Authors: John Maddox Roberts
"You were among my attackers," I said, wincing at the pain in my flank.
"Purely an educational exercise. But this fellow"--he poked the cut with a finger, drawing another grunt of pain--"clearly intended to take your life. This was inflicted by a
gladius
or a rather large, straight dagger with some curvature to the edge. You note the slight nicking here at the beginning of the cut? That is where the point first pierced the flesh before commencing its incision."
"I know what sort of weapon it was," I said with some impatience. "I saw it myself, along with the thug who wielded it. It was an arena
gladius
."
"Just as I thought," Asklepiodes said triumphantly.
"I rejoice that, once again, your judgment is vindicated. Now, what may be done about this wound, which I feel this morning may be more serious than it felt last night, when I was exhausted and the light was uncertain?"
"Oh, there is little cause for concern, unless mortification sets in, in which case you will almost surely die. However, that seems unlikely since you are young and strong and the wound is a clean one. If there is no swelling and suppuration in the next few days, all should be well."
"That is comforting," I told him. The slave reentered carrying a tray of instruments and a basin of steaming water. He set it by the stool where I sat and the physician gave him further instructions. He left once more.
"What language is that?" I asked Asklepiodes as he began to scrub industriously at the cut. He used a sponge dipped in the steaming liquid, which was not only hot but full of astringent herbs. It burned like a hot iron laid against my side. I strove to remember the Stoic forbearance of my ancestors. I tried to take courage from the story of Mucius Scaevola, who had shown his contempt for mere pain by holding his hand in a fire until it was burned off.
"Egyptian," the Greek said, as if he were not inflicting pain in which a court torturer might have taken pride. "I practiced for some years in Alexandria. Of course, they speak Greek there, like all civilized people, but the people from farther south, from Memphis and Thebes and Ptolomais, still speak the ancient tongue. They also make the best slaves and servants in the world. So I studied the language in order to learn the medical secrets of the ancient Egyptians and in the process I bought some slaves to assist me. I have made certain that they have not learned Greek or Latin; thus they serve me well and keep my secrets."
"Very good," I said, when the pain had receded enough for me to speak. "I would appreciate it if you would not mention to anyone that you have treated me for this wound."
"You may have total confidence in my discretion." He tried to maintain his bland mask of professional dignity, but soon his curiosity got the better of him. He was, after all, a Greek. "So this was not, shall we say, a casual assault by a common footpad?"
"My attackers could scarcely have been more common," I said.
"Attackers! There was more than one?"
"Four," I said, rolling up my eyes as I saw him pick up a bit of thin split sinew and a curved needle.
"This is Homeric!" he said, fitting the needle to a small pair of ornate bronze pliers. All his instruments were decorated with silver inlay in the form of swirling acanthus leaves. I have often wondered whether the elaborate decoration common to surgical instruments is to distract us from the dreadful uses to which they are put.
"Actually," I admitted, "I was not alone. But I did for two of them." The childish boasting helped me bear the pain of stitching. After all, having thus touted my valor, I could scarcely object to the mere repeated piercing of my flesh by a needle, having sinew drawn through the piercings and the stitches drawn tight, as if my flesh were so much tent-cloth.
"Was this attack politically motivated?" he asked.
"I can hardly believe otherwise," I said.
"The politics of modern Rome resemble those of Athens a few centuries ago. The Pisistratids, Harmodius and Aristogiton and so forth. It wasn't always Pericles and his lot."
"You're the first Greek I've met who admits that Greece isn't always the home of all perfection."
"We are still superior to everyone else," he said, his eyes twinkling. The slave reentered, this time bearing a bowl that gave off a foul-smelling steam.
"This poultice will help the wound to heal without infection," Asklepiodes said. He spooned some of the loathsome slop onto a gauze pad and slapped it onto my side. Swiftly and with great skill the slave wound bandages around my body, binding the poultice tightly in place yet allowing me to breathe without great difficulty.
