A Mist of Prophecies

XII

The morning after my visits to Antonia and Cytheris, I again rose early. Bethesda stirred and spoke a little, but remained in bed. She had almost entirely stopped eating, and this, even more than her lethargy, was beginning to worry me. Her face had become gaunt, her eyes vacant. The powerful will that had ruled my household for so many years seemed to be seeping out of her little by little, leaving only a shell behind.

The day was already warm, but a chill passed through me. For the very first time-always before I had managed to avoid the thought-I had an inkling of what the world would be like without her. I had experienced life before Bethesda, but so long ago I could hardly remember such a thing. To imagine a life after Bethesda was almost impossible. I reminded myself that in such matters we mortals seldom have a choice, physicians and radish soup and prayers to the gods notwithstanding.

I ate a little. I summoned Androcles and Mopsus to help put on my toga, then sent them to do the same for Davus. Thus my day began as had the previous two, and I realized, with a twinge of mingled pleasure and guilt, that I had begun to enjoy this routine. It gave me something to take my mind off Bethesda, and my debts, and the discord in my household. In a curious way, even though it was all about her, it even took my mind off Cassandra, or at least gave me something to think about besides the obsessive longing she had stirred in me-and the consequent guilt-and the grief I had felt when she died in my arms.

I realized, as I made plans and preparations for the day, that I was working again-not for another, and not for money (alas), but working nonetheless at the curious trade that had sustained me throughout my life. In recent years I had gradually retired from that trade, leaving it to Eco. I had become Gordianus the husband, Gordianus the father, Gordianus the chin-wagger in the Forum, and even, against all expectations, Gordianus the illicit lover-but no longer Gordianus the Finder. Now I once again found myself doing what I had always done best, looking for the truth of a matter that no one else cared, or dared, to pursue. I had found my bearings and settled like a wagon wheel into a familiar groove. In spite of all my reasons to feel miserable, at least I could say with certainty who and what I was. I was Gordianus the Finder again, pursuing the course the gods had laid down for me.

Davus stepped into the garden. From the satisfied, slightly stupid look on his face, I suspected that he and my daughter had found their own release from the strains of life at some point during the night. And why not? I tried to suppress a twinge of envy.

"How is-?" Davus's question was cut off with a yawn as he stretched his arms above his head, disarranging the folds of his toga.

"Bethesda is no better… but no worse," I said, hoping I spoke the truth.

"And where are we off to this morning, Father-in-Law?"

At the height of Milo's power, when he ruled a veritable army of street gangs in competition with Clodius, he and his wife, Fausta, had lived in one of the city's more imposing houses, a worthy habitation for the daughter of the dictator Sulla and the husband from whom she expected great things.

That house and its contents had been confiscated by the state and sold at auction not long after Milo's exile from Rome. Fausta, though she remained married to Milo, refused to accompany him to Massilia. Without a house, where was she to live and by what means? As it turned out, the law included a provision for an abandoned wife to reclaim her dowry from the first proceeds of confiscated property. Fausta's dowry had been considerable, and after the auction she managed to get much of it back. With that money she had moved into a smaller, more humble dwelling on the far side of the Palatine Hill from my own. She was not exactly poor, but she had fallen a great distance in the world.

"What will this one be like?" asked Davus, as we headed out.

"What do you mean?"

"So far, I haven't known quite what to make of all these women."

I laughed. "What can I tell you about Fausta? On the one occasion when I met her, which was shortly before Milo went into exile, she was taking a bath with two of his gladiators-and she invited me to join them. That sort of behavior was what ended her first marriage, before Milo. She was seeing two lovers on the side-so goes the story-and being rather blatant about it. One was a fuller who owned a wool-washing operation. The other was a fellow called Macula, on account of a birthmark on his cheek that looked like a stain. Her twin brother, Faustus, made a crack about it: 'Seeing that she has the personal services of a fuller, I don't see why she doesn't get rid of that "Stain"! My sister's behavior is less than immaculate.' "

"Immaculate," Davus repeated slowly, grasping the pun.

