Catilina's riddle

Meeting Catilina again immediately brought back memories of our previous encounter, so that I could see him vividly as he had been then — a man in his middle thirties with black hair and a beard (worn in a more conservative fashion back then), possessing such regular features so harmoniously balanced that one would hardly even think to call him handsome. More than handsome, he was quite remarkably attractive, with an appeal that seemed to emanate from within him in some invisible way, outwardly manifested by the playfulness that lit his eyes and the smile that came so readily to his lips.

Time, if not the tide of human affairs, had been kind to Catilina; as men say of wine and women, he had aged well. There were lines at the corners of his eyes and his mouth, but they were such wrinkles as come from smiling too much. There was a hint of weariness in his sparkling eyes and in his smile, but that only infused them with a mellowness that was all the more appealing. He was a hard man not to like at first sight. No wonder he was thought to be so dangerous.

'Gordianus,' he said, still clasping my hand. 'Years and years. Do you remember?'

‘I remember.'

'Marcus Caelius said you would. Then it's all right that I should come to visit you here?'

'Yes, of course,' I said. If Catilina noticed the beat of hesitation before I answered, he ignored it.

'Marcus Caelius assured me that it would be. I must have a

retreat where I can simply disappear from the world from time to time, and Caelius told me he knew just the place. You're very kind to have me.'

I suddenly realized that he was still holding my hand in his. There was something so natural and unassuming in his touch that I had not even noticed. I gently pulled back. Catilina released my hand, but held me with his gaze, as if he were not quite ready to let me go.

"This is Tongilius.' He gestured to his companion, an athletic-looking young man with wavy brown hair and a strong jaw, clean-shaven to show the dimple in his chin. I wondered if there was some way that Catilina's charm could be learned or acquired by contact, for Tongilius, with his green eyes and subtle smile, seemed to possess it in miniature. He nodded and said in a very deep voice, 'I am honoured to meet an old acquaintance of Catilina's.'

I nodded in return. The three of us sat unmoving on our horses for a long, awkward moment. It was up to me to make some gesture of hospitality, whether feigned or not, but I found myself confused and unwilling to speak. The moment had arrived. The favour that Marcus Caelius had demanded was at hand. I had resisted this eventuality, dreaded it, steeled myself to see it through, and now that the crisis had occurred I felt strangely deflated, almost disappointed. I sensed nothing ominous in Catilina's presence. Indeed, I felt quite at ease with him, and that worried me all the more, for I had to wonder if my wits were growing dull, not to sense danger and deceit when they were surely close at hand.

It was Catilina who finally spoke. 'And this one, riding up behind you — could it be your son?'

I looked over my shoulder and saw Meto approaching on horseback, coming from the north wall where Aratus must have just relieved him of overseeing the slaves.

'Yes, this is the younger of my two sons, Meto.' Reminded of the children and their vulnerability, I felt a pang of uneasiness that proved my wits were still with me. 'Meto, we have visitors. This is Lucius Sergius Catilina. And this is his companion, Tongilius.'

Meto drew nearer with a crooked smile on his face, a bit flustered at meeting such a notorious character. Catilina extended his hand, and Meto took it, rather too eagerly, I thought. In a hushed voice Meto said, 'Did you really sleep with a Vestal Virgin?'

My jaw dropped.'Meto!'

Catilina threw back his head and laughed, so uproariously that my horse snorted in alarm. Tongilius laughed with his mouth shut. Meto turned pink but looked more puzzled than embarrassed. I put my hand to my brow and groaned.

'Well,' said Catilina, 'now I know what anecdote I shall be telling tonight after supper!' He reached out and tousled Meto's hair, and Meto seemed to enjoy it.

If I had hoped to drive Catilina away with bad cooking, Congrio made it impossible. That night he outdid himself Bethesda spurred him on to it. She has always judged strangers strictly by their appearance, and she very much liked the looks of Catilina and Tongilius. Consequently, we dined superbly on a pork stew with fava beans accompanied by an apricot fricassee.

