Milo had accomplished his astonishing rise from street thug to political contender through driving energy, immense charm and a ruthlessness that was breathtaking even in that age of men without compunction. His aims, I suppose, were no different from those of Clodius, but they were different men. Clodius began with wealth, high birth and social position. An easy mobility in the highest circles was his birthright. Milo began with nothing. Milo had, I will not call it honor, but rather a consistent and punctilious regard to his loyalties and obligations. Milo had friends whereas Clodius had toadies.
Admittedly, I may have been prejudiced in his favor because I detested Clodius so heartily, but then, Clodius was a detestable man. I have never considered myself to be unfair or arbitrary in these matters.
Milo greeted me warmly when I arrived. I was lucky enough to find him alone, by which I mean that he had no other visitors of consequence, although he had a somewhat understrength century of thugs lounging about the house. He conducted me to a side room where we relaxed on couches.
"You look tired, Decius. Have some wine." He poured two cups and handed me one. It was a good Falernian, mixed with no more water than what was necessary to avoid charges of incivility. I drank gratefully.
"I should be tired. I started the day at the house of Celer, went from there to the Forum, thence to the house of Caesar, from there to the house of Crassus and then to the Egyptian embassy. After lunch with Lisas I went to the Capitol to see if Jupiter could sort things out for me, a favor he declined. Now I've come to talk with you. I should have stayed in Spain. The legions are less strenuous."
"If you are going to get ahead, you must expect to exert yourself." Milo had scant sympathy for those whose energies were less formidable than his own. "Still the matter of the sacrilege?"
"Yes, and now the murder of Capito has taken a new turn." I described to him the peculiar wounds as interpreted by Askledpiodes, and he listened with great attentiveness. The arts of mayhem were always of deep interest to Milo.
"So the hammer blow came after the fellow was dead?" Milo mused. "That sounds-I can't say-it sounds more like ritual than ordinary murder. I've been inquiring among the sicarii, looking for someone who uses that two-blow technique, but I've been assuming that the hammer blow was to set the man up for the kill. This changes things. If it's ritual, it isn't Roman ritual. You may have to look into the foreign community."
"Wonderful. Rome is full of foreigners and their loathsome religions. I cannot go knocking on the door of every Asiatic or Gaul or African in Rome."
"You can eliminate most of them easily enough," Milo said with his usual perspicacity. "It will have to be someone who had doings with Capito. Surely he wasn't involved with Nubian tribesmen or Arabian camel-herders. Find out what Capito was involved in and you will probably find which foreigner had cause to kill him."
"That makes sense," I admitted. "Will you aid me in this as well?"
"Certainly," he said. "Favor for favor?"
"Whatever you wish," I said, "but what can a political nobody like me do for you?" I was never under the misapprehension that Milo's favors were the result of purest generosity and that someday he would require favors of me, but I had assumed that this would happen after I had achieved eminence and influence.
"It is not your political importance that I need just now, but your social prominence. I want you to help me court the lady Fausta."
I should have seen it coming. "You aim high, my friend." The moment I said it I knew how stupid it was. Why would a man who planned to control Rome aim low?
"I don't think the lady herself will see it that way," Milo said. "She is a Cornelian, but her father came of the poorest branch of the family. Sulla was a patrician beggar who rose high. And she realizes it. Fausta knows that the day of the patrician is past and the future of Rome belongs to men like me." This was characteristically blunt and perfectly true. Milo was clear-sighted in a way that even Cicero, with his preconceptions and ideals, could never match.
"I shall, of course, be happy to help in any way I can. What would you have me do?"
"As yet I lack the prominence to call upon Lucullus casually. You can do that. Fausta seems to have complete freedom of the house. You should have little difficulty in finding ways to speak with her. Press my suit and see how she reacts."
"Ahh, Milo, my friend, it is usually customary to approach a woman's parent or guardian in these matters. In accordance with Sulla's will, Lucullus has that authority."
Milo waved a hand, peremptorily dismissing all custom. "As I have said, certain aristocratic practices are of diminishing importance. They are of no concern to me, and I doubt that the lady in question has any use for them either."
"In that case, I shall be pleased to act for you."
I left his house amid effusive thanks. This was behavior I did not expect from Milo, whose words were always sincere but usually laconic. It was an indication of how his infatuation with Fausta was altering his manner. I had never seen him change countenance in the face of mortal danger, but this woman made him preoccupied.
It grows dark early at that time of year, so Milo provided Hermes with a torch to light our way home. I was pleasantly befuddled by the wine and greatly bemused by my new commission from Milo. I did not like the idea, but he had done me many favors and I could not refuse him this. I felt that by pursuing Sulla's daughter he was storing up much trouble and grief for himself, and I was right, but it was not something I could say to him when his motivation was so obviously emotional rather than political.
There were some families I thought it best to avoid. The whole pack of Claudians bore that distinction, as did the Antonines. The family of Sulla was another such. People who have a tyrant among their immediate ancestors are apt to have a magnified idea of their own importance.
Thinking about this led me back to the thing Julia had said that morning that I still could not call up to the surface of my mind. I could not think what the connection might be, but I knew that it was there. I was being more than ordinarily dense, I knew. I could attribute this partly to the wine and partly to the very complicated turns my life had taken since my return from Gaul. And I was about to receive a distraction that would drive it completely from my mind.
"It's black as Pluto's bunghole out here," Hermes groused as we neared my gate.
"That's because it's night," I reminded him. "Night is when it's dark. It's daytime that is light."
"It's just that it's dark even for Rome on a moonless night. This torch is about as much use as a one-wick lamp on a night like this." A second later, he squawked and fell and the torch went out. Without thought on my part, my hands went into my tunic and reemerged with my caestus on one and my danger in the other.
"What happened, you little idiot?" I demanded.
"I slipped! There's something slippery on the cobbles." He cursed mightily as he struggled to his feet.
"Someone's probably dumped a chamberpot here," I said. "See if you can get that torch going."
"Doesn't smell like shit," Hermes insisted. "It's sticky, though." He whirled the torch around his head and the flames sprang to life again. By their light he examined the stains on his hands, legs and tunic.
"If you've ruined that tunic, I'll flog you to-"
"It's blood!" he cried, interrupting rudely. Now we both saw a whitish heap on the cobbles a few steps ahead. "A body!" he cried again.