"Exactly. But Fausta's husband didn't find the situation quite so amusing. He divorced her for adultery. Then she married Milo. Several steps up socially, for him. For her, he must have seemed a good prospect. Perhaps Milo's ruthlessness appealed to her; maybe it reminded her of her father. Who knew his career would end in murder and exile just a few years later?

"The scandals started the very day after their wedding, when Milo came home and caught her in the act with a fellow named Sallust. Milo gave Sallust a sound thrashing, which was of course his legal right-indeed, Milo could have killed him, and it wouldn't have been murder-and confiscated his moneybag for a fine.

"But Fausta was incorrigible. Not long after the incident with Sallust, she invited not one but two lovers to come over one afternoon. Then Milo showed up. One of the fellows managed to hide in a wardrobe, but Milo caught the other, dragged him out of the bedroom, and proceeded to beat him to a pulp. Meanwhile, the first fellow slipped back into Fausta's bed, and the two of them made mad, passionate love to the sound of the other fellow screaming and begging Milo for mercy. Before you point out the obvious, Davus, I will: Fausta enjoys being caught."

He frowned. "And perhaps Milo enjoyed catching her. Otherwise, why didn't he divorce her?"

"Because Fausta's connections were too valuable to him, politically and socially. Her dowry was valuable, too. Not all marriages are like yours with my daughter, Davus, based on"-I almost said blind lust, but that would have been unfair-"based on mutual love, desire, and respect. Some marriages are based on other considerations-power, money, prestige. Especially marriages among the Best People or those aspiring to join their ranks. Which isn't to say that Milo and Fausta didn't find one another attractive. I think there was a definite spark between them-her, all ginger hair and voluptuous curves; him, all hot tempered and hairy chested.

"Eventually things settled down between the two of them. Maybe Milo finally scared off all her lovers! He tended to his political career. She appeared beside him as his dutiful wife. Who could doubt that one day he would be elected consul, and she would be a consul's wife? Then came the murder of Clodius, and Milo's career went up in smoke."

"Why didn't Fausta divorce him? Especially if she didn't want to go into exile with him, and he was never coming back?"

"I don't know, Davus. Shall we ask her?"

The slave who opened the door had the overfed, oversexed look of a grizzled gladiator gone to seed. That made him a walking contradiction; how many gladiators live long enough to go to seed? Two smoldering eyes peered at us from beneath a single bristling eyebrow, but he was probably cleverer than he looked. How else had he survived long enough to acquire a few gray hairs, not to mention the plum job of waiting on a highborn lady with a special appreciation for gladiators? I wondered how many men he had killed in his life to arrive at this particular perch. He crossed his arms while I gave him my name and requested a few moments of his mistress's time. His forearms were the size of my thighs and covered with ugly scars.

With a jolt, I suddenly recognized him: Birria, one of Milo's most prized gladiators. He had been directly involved in the skirmish with Clodius that day on the Appian Way. He was also one of the gladiators who had been lounging with Fausta in her bath on the occasion when I met her. I was surprised Milo had not taken Birria with him, knowing the slave's reputation as a trained killer. Perhaps Birria had been part of Fausta's dowry settlement and so had remained with her. He had gained a great deal of weight since I last saw him, and not much of it was muscle.

Birria left us in the foyer while he went to announce us. The house was even gloomier and more bereft of ornaments than I had expected. One feature did catch my eye, however. It gave me quite a start.

It is the custom of Roman nobles to display busts of their illustrious ancestors in niches in the foyers of their homes. In Fausta's foyer, there were only one niche and one bust. Pacing the little room, turning on my heel, I abruptly found myself face-to-face with the image of Lucius Cornelius Sulla, the dictator.