After dinner, as on the night before, I had the slaves pull our couches out into the atrium, but Bethesda did not join us. Since I made her my wife, she has been quite conscious of her status as a freedwoman and matron of a citizen's household, but she draws the line at the modern Roman matron's practice of joining in an after-dinner conversation with men outside her family. She withdrew, taking Diana with her. Meto remained. His presence made me uncomfortable, but I saw no easy way to dismiss him. Our guest had promised him a story, after all.

'A very fine meal,' said Catilina. 'I must thank you again for having me.'

'I admit that I was hesitant at first to invite you into my home, Catilina.' I spoke slowly and deliberately. 'You are a figure of considerable controversy, and I have reached a point in my life and fortunes when I no longer seek controversy; quite the opposite. But Marcus Caelius put forward the case for extending my hospitality… most convincingly.'

'Yes, he is a persuasive young man of talent and initiative.' There was no hint of irony in Catilina's voice, and the sparkle in his eyes looked no more menacing than the playfulness that was always there.

'He is eloquent, yes, and persistent. Also, he seems to know that a powerful gesture can speak louder than mere words.'

Catilina nodded. Again there was no indication that he perceived any double meaning in what I said.

'You're fond of riddles,' I said.

Catilina smiled. Tongilius laughed. Between them passed the look of intimates sharing a private joke. 'I confess,' said Catilina.

'It is his only vice,' said Tongilius. 'Or so he likes to tell people.' That was the joke, then — that a man with such a reputation for depravity should admit to nothing more vicious than a weakness for wordplay.

'And you, Gordianus — I take it you're more inclined to solve riddles than to make them up.' 'I used to be.'

'Well, then, an easy one.' He thought for a moment, then said, 'An edible legume of no distinguished pedigree, transplanted from rustic soil to a stony place where it thrives against all expectation and casts its tendrils far and wide.'

'Too easy,'said Meto.

'Is it?' said Catilina. 'I just made it up on the spot'

'The bean is a chickpea. The stony place is the Forum in Rome.'

'Go on.'

'So the answer to the riddle is Marcus Tullius Cicero.' 'Because?'

Meto shrugged. 'Everyone knows the family name Cicero comes from an ancestor who had a cleft in his nose, like a chickpea, a cicer bean. Cicero came from the town of Arpinum — rustic soil — and made his fortune in the Forum, which is all paved with stone. There he thrives, though nobody ever expected that a man who wasn't from a famous family could rise so far.'

'Very good!' said Catilina. 'And the tendrils?' he asked, looking not at Meto but at me.

'His influence, which reaches far and wide,' concluded Meto.

'You're right, it's too easy,' conceded Catilina. 'I shall have to make it harder the next time I tell it. What do you think, Gordianus?'

‘Yes,' I said, 'much too obvious.'

'The riddle or the riddler?' said Tongilius. For a moment I thought he meant the question seriously, and it seemed that all our masks were about to fall. But then he laughed softly and cast a grin at Catilina, and I saw he was merely jibing his mentor for the sake of punning.

'I understand that you and Cicero go back a long time,' said Catilina. 'Fifteen or twenty years.'

'Seventeen. I met him in the last year of Sulla's dictatorship.' 'Oh, yes, Caelius reminded me. The trial of Sextus Roscius.' "Were you at the trial?'

'No, but of course one heard a great deal about it at the time. The talk was mostly about Cicero, but I do recall hearing your name mentioned in connection with the affair, after the fact. It turned out to be an important occasion, something of a landmark. I suppose one could say that you and Cicero made one another's reputation.'

'You give me far too much credit. You might as well honour Congrio's spoon for making the sauce.'

'Surely you're too modest, Gordianus.'

'I take neither credit nor blame for Cicero's achievements. Yes, I've worked for Cicero a number of times over the years, just as I've worked for Crassus and Hortensius and many others.'

'Then I'm no more correct when I say that Cicero made your reputation?'

