have legal authority. What we say here is just idle noise.”
Reluctantly they obeyed him. Then Manilius himself left, probably to round up his fellow tribunes.
“Damned tribuneship,” Father groused. “It gives too much power to men too young and inexperienced. That boy is acting like a consul, and he hasn’t a lictor to his name.”
I shrugged. “He handled the situation well enough. We mighthave had a riot. That’s what those men wanted, but they didn’t dare dispute with a Tribune of the People, whatever their hostility to the Senate.”
“So there’s to be no trial,” Appius said, “but no election either! If their plan is to keep you from office, they’re succeeding so far.”
“But,” I pointed out, “if he’d let the praetorship elections go on, he could have demanded that I be taken off the ballot because I’m charged with murder. This way I have a chance to clear myself and still be present for the election. In the meantime the Centuriate Assembly can amuse itself electing next year’s consuls and censors. It will just mean a longer election season. What Roman ever complains about a prolonged holiday?”
“But
can
you clear yourself?” Juventius asked.
“Easily,” I told him. “I’m innocent and the gods love me. Now if you will excuse me, I want a look at this body.”
The
Libitinarii
had arrived on the scene, dressed in their bizarre, Etruscan outfits, carrying their stretcher and accompanied by their priest. The priest went through his purification ritual, then the masked undertakers tugged the bloody toga off, then peeled away the sticky tunic, exposing the mortal remains of the late Marcus Fulvius.
There had been a tremendous effusion of blood, and it was easy to see why. He had been stabbed enough times to kill Achilles. I was no expert like my friend Asklepiodes, but even I could see that more than one weapon had been involved and that meant more than one assailant. There were stab wounds from a narrow-bladed dagger, others from a broad-bladed dagger or sword, yet others that looked like slashes, or rather wide rents, like a clumsy job of butchering. Some of the wounds gaped wide enough that I could see they were not especially deep. Loops of viscera bulged through cuts in his belly, but none of the gashes was large enough to eviscerate the man.
There was a large cut slanting from just behind his left ear to the joining of the collarbones. This wound alone would have been sufficientto kill him. None of the others I could see would have been immediately fatal. There were no wounds visible on his limbs or head.
“Turn him over,” I told the undertakers. They rolled him over. There were no wounds on his back.
“That poor bastard died hard.” I looked up to see Sallustius, who was never far from the center of excitement in Rome.
“Any man who’s served in the legions knows how to kill a man better than that,” Cato said. “A quick stab in the right place is all it takes. He must have been set upon by common cutthroats.”
I looked at the tunic, which was almost stiff with blood. It was a dark one, made of coarse cloth. The almost equally bloody toga was little better, made of raw, undyed wool, a dingy brown color.
I stood. “He wasn’t on his way to court dressed like this,” I noted. “And look how nearly dry this blood is. He must have died hours ago. I want this body taken to the Temple of Venus Libitina before it’s turned over to his family so that Asklepiodes can examine it.”
“You have no authority to order such a thing,” Juventius reminded me. “But I’ll order it so. If your prosecutor wants an explanation, it’s because the end of the year is near and you have little time to formulate your defense, so I am allowing you extraordinary privileges to clear yourself.” He left it unsaid that I now owed him a big political favor.
I took Hermes by the shoulder. “Go get Asklepiodes. Tell him to meet with me and the unfortunate Marcus Fulvius at the
Reluctantly they obeyed him. Then Manilius himself left, probably to round up his fellow tribunes.
“Damned tribuneship,” Father groused. “It gives too much power to men too young and inexperienced. That boy is acting like a consul, and he hasn’t a lictor to his name.”
I shrugged. “He handled the situation well enough. We mighthave had a riot. That’s what those men wanted, but they didn’t dare dispute with a Tribune of the People, whatever their hostility to the Senate.”
“So there’s to be no trial,” Appius said, “but no election either! If their plan is to keep you from office, they’re succeeding so far.”
“But,” I pointed out, “if he’d let the praetorship elections go on, he could have demanded that I be taken off the ballot because I’m charged with murder. This way I have a chance to clear myself and still be present for the election. In the meantime the Centuriate Assembly can amuse itself electing next year’s consuls and censors. It will just mean a longer election season. What Roman ever complains about a prolonged holiday?”
“But
can
you clear yourself?” Juventius asked.
“Easily,” I told him. “I’m innocent and the gods love me. Now if you will excuse me, I want a look at this body.”
The
Libitinarii
had arrived on the scene, dressed in their bizarre, Etruscan outfits, carrying their stretcher and accompanied by their priest. The priest went through his purification ritual, then the masked undertakers tugged the bloody toga off, then peeled away the sticky tunic, exposing the mortal remains of the late Marcus Fulvius.
There had been a tremendous effusion of blood, and it was easy to see why. He had been stabbed enough times to kill Achilles. I was no expert like my friend Asklepiodes, but even I could see that more than one weapon had been involved and that meant more than one assailant. There were stab wounds from a narrow-bladed dagger, others from a broad-bladed dagger or sword, yet others that looked like slashes, or rather wide rents, like a clumsy job of butchering. Some of the wounds gaped wide enough that I could see they were not especially deep. Loops of viscera bulged through cuts in his belly, but none of the gashes was large enough to eviscerate the man.
There was a large cut slanting from just behind his left ear to the joining of the collarbones. This wound alone would have been sufficientto kill him. None of the others I could see would have been immediately fatal. There were no wounds visible on his limbs or head.
“Turn him over,” I told the undertakers. They rolled him over. There were no wounds on his back.
“That poor bastard died hard.” I looked up to see Sallustius, who was never far from the center of excitement in Rome.
“Any man who’s served in the legions knows how to kill a man better than that,” Cato said. “A quick stab in the right place is all it takes. He must have been set upon by common cutthroats.”
I looked at the tunic, which was almost stiff with blood. It was a dark one, made of coarse cloth. The almost equally bloody toga was little better, made of raw, undyed wool, a dingy brown color.
I stood. “He wasn’t on his way to court dressed like this,” I noted. “And look how nearly dry this blood is. He must have died hours ago. I want this body taken to the Temple of Venus Libitina before it’s turned over to his family so that Asklepiodes can examine it.”
“You have no authority to order such a thing,” Juventius reminded me. “But I’ll order it so. If your prosecutor wants an explanation, it’s because the end of the year is near and you have little time to formulate your defense, so I am allowing you extraordinary privileges to clear yourself.” He left it unsaid that I now owed him a big political favor.
I took Hermes by the shoulder. “Go get Asklepiodes. Tell him to meet with me and the unfortunate Marcus Fulvius at the
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