I had met him once. Like so many others, I had been charmed-and a little terrified. An appetite for pleasure and for cruelty had radiated from him like the heat of the sun at midsummer; men averted their faces in Sulla's presence, fearful of being scorched. His example-winning a bloody civil war, attaining absolute power and using it to behead his enemies, reforming the state in his image and then turning his back on it-had haunted Rome for two generations. Depending on one's political point of view, his legacy had either broken the Constitution, or else failed to shore it up enough-and in either case had generated a series of disasters that led directly across the decades to the present moment, with the Republic paralyzed and Rome holding its breath for the arrival of a second Sulla. He had been dead now for over thirty years, but the eyes that peered from the marble image in Fausta's foyer still had the power to chill my blood.

From somewhere deeper in the house I heard the sound of a man shouting. The words were indistinct, but the tone was angry and demeaning. Who was shouting? Who was being shouted at?

A little later Birria returned. Was he more sullen than when he'd left? With such an ugly face, it was hard to tell. "The mistress can't see you today," he said.

"No? Perhaps-"

"I gave her your name. She knows who you are. She doesn't have time to see you."

"Perhaps you could go back and mention another name."

He scowled. "What would that be?"

"Cassandra. Tell her that I want to talk about Cassandra."

"Won't make a difference. You'd better go now." He walked up to me, squaring his massive shoulders to block my way. He didn't stop, but strode right into me, forcing me to take tripping, back ward steps. Behind me, Davus emitted a threatening grunt. I looked over my shoulder and saw a scowl on his face to match the gladiator's. I felt like a man caught between two snorting bulls.

From behind Birria, I heard a woman's shrill voice. "No! Birria, stop this! No fighting before Papa's image! I've decided to see the Finder after all. I… I want to see him." Her voice had an oddly plaintive tone, as if she were asking for permission.

Birria stopped and stared down at me, then over my head at Davus. I smelled garlic on his breath-gladiators eat it for strength-and wrinkled my nose. At last he stepped back and out of the way.

"As you wish, mistress," he said, glaring at me.

Davus and I stepped past him toward Fausta. Instead of waiting, she turned away while we were still several paces distant and began to lead us down a dim hallway. "This way. Follow me. Where shall we…? Not the garden, I think. No, definitely not the garden. We'll talk… in the Baiae room. Yes, that will do."

She kept several paces ahead of me. I found myself staring at the mass of ginger hair pinned atop her head and the jiggling of her ample back side beneath her orange stola. I noticed with a start-for until then she had managed to hide it-that one of her arms was in a sling, and that she was walking with a slight limp. Had she suffered an accident?

The chamber she called the Baiae room was a narrow alcove off a hall. The only light came from the doorway. Lamps were hung from the ceiling, but none were lit, and so the room was dim and shadowy. Even so, I could see how the room came to have its name. The floor was a mosaic in many shades of green and blue, touched with flashes of gold, depicting various creatures of the deep-octopi, whales, dolphins, fish-and bordered with images of seashells. The walls of the room were painted with scenes of villas perched above the sea cliffs of Baiae. I stepped closer, losing myself in the picture, until the voice of Fausta called me back.

"Why don't the two of you sit over there, in those chairs at the far end of the room?" she said. "I'll sit here close by the doorway."

"This must be a very beautiful room when it's well lit," I said, taking a seat and gesturing to Davus to do the same.

"Oh, yes. My brother Faustus used to own this house. He didn't actually live here; he only kept it as a sort of guest house, a place to lend out to visitors and friends. Faustus was awfully flush with money at the time. He spent a great deal on fixtures and stonework and such. He doted on this little room more than any other. The mosaics and the wall paintings are meant to be viewed by lamplight at night. It's quite a magical place when you see it that way. By day it's rather dim in here, isn't it? And it could use a bit of restoration. I don't think the painters quite knew what they were doing. In places there's an awful lot of peeling and flaking. Of course I can't afford to have it properly redone, and neither could Faustus these days. But once the war is over, his fortunes will change for the better. Caesar's rich supporters will lose their heads along with their estates, and men like Faustus will get what's due to them. That's how my father rewarded his partisans, giving them the best of the booty seized from his enemies. Pompey will do the same, if he has any sense. What do you think, Gordianus? Is Pompey half the man my father was?"