"The trial of Sextus Roscius was a watershed for all concerned.' Catilina nodded. He put his cup to his lips and drained it, then held it up to be refilled. I looked about and realized there was no slave to serve us.

'Meto, go and fetch one of the girls from the kitchen,' I said.

'No need.' Catilina stood up and walked to the table where the clay bottle of wine had been left by Bethesda. I watched a Roman patrician fetch his own wine and felt a quiver of surprise, but Catilina returned to his couch and reclined as if completely unaware that he had done anything remarkable. 'Your own vintage?' he said.

'From the time of Lucius Claudius, who owned the farm before me. One of the better years, I think.'

'I think you're right. The flavour is dark and rich, yet very smooth. It warms the throat and belly without being harsh. I think I shall have to beg a bottle from you before I leave.'

"Will you be staying long?'

'Only a day or two, with your indulgence.'

'I should think the consular election would require your presence in Rome.'

"The campaign is well in hand,' he said. 'But please, I've come here to escape from politics for a little while. Let's talk of something else.' Meto cleared his throat.

Tongilius laughed. 'I think the young man was promised a story.'

'Oh, yes, the tale of the Vestals,' said Catdlina.

"There's no need to talk of the matter if you'd rather not,' I said.

'What, and let others pollute the boy's mind with their own versions of the story? The only way to subvert the slanders of your enemies is to tell stories about yourself before others have the chance. What do you know of the tale already, Meto?'

'He knows nothing,' I said. 'I only happened to mention it to him in passing.'

'And yet he knows that I was accused of sleeping with a Vestal Virgin.'

'And that you were acquitted,' I said. ‘With your help, Gordianus.' 'To some degree.'

'Your father is a modest man,' Catilina said to Meto. 'Modesty is a fine Roman virtue, though I think it is more praised than practised.'

'Rather like virginity among the Vestals?' suggested Tongilius.

'Quiet, Tongilius. Gordianus is not a particularly religious man, if I remember correctly, but there is no call to be impious in his house. Nor is it necessary to besmirch the virtue of the Vestals in the telling of the tale, for all were innocent, even myself. Ah, Meto, it's been quite a while since I met anyone who didn't already know everything about the scandal of the Vestals, or thought he knew. This is a rare opportunity for me to give my own version of the story.'

'Just as you did before the court.'

'Hush, Tongilius! No, I won't repeat all that I said before the court, because there's no need to divulge every fact in order to tell the truth. The privacy and dignity of the Vestals should be honoured. I will tell only what needs to be told.'

He cleared his throat and finished his cup of wine. 'Very well. The incident occurred ten years ago, just before the outbreak of the Spartacan slave revolt. I happened to have struck up a passing friendship with a certain Vestal named Fabia, having seen her at chariot races and the theatre and at dinner parties.'

'I thought the Vestals had no contact with men,' said Meto.

'Not true, though since the scandal of which I speak their social lives and public appearances have been circumscribed to prevent the recurrence of an embarrassing episode. But back then the Vestals moved with relative freedom through the world, so long as they were chaperoned and comported themselves with dignity. They are vowed to chastity, not isolation.

'One night I received an urgent summons from Fabia, begging me to come to her in the House of the Vestals, saying her honour and her life were at stake. Well, how could I refuse?'

'But it's death to enter the House of the Vestals after dark,' said Meto.

'What better excuse to risk death than to answer the desperate summons of a beautiful young virgin? Did I mention before that Fabia was beautiful? Very beautiful — wasn't she, Gordianus?'

'I suppose. I don't recall.'

'Ha! Your father is as cagey as he is modest, Meto. I don't believe him. Having seen Fabia's face, he could never forget it. I never have. Tongilius, don't grimace! You have no call to be jealous. My relations with the girl were pure and blameless and above reproach. Ah, I see that Gordianus looks sceptical He was sceptical then, too, but his doubts did not prevent him from saving both Fabia and myself from a cruel fate. But I'm getting ahead of the story.

