my Marsian troops to hold me responsible for killing their holy snake.”
“Please, there is no danger,” Pompaedius said complacently. With great solemnity he walked around the pit and stood a pace from the statue, to which he bowed and muttered something while holding his hands forth, palms down. This told me that Angitia was worshipped as an underworld deity. I was getting quite an education in religious matters that day.
His devotions completed, Pompaedius turned his attention to the snake. He extended his arms toward it and began wiggling his fingers rhythmically, edging closer with tiny steps. The snake stared at his hands and seemed enthralled. I watched with a mixture of fascination and revulsion. It always makes me uncomfortable to see someone performing magic.
Very slowly, the fingers of his right hand slowed and then stopped their wriggling. His left continued the spell-casting. Then he moved his right hand gradually toward the snake’s head until it was behind the flaring base of the wedge-shaped skull. Julia gasped when he grasped the thing by the neck. At least I’m pretty sure it was Julia. I don’t think it was me.
Pompaedius straightened. The snake, which was indeed a huge, fat specimen, tried to wrap itself around him, but he somehow arranged it in graceful loops draped from his shoulders with a terminal coil around his waist. He cooed into the place where a snake doesn’t have an ear and the thing seemed to relax.
“And I thought draping a toga properly was an exacting task,” I observed.
“You see?” Pompaedius said, ignoring me. “All is well. Divine justice has been served. I will take the sacred serpent back to her home by the lake, and the luck of the Marsi will be restored.”
“With quite a bit of prestige accruing to you,” I observed.
“Well,” he said modestly, “it will certainly do me no harm. I must thank you, Senator, for locating her so conscientiously. I am in your debt, as are all the Marsi. And to you, Caesar—”
“Caesar,” I said, “I wish to arrest this man.”
“What!” cried Pompaedius. “What is this outrage?”
“This man is the imposter. That’s Lucius Pompaedius in the pit there.” Caesar looked at the repulsive corpse bemusedly.
“But I am Lucius Pompaedius!”
“So you are,” I agreed.
“Decius Caecilius,” Caesar said, “philosophical paradoxes have never been your style. Can you not speak plainly?”
I took Caesar’s letter from the place in my toga where I stash things and unrolled it. “Caesar, yesterday when this man came to me I was struck by his name.”
“Pompaedius?” the priest said. “My ancestor was indeed a leader of the uprising against Rome, but we have been loyal citizens for many years, and loyal supporters of Caesar as well.”
“Not your family name, but the appended name, Pollux.”
His eyes shifted ever so briefly toward the doorway. “The dioscuri are patrons of Rome, and my parents gave me the name in token of our loyalty.”
“Commendable,” I said. “But it is also customary to name twin boys Castor and Pollux. Pollux is always given to the senior twin, as Pollux was the immortal brother of the two, fathered by Zeus upon Leda, with Castor fathered by Tyndareus and therefore mortal.”
“That’s one version of the myth,” Caesar said. “There are others.” Sometimes Caesar strayed into pedantry.
“I do not speak of the myth but of the naming custom. The dead man down there is Lucius Pompaedius Pollux, firstborn of the twins. This man who has assumed that name is Lucius Pompaedius Castor.”
“But why?” Julia wanted to know.
“He said it when he called on me yesterday,” I told her. “Power. Prestige. He planned to return to Marruvium as a veritable triumphator. By now his priests have spread the word that the sacred serpent has been stolen, and the whole Marsian countryside will be in a fine lather over it. He will return on horseback with the snake draped over him like Caesar’s purple robe and take his brother’s place, no doubt with a bloodcurdling story about how his jealous brother Castor tried to betray the Marsi by stealing their snake, only to have Angitia, aided no doubt by himself, strike the criminal down for his sacrilege.”
“How did he lure his brother here in order to kill him?” Julia said.
“He didn’t. He killed him in the sanctuary of Angitia at the lake. Easy enough to do for a man as expert with venomous snakes as this one. All he had to do was distract his brother, get him to look in the wrong direction, then jam the serpent’s head into some vulnerable spot. Quite ingenious, really. Pompaedius, did you actually use the sacred snake for this purpose, or did you catch a scaly accomplice in the marshes?” I was rather curious about this. Novel methods of homicide have always fascinated me.
“However it was done,” I went on, “he loaded the rapidly bloating corpse onto a wagon and brought it to Rome. The distance isn’t all that great. This shrine and its alley are so obscure that he could easily unload the corpse at night, without being seen. He left the snake there among its sculpted fellows, knowing that as long as it wasn’t hungry, it would not leave its cool, dark sanctuary with its familiar scent of cedar. That way he knew he could impress his highly placed Roman friends with his snake-charming skill. And indeed we were all impressed. With this done, he paid his call on Caesar, who sent him to me.”