Twice the man, but half the monster, I wanted to say, but bit my tongue. I had the feeling she was teasing me, but it was hard to read her expression. She sat with her back to the door, so the light came from behind her and cast her face in shadow.

"You think it will be Pompey who triumphs, then?" I said. "I might have thought, in light of recent events…"

"You mean this business with my husband and Caelius?" I couldn't see her face, but I could hear the disgust in her voice. "As soon as word reached Rome that Milo had slipped out of Massilia, Isauricus himself came here to question me. He assumed, since I'm still married to Milo, that I would be able to tell him exactly what my husband was up to, even though I hadn't seen Milo in years or exchanged a letter in months. 'Do you think I can read Milo's mind at a distance of several hundred miles?' I asked him. 'Do you think that I can predict what the fool will do next?' I ran Isauricus out of the house, and he hasn't come back."

I nodded. Considering the state of Fausta's household, the consul had probably decided that she posed no threat and wasn't worth keeping an eye on. I shifted uneasily in my chair, frustrated at being unable to see her face clearly.

Fausta sighed. "Fortune was cruel to Milo. Cruel to us both. To be perfectly candid-and I'll be more candid with you than I was with Isauricus-I wasn't the least bit surprised when I heard about Milo escaping from Massilia and coming back to Italy. Nor was I surprised to learn that he had taken up with Marcus Caelius. Each chose to follow a different leader. Both of those leaders cruelly let them down; Pompey abandoned Milo, and Caesar shunted Caelius aside. Milo and Caelius are like two orphans, taking up with each other so they won't be alone. There must be many more like them, big men and little men, all feeling abandoned by whichever leader they chose, all feeling angry and cheated at the prospect of either of those leaders winning. Why not turn away from Caesar and Pompey both, and find a third way to the future? It makes perfect sense-if they can pull it off."

"Can they?"

"How should I know. Do I look like Cassandra?"

I drew a breath. "How well did you know her?"

"Did anyone really know Cassandra? That's why you've come, of course. Not to ask after Milo, or me, but because I came to Cassandra's funeral, and you want to talk about her. Am I right?"

"Yes."

She nodded. "I sought her out one day in the market. I invited her here. She stared at a flame and had a fit. I listened to what she had to say, gave her a few coins, and sent her on her way. Why not? Every woman in Rome was desperate to hear what Cassandra had to tell them."

"And what did she tell you?"

Fausta laughed. "A bunch of garbled nonsense. Truthfully, I couldn't make sense of it. I suppose I'm too literal minded for that sort of thing. Why do oracles and portents always have to be so obscure? Call a truffle a truffle, that's what I say! I never much liked plays or poetry for the same reason. I've no patience for metaphors and similes."

"Cassandra didn't foretell Milo's return and his alliance with Caelius?"

Fausta shrugged and winced a bit-I heard her hiss-as she rearranged her arm in the sling. "Oh, there was something about a bear and a snake, I think. And two eagles. Was the bear Milo? Was the snake Caelius? Were the eagles Pompey and Caesar? Or was it all the other way around? Your guess is as good as mine." She sighed. "Milo was always so much more interested in that sort of thing than I was."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. He always took omens very seriously. More now than ever, I should think."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because"-she sighed heavily-"on that fateful day when Clodius died, Milo saw all sorts of bad omens before we ever set out on the Appian Way. He saw a vulture flying upside down, and then a duck with three feet crossed our path, or so he claimed. Later, when everything started going wrong that day, Milo kept muttering, 'I should have paid attention to the signs; I should have known there would be trouble; we should never have set out; we should have stayed home.' You probably never saw that side of him. He didn't talk much about premonitions and such, except to me, because Cicero would make such fun of him for being so superstitious. But Milo was always on the look out for portents. A lot of good it ever did him! What's the use of seeing a falling star if it's careening straight toward you?"