'In answer to the summons, I made my way to the House of the Vestals. The doors stood open, as they always do; it is the law, not wooden doors, that keeps men out at night. I had been to Fabia's room before, always chaperoned and in daylight, of course, so I had no trouble finding it. She was quite surprised to see me, for it turned out that she had not sent the message at all! It was a practical joke played on me by some dubious friend, I thought — until Fabia and I were startled out of our wits by a scream'

'A scream?' said Meto.

'From behind a curtain. The scream of a dying man, as it turned out. I pulled aside the curtain to discover him writhing on the floor, his throat cut, and beside him a bloody knife. The whole house was awakened. Before I could flee, the Virgo Maxima herself entered the room It was a thorny situation.'

Tongilius laughed aloud. 'Lucius, what a gift you have for understatement!'

Catilina arched an eyebrow. The gesture was typically patrician, but together with his chin-strap beard and unruly cuds, it gave his face the shrewd look of a satyr contemplating an unprotected sheep. 'The situation wasn't compromising — Fabia and I were both fully dressed — but there remained the fact that I was on forbidden ground, and of course the presence of a corpse in a holy place. Do you know the penalty for such crimes, Meto?' Meto vigorously shook his head.

'Really, Gordianus, you've neglected the boy's education. Do you not regale him with anecdotes of your past adventures, dwelling on all the juicy details? When a Vestal is convicted of an improper dalliance with a man, Meto, the man is put to death by public scourging. Painful and humiliating, but not the most terrible of fates — death is death, after all. But for the Vestal — oh, for her, the end is far more gruesome.'

I glanced at Meto, who gazed raptly at Catilina. Tongilius, who must have heard the tale many times already, found fresh amusement in Meto's wide-eyed fascination.

'Shall I tell you the punishment for a Vestal found guilty of impiety?' said Catilina.

Meto nodded.

'Really, Catilina,' I protested, 'the boy won't sleep a wink tonight.'

'Nonsense! A young man his age craves images of horror and depravity. A fifteen-year-old sleeps best when he's had his head freshly filled with atrocities.'

'I'll be sixteen this month,' said Meto, wanting to remind us he was almost a man.

'There, you see,' said Catilina. 'Really, you're too protective, Gordianus. Well, them first, the Vestal is stripped of her diadem and her linen mantle. Then she is whipped by the Pontifex Maximus, to whom, as head of the state religion, all the Vestals are directly accountable. After being whipped, the condemned Vestal is dressed like a corpse, laid in a closed litter, and carried through the Forum attended by her weeping kinfolk in a hideous parody of her own funeral. She-is carried to a place just inside the Colline Gate, where a small vault is prepared underground, containing a couch, a lamp, and a table with a little food. An executioner guides her down the ladder into the cell, but he does not harm her, as her person is still sacred to the goddess Vesta and she cannot be killed outright. The ladder is drawn up, the vault sealed, the ground levelled. No man bears direct responsibility for taking her life, you see; the goddess Vesta claims her.'

‘You mean she's buried alive?' said Meto.

'Exactly! In theory, if the court has been mistaken and the Vestal is innocent, the goddess Vesta will refuse to take her life, and she'll remain alive in her tomb indefinitely. But since the vault is sealed, the opportunity to redeem herself is merely a technicality. And surely Vesta would eventually take pity on the girl and snuff out her life whether she was innocent or not, rather than let her live through eternity in a cold vault, alone and miserable.' Meto contemplated this idea with awed repulsion. 'Fortunately,' said Catilina, 'that is not what happened to the lovely Fabia. She is very much alive and still a Vestal, though I haven't spoken to her in years. We can thank your father for her salvation. Really, Gordianus, you never told this tale to your son? It's not bragging to simply tell the truth. But if Gordianus is too modest, I will tell it for him.

