Saturnalia by John Maddox Roberts Page A

seizure?”
    She shook her head. “No, he never got carried away. His anger was of the cold, deliberate sort. He was a Metellus, after all.”
    Meaning that my family was famed for moderation, unlike the Claudians to whom she belonged, who had a streak of criminal insanity.
    “He was going to take Flavius to court again,” Clodia went on. “The year had gotten so far advanced that it would have been useless to go to Gaul even if he could have gotten his appointment back, but he planned to sue for another appointment for the next year.” This was not unheard of. Pompey had once had a delay of three or four years between sitting as consul and being assigned a proconsular province.
    “But he died before he could take Flavius to court?”
    “He rose that morning to go to the Forum. He was the old-fashioned sort, like most of you Metelli. He just threw on his tunic and toga and went out to receive his clients.”
    “Did he take breakfast?”
    “Never. While he went through his greeting round, he always had a cup of hot
pulsum.
That was all.” She made a face and I sympathized. The old soldier’s drink of vinegar and water had never agreed with me either. “Since he was goingto court, they were all supposed to follow him there. As he was going out the door, he collapsed, clutching his chest and breathing heavily. The slaves carried him back to his bedroom, and someone went running for a physician.”
    “Did you see any of this?”
    “No. We maintained separate bedrooms on opposite sides of the house, and I rarely rise before noon. The steward came and summoned me when he collapsed.”
    “And you went to see him immediately?”
    “Of course not!” she said testily. “Do you think I am going to go out among important people with my hair tangled and my face in disarray?”
    “There is precedent,” I said. “It is even customary, along with breast-beating and lamentation.”
    “He wasn’t dead yet. For all I knew he wasn’t even in serious danger.”
    “Who was the physician?”
    “Ariston of something or other. He wasn’t much use.”
    “Ariston of Lycia. I know of him. My family retains his services.” Under a common arrangement, the Metelli gave this physician a fat present each Saturnalia and he attended us at need. By law, physicians in Rome, like lawyers, could not charge fees for their services.
    “He’d arrived by the time I got to Celer. My husband was having great difficulty breathing and his face was turning blue, as if he were choking, but that was not the case. He felt Celer’s belly and said something about paralysis of the diaphragm and tried to sound very wise, but I could see that he had no idea what to do.”
    Ariston. Another man to see. Before this was over I was going to have to talk to everyone who had been in Rome that day. I might have to make a tour of the provinces, to find thosewho had left. This was getting more complicated, and it had started out complicated enough.
    “When did Celer die?” I asked her.
    “Just before nightfall. His breath grew more and more labored, until he stopped breathing entirely just after the sun set.”
    So much for spectacular symptoms. “If he had been a bit older,” I said, “or in less than perfect health, there would be little suspicion of poisoning.”
    “Of course there would be!” she said, revealing for the first time the strain under which she lay. “Because I am his wife! When a prominent man dies and it is not because of age, violence, or a recognizable disease, poisoning and witchcraft are always suspected. As it happens, his wife was a scandalous woman. Everybody knows how he and Clodius hated each other, and that I have always supported my brother. Hence, I must be the poisoner.”
    “I won’t be hypocritical and pretend I think you incapable of such a crime,” I said. “Nor that I think you wouldn’t do it without a qualm if you thought you had sufficient reason. It’s just that there are so many candidates that you are