end! I don't care to follow in the footsteps of a dead man, Calpurnia." I directed my gaze at her, pointedly ignoring the haruspex, but it was Porsenna who replied.
"Those footsteps might lead you to the man's killer," he said, "and knowing who killed him might lead us to the source of the threat against Caesar. The fellow must have discovered something dangerous, to have paid for it with his life."
I shook my head. "Dreams, divination, death! I don't like anything about this affair, Calpurnia. I respectfully decline to become involved."
Porsenna was about to speak, but Calpurnia silenced him with a gesture. "Perhaps, if you saw the dead man. . . ." she said quietly.
"I don't see how that would make a difference."
"Nonetheless." She rose from the chair and proceeded toward a doorway. Porsenna indicated that I should follow. I did so reluctantly, with Porsenna behind me. I disliked the haruspex from first sight and didn't like having him at my back.
We walked down a long hallway, passing rooms as simply decorated as the one in which Calpurnia had received me. The house seemed empty; Calpurnia's slaves were trained to remain out of sight. We crossed a small garden ornamented by a splashing fountain with a splendid statue of Venus—Caesar's reputed ancestor—standing naked upon a gigantic seashell.
A man was sitting in the shade of the garden. He wore the voluminous toga of a pontifex, with its extra folds gathered and tucked in a loop above his waist. His mantle was pushed back to show a head of perfectly white hair. The old priest glanced up as we passed and gave me a quizzical look. I thought I saw a family resemblance to Calpurnia. His words confirmed it.
"Who have you brought into the house now, niece? Another spy? Or worse, another soothsayer?"
"Be quiet, Uncle Gnaeus! This is my affair, and I shall handle it as I see fit. Not a word to Caesar, do you understand?"
"Of course, my dear." The priest rose to his feet. He was a bigger man than I had thought. He took Calpurnia's hand. "Did I speak harshly to you? It's only because I think you're troubling yourself over nothing. You allow this haruspex to excite your fears, and insist on drawing others into this foolishness, and now we see where it leads—"
"I know what you think, Uncle Gnaeus. But if you cannot say words of support, say nothing!"
This served to silence Gnaeus Calpurnius, who dropped Calpurnia's hand and returned his gaze to me. He seemed to regard me with a combination of pity, scorn, and exasperation. I followed Calpurnia out of the garden and back indoors, glad to escape the old priest's scrutiny.
We walked down another long hallway. The rooms in this part of the house were more cluttered and less elegantly furnished. Finally we arrived at a small chamber, dimly lit by a single window high in the wall. It appeared to be a storage room. Odds and ends were piled against the walls—a rolled carpet, boxes full of blank parchment and writing materials, chairs one atop another.
In the center of the room, a body had been laid upon a makeshift bier. Flowers and spices had been strewn around it to mask the inevitable scent of putrefaction, but the body could not have been lifeless for more than a day, for it was still stiff. Presumably the corpse had been discovered after rigor began, for the petrified body retained the posture of an agonizing death, with shoulders hunched and limbs contracted. The hands were clutching the chest at a bloodstained spot directly over the heart. I avoided looking at the face, but even from the corner of my eye I could see that the jaw was tightly clenched and the lips were drawn back in a hideous grimace.
The body was clothed in a simple tunic. The darkened bloodstain was vivid against the pale blue fabric. There was nothing particularly distinctive about the garment—it had a black border in a common Greek key pattern—yet it seemed familiar to me.
"Where did you find the poor fellow?" I said.
"In a private alley
"Those footsteps might lead you to the man's killer," he said, "and knowing who killed him might lead us to the source of the threat against Caesar. The fellow must have discovered something dangerous, to have paid for it with his life."
I shook my head. "Dreams, divination, death! I don't like anything about this affair, Calpurnia. I respectfully decline to become involved."
Porsenna was about to speak, but Calpurnia silenced him with a gesture. "Perhaps, if you saw the dead man. . . ." she said quietly.
"I don't see how that would make a difference."
"Nonetheless." She rose from the chair and proceeded toward a doorway. Porsenna indicated that I should follow. I did so reluctantly, with Porsenna behind me. I disliked the haruspex from first sight and didn't like having him at my back.
We walked down a long hallway, passing rooms as simply decorated as the one in which Calpurnia had received me. The house seemed empty; Calpurnia's slaves were trained to remain out of sight. We crossed a small garden ornamented by a splashing fountain with a splendid statue of Venus—Caesar's reputed ancestor—standing naked upon a gigantic seashell.
A man was sitting in the shade of the garden. He wore the voluminous toga of a pontifex, with its extra folds gathered and tucked in a loop above his waist. His mantle was pushed back to show a head of perfectly white hair. The old priest glanced up as we passed and gave me a quizzical look. I thought I saw a family resemblance to Calpurnia. His words confirmed it.
"Who have you brought into the house now, niece? Another spy? Or worse, another soothsayer?"
"Be quiet, Uncle Gnaeus! This is my affair, and I shall handle it as I see fit. Not a word to Caesar, do you understand?"
"Of course, my dear." The priest rose to his feet. He was a bigger man than I had thought. He took Calpurnia's hand. "Did I speak harshly to you? It's only because I think you're troubling yourself over nothing. You allow this haruspex to excite your fears, and insist on drawing others into this foolishness, and now we see where it leads—"
"I know what you think, Uncle Gnaeus. But if you cannot say words of support, say nothing!"
This served to silence Gnaeus Calpurnius, who dropped Calpurnia's hand and returned his gaze to me. He seemed to regard me with a combination of pity, scorn, and exasperation. I followed Calpurnia out of the garden and back indoors, glad to escape the old priest's scrutiny.
We walked down another long hallway. The rooms in this part of the house were more cluttered and less elegantly furnished. Finally we arrived at a small chamber, dimly lit by a single window high in the wall. It appeared to be a storage room. Odds and ends were piled against the walls—a rolled carpet, boxes full of blank parchment and writing materials, chairs one atop another.
In the center of the room, a body had been laid upon a makeshift bier. Flowers and spices had been strewn around it to mask the inevitable scent of putrefaction, but the body could not have been lifeless for more than a day, for it was still stiff. Presumably the corpse had been discovered after rigor began, for the petrified body retained the posture of an agonizing death, with shoulders hunched and limbs contracted. The hands were clutching the chest at a bloodstained spot directly over the heart. I avoided looking at the face, but even from the corner of my eye I could see that the jaw was tightly clenched and the lips were drawn back in a hideous grimace.
The body was clothed in a simple tunic. The darkened bloodstain was vivid against the pale blue fabric. There was nothing particularly distinctive about the garment—it had a black border in a common Greek key pattern—yet it seemed familiar to me.
"Where did you find the poor fellow?" I said.
"In a private alley
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