'Where was I? Ah, yes, in the House of the Vestals, in the middle of the night, alone with Fabia and a fresh corpse. The Virgo Maxima, who found us, was already implicated in a scandal herself and desperate to avoid another. She sent for help to Fabia's brother-in-law, a rising young advocate famed for his cleverness — Marcus Tullius Cicero. Yes, the consul himself, though who then could have foreseen his destiny? Cicero in turn sent for Gordianus. And it was Gordianus who discovered the murderer still lurking in the House of the Vestals when no one else could find him. It turned out that the assassin had miscalculated his opportunity to escape and was trapped in the courtyard when the gates were shut He was hiding — can you believe it? — in the pool among the lily pads, breathing through a hollow reed. It was your father who noticed that the reed had moved from one place to another. Gordianus strode into the pool and pulled the man sputtering from the water. The assassin swung a knife. I leaped upon him. A moment later the man was impaled on his own blade. But before he died he confessed all — namely that my enemy Clodius had put him up to everything: sending the false note, luring me to the House of the Vestals, following me inside, and killing his confederate, so that I would be found not only in a dubious position but with blood on my hands in a sacred place.'

'But there was a trial?' said Meto.

'Of sorts. The assassin was dead, so nothing could be proved against Clodius. Even so, with the biggest prude in Rome to defend her honour — I mean young Marcus Cato, of course — Fabia was found innocent, and so was I. Clodius was so disgraced he fled to Baiae to wait for the scandal to blow over. He didn't have long to wait That was the year the gladiator Spartacus began the great slave uprising, and the little matter of the Vestals was quickly forgotten in the wake of more momentous events.

'Alas, Meto, I fear I've disappointed you. The scandal was no scandal. at all, you see, only a contrivance designed by my enemies to have me dishonoured at best and at worst put to death. I cannot claim to be the man who deflowered a Vestal and lived to tell about it, for I never did such a thing. I merely prevailed over a trumped-up charge, thanks to the help of clever lawyers and an even cleverer man who called himself the Finder. Ironic, is it not, Gordianus, that it was Cicero who called on you to unravel the mystery? Of course it was his wife's half-sister Fabia whom he wished to save from ruin, not me. Even so, in those days Cicero and I were not yet enemies.'

There followed a long silence. Tongilius was beginning to nod. So was Meto, despite his enthusiasm for the tale.

'Younger men require more sleep than their elders,' said Catilina.

'Yes, off to bed with you, Meto.'

He made no complaint, but rose and nodded respectfully to our guests before leaving. Tongilius followed him shortly thereafter, retiring to the room he was to share with Catilina.

The two of us sat in silence for a long moment. The night was warm and still. The lamps were beginning to sputter and sink. The sky above us was moonless and pierced by bright stars.

'Well, Gordianus, did I do justice to the tale and to your part in it?'

I paused for a long moment before I spoke. I stared up at the stars, not at Catilina. 'I would say that you put the facts plainly enough.' 'You sound dissatisfied.'

'I suppose I still have my doubts about the matter.' 'Doubts? Please, Gordianus, be frank.'

'It always seemed odd to me that a man should spend so much time and effort courting a young woman sworn to chastity, unless he had some ulterior motive.'

'Misunderstood again — it is a curse that the gods have put upon me, that the face the world sees is seldom my true face, but often the very opposite. When my motives are purest, other men doubt me, and yet when my intentions slip from the path of virtue I find that other men flock to me with praise.'

'And then, how did Clodius know that you would respond to that forged note from Fabia, unless he had evidence that the two of you were more than friends?'

'Another irony — quite often one's enemies are the best and truest judges of one's character. Clodius knew my sentimental heart and adventurous spirit. He devised the most forbidden lure he could imagine and then tempted me with it. Had I truly been Fabia's lover I would have sensed that the note was false.'

'And again, I recall that in Cato's speech in Fabia's defence, he dwelt heavily upon the fact that when the Virgo Maxima rushed into the Vestal's room, the two of you were discovered completely dressed—'

'And don't forget that the assassin said likewise before he expired. Before killing his companion so as to leave a corpse, he had instructions from Clodius to wait until Fabia and myself were undressed so that we would be found that way. But as he himself declared, "they would not take off their clothes!" He said it more than once, do you remember?'