"Come back in three days and I will change the dressing," the Greek said.
"How am I going to attend the baths this way?" I asked.
"There are some things even the finest physician cannot answer for you. However, you are a young man of great ingenuity and I am sure you will devise a solution."
"As always, Master Asklepiodes, I thank you. Look for a liberal proof of my gratitude this coming Saturnalia." He looked most pleased. Although lawyers and physicians were forbidden to charge fees, they could accept presents.
"I shall sacrifice to my patron god and pray that you live until Saturnalia. May your next month not go like your last week."
He ushered me out. He was none too subtle in reminding me that Saturnalia was less than a month away, and perhaps hinting that I should put this generous gift in my will. I was too poor for anything lavish, and as I walked home I pondered upon what I might send him. I decided that a physician who was willing to perform what was in effect the work of a mere surgeon was eccentric, so I would give him an eccentric gift.
The slave boy was waiting in my atrium when I reached home. He handed me a small roll of papyrus and I broke the seal. The message inside was brief and simple: "Dearest Nephew: It has been far too long. Come to the visiting-room of the House of the Vestals at about the twelfth hour. Aunt Caecilia." It was, I estimated, somewhere around the end of the ninth hour. Since the winter hours were shorter than those of summer, the twelfth was not all that far away.
She probably meant the twelfth hour as told by the great sundial of Catania in the Forum. Messala had brought it as loot from Sicily almost two hundred years before and it was the pride of the city for a long time. Unfortunately, it was calibrated for Sicily, which is far to the south of Rome, and gives an innacurate reading of the time. The vestals were incredibly old-fashioned and probably ignored the much more modern sundial and water clock of Philippus and Scipio Nasica, which were not even one hundred years old. I decided I would just estimate the time, like everyone else. She had said "at about the twelfth hour." Neither sundial works in cloudy weather, and even the water clock was erratic in winter.
I gave the boy a denarius and he was properly awestruck by my munificence. He could add it to his
peculium
, with which he might someday purchase his freedom, but far more likely he would use it to bribe the cook for delicacies or wager on the next Games with his fellow slaves.
I decided to go to the Forum. It was the time usually devoted to the baths, but I could not attend the baths bandaged as I was. Rome in winter is like a great, sleepy animal that spends most of the season dozing in its den. The markets are less raucous, the clamor of the builders is quieter, the hammering of the metalworkers more muffled. People even walk more slowly. We Italians need the warmth of the sun to stir us to our customary level of frenetic, if oftentimes unproductive, activity.
In the Forum I lazed among the crowd, exchanging greetings, hearing petitions from dissatisfied residents of my district, most of whom believed, incorrectly, that any public official had the ear of every other, so that I was constantly referring them to the proper authorities.
The Aunt Caecilia whom I was about to visit was one of my many aunts named Caecilia, since women are not given cognomens, thus causing much confusion. This one was known in the family as Caecilia the Vestal, a formidably prestigious lady. She was a sister of the Quintus Caecilius Metellus under whom I had served in Spain who had been one of our more illustrious generals until Sertorius got the better of him and Pompey, the boy wonder, had arrived to reap all the glory.
As I made my way toward the House of the Vestals, I contemplated upon how to approach her. A woman raised from girlhood within the confines of the vestals' quarters could not be expected to be worldly regarding matters of Roman political life. Chaste and archaic in her attitudes, she would believe and behave as a noble lady descended from a long line of Roman heroes. This shows how inexperienced in the ways of women I was at that age.
The Temple of Vesta was located in the heart of the Forum, and had stood on that spot since the founding of the city, almost seven hundred years before. It was round, in the ancient Italian fashion, because our ancestors had lived in round huts. One of our finest festivals was also the simplest, when, on the kalends of March, all the fires in the Roman community were extinguished and, at first light of the new year (the kalends of March being the ancient new year), the vestals kindled a new fire with wood friction. From this fire, which they would tend ceaselessly for the rest of the year, all the other fires were relighted.
