conspiracy and gave no sign that I had received a warning.
"Where are the rites being held this year?" asked one of the men at Afranius's couch.
"Caesar's house," I said. "He told me so himself this morning." That caused something else to occur to me. "Isn't it usually conducted by a Consul's wife, or the wife of the senior praetor?"
"It was all rather confused," said Calpurnianus, "because I'm a widower and my colleague Messala Niger just divorced his wife. Caesar was praetor last year, and since he's Pontifex Maximus , he said he'd volunteer his official residence. It's a great bother because every male must be excluded from the premises, including slaves and animals."
"Even paintings, statues and mosaics of any male creature must be covered," added Catulus the pontifex.
"Who is Caesar married to these days?" I asked. "I remember Cornelia died a few years ago."
"Pompeia," Afranius said, "and rumor has it he's not happy with her."
"More likely the other way around," said Catullus the poet.
"Pompeia?" I said. "Is she Pompey's daughter?" We began to hear voices raised in argument a few rooms away. Not an uncommon sound in a great house.
Calpurnianus shook his head. "No, she's the daughter of Quintus Pompeius Rufus, whose father was Consul with Sulla the year he brought his army into Rome and exiled the Marians. Her mother--let me see--yes, her mother was another Cornelia, the daughter of Sulla."
Between our multiple, political marriages and divorces and the quaint naming practices we inherited from our simple, rustic ancestors, it is remarkable that we can keep track of our own families, much less some body else's. Pedantic old bores like Calpurnianus always took great pride in keeping these things straight. They were often wrong, but they always talked as if their genealogical memories were infallible.
A loud shout from the front of the house jerked everybody's attention in that direction. We scrambled from the couches and to our feet, aware that this was no domestic argument. As the others rushed out, I hung back and took Hermes by the shoulder.
"Now what was all that about the pastries?" I said.
"They were poisoned," Hermes said.
"Ridiculous. Mamercus Capito has no cause to murder me."
"Wasn't him," said Hermes. "It was that little patrician bugger next to you. He asked the old pontifex about that Bona Dea business, and when you looked that way he sprinkled something onto those pastries in front of you." He leaned over and took one from Nero's place and popped it into his mouth.
"Hermes!"
"Well, he didn't poison his ! I got hungry, standing there while you and your friends stuffed yourselves."
I took my napkin from within my tunic and carefully, without touching them, gathered up some of the pastries. These I wrapped and placed within my tunic.
"Come," I said, "let's see what happened."
The others were gathered in the atrium along with some agitated slaves. On the tessellated floor lay a stout body. It was Mamercus Aemilius Capito, dead as Hector. Appius Claudius Nero stared at the corpse wide-eyed and pasty-faced. The rest, for whom the sight of a murdered nobleman was no novelty, were a good deal more composed. Considering that Nero had just tried to murder me, I found his distress commendable.
"What happened?" I asked unnecessarily.
"As you will discern," Catulus said dryly, "our host will not be joining us for the after-dinner drinking bout. It seems that his caller did away with him."
"Did he have enemies?" asked one of the men from Afranius's table.
"He had at least one," said Catulus. "Come now, man! What Roman of any importance lacks enemies?"
"How boring," said Catullus the poet. "In the epics and the dramas, murders are always exciting and terrible. This is rather tawdry."
Calpurnianus turned to Capito's majordomo. "Summon my slaves."
"At once, Consul." The man bustled off. I looked around for the slave who had summoned Capito from the table. It was a sizable atrium, but I spotted him and
"Where are the rites being held this year?" asked one of the men at Afranius's couch.
"Caesar's house," I said. "He told me so himself this morning." That caused something else to occur to me. "Isn't it usually conducted by a Consul's wife, or the wife of the senior praetor?"
"It was all rather confused," said Calpurnianus, "because I'm a widower and my colleague Messala Niger just divorced his wife. Caesar was praetor last year, and since he's Pontifex Maximus , he said he'd volunteer his official residence. It's a great bother because every male must be excluded from the premises, including slaves and animals."
"Even paintings, statues and mosaics of any male creature must be covered," added Catulus the pontifex.
"Who is Caesar married to these days?" I asked. "I remember Cornelia died a few years ago."
"Pompeia," Afranius said, "and rumor has it he's not happy with her."
"More likely the other way around," said Catullus the poet.
"Pompeia?" I said. "Is she Pompey's daughter?" We began to hear voices raised in argument a few rooms away. Not an uncommon sound in a great house.
Calpurnianus shook his head. "No, she's the daughter of Quintus Pompeius Rufus, whose father was Consul with Sulla the year he brought his army into Rome and exiled the Marians. Her mother--let me see--yes, her mother was another Cornelia, the daughter of Sulla."
Between our multiple, political marriages and divorces and the quaint naming practices we inherited from our simple, rustic ancestors, it is remarkable that we can keep track of our own families, much less some body else's. Pedantic old bores like Calpurnianus always took great pride in keeping these things straight. They were often wrong, but they always talked as if their genealogical memories were infallible.
A loud shout from the front of the house jerked everybody's attention in that direction. We scrambled from the couches and to our feet, aware that this was no domestic argument. As the others rushed out, I hung back and took Hermes by the shoulder.
"Now what was all that about the pastries?" I said.
"They were poisoned," Hermes said.
"Ridiculous. Mamercus Capito has no cause to murder me."
"Wasn't him," said Hermes. "It was that little patrician bugger next to you. He asked the old pontifex about that Bona Dea business, and when you looked that way he sprinkled something onto those pastries in front of you." He leaned over and took one from Nero's place and popped it into his mouth.
"Hermes!"
"Well, he didn't poison his ! I got hungry, standing there while you and your friends stuffed yourselves."
I took my napkin from within my tunic and carefully, without touching them, gathered up some of the pastries. These I wrapped and placed within my tunic.
"Come," I said, "let's see what happened."
The others were gathered in the atrium along with some agitated slaves. On the tessellated floor lay a stout body. It was Mamercus Aemilius Capito, dead as Hector. Appius Claudius Nero stared at the corpse wide-eyed and pasty-faced. The rest, for whom the sight of a murdered nobleman was no novelty, were a good deal more composed. Considering that Nero had just tried to murder me, I found his distress commendable.
"What happened?" I asked unnecessarily.
"As you will discern," Catulus said dryly, "our host will not be joining us for the after-dinner drinking bout. It seems that his caller did away with him."
"Did he have enemies?" asked one of the men from Afranius's table.
"He had at least one," said Catulus. "Come now, man! What Roman of any importance lacks enemies?"
"How boring," said Catullus the poet. "In the epics and the dramas, murders are always exciting and terrible. This is rather tawdry."
Calpurnianus turned to Capito's majordomo. "Summon my slaves."
"At once, Consul." The man bustled off. I looked around for the slave who had summoned Capito from the table. It was a sizable atrium, but I spotted him and
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