I passed the governor’s house, and saw the long line of hangers-on, dull and shuffling, waiting for the governor’s handouts. Some Roman, some native, all needing something that they probably wouldn’t get. Sure, maybe some money, some food, maybe a pardon in a court case, but everyone wanted a favor, and Agricola carried the patronage of every man, woman and child in Britannia on his back.
One or two were pitchmen, the kind that helped themselves, but needed a little encouragement in coin. “I’ve got a sure-fire investment scheme, sir-only take a minute of your time-” the story ran. Or “I’ve got silphium, slaves and the best Falernian loaded on my ship, and if you’d like to invest in bringing her to port-” There were other versions, all of them smelled. God, Arcturus, you’re depressing this morning. Don’t start that again. Only stupid people never get depressed. Stupidity acts like a shield, one not even a pilum can penetrate. Sometimes I could use a shield that thick.
The man following me slowed down when I did. He was a little more skilled than Meditor’s usual recruit. He was wearing what was supposed to be a nondescript brown mantle, but the stiff way he wore it and his uneven rate of walking-first fast, then stop, then fast again, then slow-told the story. Avitus wouldn’t bother to have me tailed-he had too many other things to do, and he knew in his gut that I was trying to help in my own irritating way. That made him one of Meditor’s.
I started to whistle an obnoxious tavern tune, and slowed to a stroll, to get a better look at the pack waiting on Agricola’s doorstep. The salutatio was a time-honored tradition, and the Romans never met a tradition they didn’t like.
Some were there as the general’s clients-members of conquered tribes seeking protection, or help, or a post on the tribal council. Some were citizens, clambering for a position nearer the top of the ladder, or some other kind of recognition from the closest person to the Emperor they’d ever meet. Some were tourists, or merchants from Rome or Gaul, whose rank demanded time with the governor. And the others-the others were just prowling around, trying to pick up a bite, slinking in between the likely takers, hoping someone would be stupid enough to buy what they were selling. Somehow, it all made me feel better. So I sped up, and so did the footsteps behind me.
The procurator’s house was to the east of the palace, terraced on two levels, not three, and, just as without the governor the procurator would be the top, without the palace, the house would be much more than it was. Unfortunately, its own ostentation would always suffer in comparison to the governor’s little shack, but that was the procurator’s life for you. For an equestrian, it was the Palatine Hill. For a senator-well, it was best not to be the sensitive type under Domitian.
The men waiting to see Lucullus were appropriately more hungry than those waiting for the governor. Tax problems, most likely. And some people thought it quite the bright idea to bypass Agricola and go to the man who reported directly to the Emperor. Ambition and appetite ran approximately neck and neck, until they’d get tangled in each other’s feet and take a nasty fall. From the looks of the procurator’s morning callers, most weren’t getting back up.
Big Feet took up a post by a nearby temple-as luck would have it, the Temple of Fortuna. He’d need all the fortuna he could get if he wanted to follow me around. I walked through the crowd, collecting some dirty looks, and up to the guard, who was burly and bored, and busy cleaning his fingernails with a knife.
“Julius Alpinus Classicianus Favonianus.” One thing about my name-you can’t say it with a stammer. I lowered my voice. “Agricola sent me. It’s urgent.”
He stopped slicing fingernail long enough to look up at me with a tired expression. “Wait here.”
So I waited, and I could feel the crowd getting more hostile. I turned toward them, a confident grin plastered on my face. It’s harder to spit on someone who’s looking at you. Big Feet, in the distance, was watching but trying to pretend that he wasn’t. Fortunately, the bored tramp of little legionnaire’s feet came to my rescue, and without a word or glance to the throng at the steps he ushered me in the house.
House didn’t really describe the place, though it’s where Lucullus ate, slept and dreamt of new things to tax. It felt more like a law office, a large, basilica-type building, two floors, two levels, and very formal. A large bust of Domitian was the first thing that greeted me.
There’s one thing I really admire about Roman sculpture-it doesn’t lie. It stretches the truth, all right-that hideous statue of my Aunt Pervinca made when she was fifty-five gave her the nude body of a Greek nymph-but even that statue, a tribute to a blind old woman’s vanity, put a fifty-five year old, wigged and whiskered head on top the body. I always suspected the slaves covered the face with a sack when she wasn’t looking.
So there was Domitian, bald and chinless, spiteful and suspicious, as real as he ever was. I nodded at the Emperor and kept walking. The guard never looked behind, but plodded his way to a large reception room on the ground floor of the first terrace.
I could feel the buzz of scribal business before I walked in. Sitting at a desk was Numerius Sallustius Lucullus, with about three or four-I lost count from the blur-scribes and secretaries hovering and diving, like flies around a choice pile of house slops.
“By the balls of Mars-”
I jumped. Lucullus looked up, smiled, and apologized. “Sorry, Arcturus. Some records have been misplaced, and I need them for an assessment this morning. What can I do for you?”
My eyes were still trying to follow the scribes. “Thank you, sir. It’s a private matter-”
A shadow of recognition crossed his face. “Of course. Leave us.”
The buzzing stopped, and the group fled the room, wax tablets, papyri and abaci and all. He motioned for me to sit down at a chair in front of his desk. Lucullus was an amiable little man-nothing much to look at, so ordinary that he was hard to describe. He was grey and brown in about equal measure, and pleasant company-if you didn’t mind the stench of failure that draped him like a too-big toga. He didn’t seem to be aware of it. We all have our blind spots.
He lowered his voice. “I received word from Agricola this morning that you are investigating a murder. Is it true what I heard? That the dead man is Vibius Maecenas?”
I leaned back a little in the chair and crossed my legs. I wasn’t sure how much Agricola told Lucullus, and I wasn’t about to add interest to the total.
“Apparently. Do you know him?”
“A little. I’ve seen him at the palace-mostly in Rome, not in Alba.” His fingers nervously drummed a beat on his desk, and he picked up a stylus to have something to fidget with.
“The message didn’t say much-just that someone robbed and murdered him and polluted the mithraeum. Is that what happened?”
I nodded. The little man looked happier with a stylus in his hand. Numbers must comfort him. “The governor wants the crime cleared up as soon as possible, and naturally he’s concerned about the temple.”
A sad smile crossed his face. “Yes. I’m not a member myself, you understand. The temple is really for men in the legions.” His face brightened again. “Have you seen my new kind of pilum? I’ve invented a tip that allows for longer throws and yet won’t come out once it strikes.”
I’d heard about the procurator’s hobby. He attended every triumph, every procession, read Julius Caesar incessantly, studied Alexander’s letters, and collected maps of historic campaigns. But still he wasn’t a general. He’d served as quaestor in Maecedonia, not exactly a hotbed of action these days, and never had a chance to conquer anybody. So he invented weapons, and tinkered with armor, and got a pat on the head from Agricola now and then and was appointed the tax-collector and paymaster of Britannia by Domitian. At least it kept him in pila.