For the last year or more, Caecilia had been
Virgo Maxima
, the head of the college. Though seldom seen, she had prestige and privileges equal to those of any princess of other nations. She alone of all the vestals had the right to visit alone with a man. All others were required to have at least one chaperone. A vestal who was found to be unchaste suffered a uniquely horrible punishment: She was placed in a tiny, underground cell with a little food and water, after which the cell was covered with earth.
Their temple may have been small, but their house, the
Atrium Vestae
, was the most splendid palace in Rome. It lay near the temple and like all Roman residences had a facade as plain as a warehouse, whitewashed plaster over brick. The interior was far different.
A slave girl admitted me at the door--for obvious reasons, all the slaves were female--and rushed off to tell the
Virgo Maxima
that an official had called. The interior was entirely sheathed in pristine white marble. Skylights illuminated wail frescoes depicting the complex rites of the goddess. Everywhere the emphasis was on beauty and simplicity, richness without ostentation. It was as if a fine Tuscan villa had been transported to Rome and enlarged to palace size. I might add that it was and remains the only such palace in Rome. Good taste has never been a prominent Roman virtue.
"Decius, how good to see you." I turned to see my aunt coming through a side door. She was about fifty, but a life free of worldly cares and childbearing had left her looking many years younger. Her face was unlined and preternaturally serene.
"I am most honored that you receive me, Reverend Lady," I said, bowing.
"Oh, let's have none of that. You may be a public official, but you are still my great-nephew."
"You have a great many of those, Aunt," I said, smiling.
"We are a numerous family, it is true, but I get to see so few of them, especially the males. Most especially the young males. If you only knew how your female relatives come here to gossip, though. Now come with me and tell me everything."
To my amazement, she took my hand and all but dragged me to a small visiting room furnished with comfortable chairs and its own fire burning in a central brazier. From a woman of such great dignity I had expected the sort of hieratic behavior one sees the vestals displaying at the great festivals, when they seem to be statues of the goddesses come to life. Instead she was behaving--I could think of no better way to put it--like an
aunt
.
Before we could come to the business at hand, I had to bring her up to date on my own doings, my sisters' marriages, my father's career and so forth. My mother had died some years before, or I might have been there all day. A slave brought us little cakes and watered wine.
"Now," she said when she was sated with family gossip, "your letter mentioned sensitive matters of state. We vestals have been committed to the service of the state since before the Republic existed. The earliest vestals were the daughters of the kings. You may be sure that I will always do what is correct for the state." She said this simply and sincerely, a great relief from the patriotic platitudes mouthed by most of my contemporaries.
"Ten days ago," I began, "certain state papers were brought here for safekeeping. Those papers involve a Senate investigation of a man who was murdered. The murder occurred during the night, and the papers were brought here before first light that morning, before I was even notified by the vigiles of the killing. That evidence is being deliberately withheld from me."
She looked very confused. "I took charge of those documents myself, but except for the hour I saw no irregularity. Of course, it is commonly wills that are deposited here, but other official documents are sometimes kept by us as well: treaties and the like. But this is a sacred trust."
"Perhaps I should explain." I began to tell her of the many events of the past few days. I had not gone halfway through them when she said something that surprised me greatly, although it should not have.
"It's that man Pompey, isn't it?" I nodded, dumbfounded, and she continued. "I knew his mother, a dreadful woman. And his father, Strabo. Did you know that Strabo was killed by lightning?"
"I had heard."
She nodded as if this were tremendously relevant, and perhaps it was. I proceeded with my narration, a list of murders and corruptions that could have stolen the light from the brightest day. By the end of the tale it seemed only fitting that it was now dark outside.
She sat silent for a while, then: "Pompey. And those awful Claudians. How can an ancient patrician family keep producing madmen and traitors generation after generation?" She shook her head. "Now, Decius, you've told me what you have seen and experienced. Tell me where you suspect all this is leading." I had been expecting to find a rather naive old lady, and had seldom been more mistaken in my expectations.