I nodded. "You say that I came only to ask after Cassandra, not you and Milo, but that's not entirely true. Would you take it amiss if I asked you a personal question?"

"Ask and find out."

"Why are you still married to Milo? You didn't go with him to Massilia; you stayed here, with no prospect of his ever returning to you. Why not divorce him so that you might remarry?"

She snorted, and for a moment I thought I had offended her. But her exasperation was with her fate, not with me. Like many people burdened with regrets, she was not averse to voicing her bitterness to a relative stranger. "One divorce has pretty much become the standard these days, hasn't it? Among the fashionable set, I mean. But two divorces-well, that begins to look a bit careless, don't you think? My first husband divorced me as a sort of punishment for cuckolding him. That wasn't a problem with Milo. Milo rather liked being cuckolded, I think. It gave him an excuse to vent his rage. It… stimulated him. He was never such a tiger in bed as he was right after catching me with another man. So strong. So… violent. I'm afraid I rather developed a taste for that sort of thing."

She readjusted her sling, and hissed. "But I digress. I stayed married to Milo because it was the respectable thing to do. Believe it or not, that still matters to me. I am Sulla's daughter. I won't have people saying I abandoned my husband simply because he ran into a bit of trouble."

A murder conviction and lifelong exile hardly seemed to me to be a "bit of trouble," but my standards differed from those of Fausta in many matters. "Or could it be," I said, "that in the long run you had faith in Milo? That you could foresee a time when he might return to Rome in triumph, beheading his enemies as your father beheaded his, making himself the first man in Rome and yourself the first among women?" Such a thing might actually come to pass, I realized with a chill. Whether Caesar or Pompey eventually returned, in the meantime Milo and Caelius might pull off their mad scheme and make themselves masters of Rome. Such a thing would never happen without the spilling of much blood.

She made a derisive sound deep in her throat. "Don't compare Milo to my father! He knew how to make this town come to heel, instead of letting the she-wolf bite him in the ass. We shall never see his like again-not in Caesar, not in Pompey, certainly not in Milo. The best I can hope for"-she hesitated, but a sudden burst of emotion was too much for her to contain-"the best I can hope for is to become Milo's widow. People shall pity me then. And respect me! They shall say, 'Poor Fausta! She suffered greatly from her second marriage. But she stood by that fool to the very end, didn't she? She proved her mettle. She was truly Sulla's daughter!' "

I considered this for a long moment, wishing I could see her face more clearly. But the light from outside was growing stronger as the morning drew on, casting her features even deeper into shadow. "I don't quite understand," I confessed.

"I wouldn't expect you to. You're not one of those who count-not one of us."

"Not a noble, you mean?"

She shook her head. "Not a woman!" She stood, indicating that the interview was at an end.

In the hallway, she drew back into a shadowy corner. Again I noticed her slight limp. Birria appeared, to show us out. He curled his lip and from under his bristling brow gave her a look that seemed to border on madness, until I realized it was lasciviousness I saw in his eyes. I looked at Fausta. Despite the shadows, I saw what she had been deliberately concealing by sitting against the light-a bruised, black crescent beneath one of her eyes.

I looked back at Birria and matched his glare with my own. "Fausta," I said, "do you need our help?"

"What do you mean?"

"You limp. Your arm is in a sling."

She shrugged. "It's nothing, really. Certainly nothing to concern you. A small accident. I'm a bit clumsy sometimes."

"I find that hard to believe of Sulla's daughter."

"What you believe is of no consequence, Finder. Go now. And, Birria, after you've shown these two out… come straight back to me."

He gave her a snarling grin, but it was the crooked smile she flashed back at him that made my blood run cold. I turned and walked quickly to the front door, not waiting for Birria to lead the way. In the foyer I paused for a moment to gaze at the marble bust of Sulla and to wonder at the curious events it must have witnessed in that house.