Most of the men trained with the large shield and the straight gladius or with the small shield and the curved sica, and some practiced with the spear, but there was a new category, one that had appeared during Caesar's aedileship.
Caesar had borrowed heavily to put on games of unprecedented magnificence, going so far as to give munera in honor of a deceased female relative when he ran out of dead male ancestors. He bought up so many gladiators that his enemies in the Senate panicked, thinking that he was buying a private army. They quickly passed legislation limiting the number of gladiators one citizen could exhibit at any given set of games. Since he could not show as many as he wanted, he began to use bizarre new types: men who fought from elephants, chariot fighters, horsemen and others. Strangest of all were the netmen.
Nobody knew what to make of them when they first marched into the arena. They looked like fishermen from the Styx with their nets and their three-pronged harpoons. Nobody thought they could be fighters because they wore no armor. We thought perhaps we were to see some new dance. Then a group of big-shield fighters came in and paired off with the netmen. At first, we expected to see the netmen slaughtered. But this was not toe-to-toe fighting of the sort we were used to. The net-men darted all over the arena, casting their nets, running away if they missed, only to return to the fight after retrieving the net by its cord. After a lot of laughter and hooting, the audience began to get into the spirit of the thing and cheered on the combatants. To everyone's surprise, more netmen than swordsmen won their fights. It was all so unexpected that there was no way to decide whether anyone had fought really well or badly, so the crowd withheld the death signal, although a few fighters died later of their wounds.
Caesar had intended this to be a novelty act for that one set of games, but the crowd's fancy was taken and they began to demand the net fighters. Now I saw that Statilius Taurus had added them to his regular categories of fighters. Traditionalists like my father found them entirely too exotic, and Cato, predictably, said it was a disgrace to the tradition of mortal combat.
A slave guided me to the quarters of the resident physician, and there I found my friend Asklepiodes, the world's greatest expert on mortal wounds. We spent several minutes exchanging greetings, for which he had a Greek's fondness. We swiftly brought each other up to date on our doings of the past year or so; then I broached my current business, telling him of the events of the previous night.
"Ah, Decius, how like you!" Asklepiodes said. "Back in Rome only three days and already involved in a murder!"
"One successful," I said. "The other, fortunately, merely attempted." I handed him the wrapped parcel of pastries. "Is there some way to test these, short of feeding them to a slave?"
"I will try an animal. It is difficult to induce a dog to eat sweet pastries, but perhaps a pig will oblige. These tests are not infallible, I must warn you. There are substances deadly to humans but harmless to animals."
"If it is a poison," I asked, "is there any way to determine what sort?"
"That is extremely difficult unless you use a human subject, who can describe his symptoms. I am, of course, forbidden to do any such thing."
"I wouldn't ask you to," I said. "Do you think you could get a look at Capito's body? Unfortunately, I have no official position just now."
"I am acquainted with the most prominent undertakers. There should be no difficulty. From your description, no detailed examination should be necessary. A quick look should suffice. I shall attend to it this evening."
"I shall be grateful," I told him.
"My friend Decius, life is always so much more interesting when you are in Rome. Please feel free to call upon my services."
"I'll be back tomorrow," I told him.
"Try to live that long," he urged. Asklepiodes had a strange sense of humor, but one must make allowances for Greeks.
As I walked back across the river toward my home in the Subura, I began to regret that I had not thought to arm myself before going out that day. I had been so elated at the prospect of attending my first Senate meeting that it had caused me to be less than cautious. It is forbidden to bear arms within the pomerium and doubly forbidden to carry them into the Curia, but I was prepared to risk censure. A recent attempt on my life always lowered my respect for custom.
Now here I was wandering alone through streets that might harbor Clodius's minions. Even as I thought this, I was struck by something else: Poison was not his style. Whatever else you could say about Clodius, he was always perfectly willing to kill his enemies with his own hand, right out in public.
But who else was my mortal enemy? I hadn't offended anyone lately. Only madmen like Clodius nurse grudges year after year, awaiting a chance to strike. I had made my peace with most of my enemies, and the rest of them seemed to have forgotten me. It was all a great puzzle.
I managed to reach my house without homicide and sent for Hermes. My aged slave Cato clucked dolefully.
"Nothing good will come of having that young lout in the house, master. He's destined for the cross."
"Most likely. But until that sad day, let's see what use we can get out of him. Send him in."
Hermes came in, smirking and swaggering as if he had done something heroic, something praiseworthy. I would have been astounded to learn he had done something moderately honest, but slaves perceive things differently from the freeborn. Sometimes one must humor them.
"What have you to report?" I asked him.
"I followed your friend from the dinner party just like you told me to. He stopped twice on the way to vomit."
"That's odd," I said. "Dinner wasn't all that rich, and the drinking had hardly started when Capito's murder broke things up. It must have been the first time he had tried to murder somebody. It may have made him nervous."
"Ha! So you admit I saved your life!" Hermes crowed.
"Not yet. I'm having the pastries tested. Go on with your report."
"I followed him over past the Circus and up onto the Palatine to a big town house-"
"I knew it!" I said. "He went to Clodius's house to report that he'd failed to kill me. I wish I could have seen Clodius's ugly face when he heard the news!" Then I noticed that Hermes had that smug expression slaves get when they know something you don't.
"He didn't go to the house of Clodius, master."
"Whose, then?" I demanded.
"He went to the house of your kinsman Metellus Celer."
Chapter V
I did not really believe that Celer would try to kill me. We were on good terms, and he and my father were close. I had not forgotten who his wife was, though. But it had been years since Clodia had last tried to have me killed, and I could not think why she would try to do away with me now. Her only possible reason would be that she thought I threatened her brother, for whom she had a more than sisterly fondness.
These things were much on my mind as I prepared for the day. This time, I did not neglect to tuck my dagger and my caestus into my tunic. Best to be safe. Accompanied by Hemes, I set out for Celer's house. I had no intention of confronting him with Nero's doings. In the first place, I did not yet have confirmation that any murder attempt had taken place. I would wait and watch.
I stopped at a corner barber's stall for a shave, then proceeded on toward the Palatine. I was at the base of the hill when I met a well-dressed procession headed toward the Forum, a grim-faced Celer at its head. He did not spare me a glance, and I was not about to attract his attention. I had seen that look before, in Gaul, and it usually meant that traitors were about to be executed. I fell in with the crowd of clients. I noticed that Caesar was there as well, equally grim-faced. I spotted my cousin-by-adoption Scipio Nasica the pontifex and stepped to his side.