'I do, and it caused me to wonder, for why did Clodius think you would take oft your clothes in the first place, and in the second, it occurred to me that for a man and a woman to have intercourse, they need not take off’ their clothes, but merely rearrange them.' I looked from the stars to Catilina, but the lamps had burned so low that his eyes were in shadow and I could not read his face. His lips seemed to curve into a smile, but perhaps I only imagined it.

'Really, Gordianus, you are as devious as any advocate. I'm glad it was that idiot Clodius who spoke against me at the trial, and not you, or else my defence would have been utterly demolished.' He sighed. 'Anyway, all of that is ancient history now, as dead as Spartacus, just a slightly lurid tale to quicken the pulse of a young man like your son.'

'Yes, about Meto…'

'Do I hear another note of dissatisfaction in your voice, Gordianus?' 'If you are to stay in my house, I would prefer that you respect my authority as head of this household.' 'Have I somehow offended you?'

'More than once you cast doubt on my judgment regarding my son, and you did it in front of Meto himself. I realize your manner is ironic, Catilina, but Meto is likely to take your comments seriously. I ask that you refrain from ridiculing me, however good-naturedly. I will not have my authority undermined.'

I kept my voice even and tried to speak without undue passion. There followed a long silence. I could see that Catdlina's face was turned up to the stars, his jaw clenched. That he failed to reply seemed to indicate that he was angry and was biting his tongue. If I had offended him, I could not regret it.

Then he laughed. It was a low, quiet laugh, gentle and without harshness. The laughter faded and after a moment he spoke. 'Gordianus — but no, you will think I am ridiculing you again. Even so, I must say it. How could I undermine your authority with the boy? Any fool could see that he worships you. Such devotion is like a rock, and my teasing is like a pebble cast against it. Even so, I apologize and ask your forgiveness. I am a guest in this house, here upon your sufferance, and I have behaved as if I were in my own home, without regard to your sensibilities. That is rudeness on my part, not to mention a failure of wisdom I meant no offence. You see, I was serious when I said that men mistake my meaning. If only I could learn to do the opposite of what I intend to do, then everyone would be pleased with me at last.'

I stared at him in the darkness, not knowing whether to be charmed or offended, whether to laugh at his wit or fear him. 'If I distrust you, Catilina, perhaps it's because you speak in riddles.'

'Men offer riddles when they cannot offer solutions.'

‘You're cynical, Catilina.'

He laughed softly, this time with a touch of bitterness. 'Against the insoluble ugliness of life, one man takes refuge in flippant cynicism while another takes refuge in smug certainty. Which man is Cicero and which is me? No, don't answer.' He was silent for a moment, then said, 'I understand you've had a falling-out with Cicero.'

'I've always had my differences with him. I never care to work for him again.' It was not exactly a lie.

'You're not the only one who's become disillusioned with our consul. For years Cicero paraded himself as the fiercely independent champion of reform, a battler against the status quo, the outsider from Arpinum. But when it came his time to stand for consul, he found that I had the constituency for reform already in my hand, so he moved without a moment's hesitation into the opposite camp and made himself a puppet for the most reactionary elements in Rome. It was a transformation to make a man's head spin, yet he changed his rhetoric without a stutter or even a pause for breath! Oh, others were surprised, but I saw it coming from the first days of his campaign. A man who will do anything to get himself elected is a man without principles, and Cicero is the worst. All his old supporters with any integrity — like young Marcus Caelius — have abandoned him, just as he abandoned them to go to sit in the lap of the oligarchy. The ones who've stayed with Cicero have no more principles than he does. They simply bend towards power as flowers bend towards the light. The last year in Rome has been a farce—'

'I've been away from Rome the whole tame.'

'But surely you visit the city?'

'Not at all.'

'I can't blame you. The place is full of vipers, and worse than that, it's become a city without hope. The oligarchs have won. You can see the resignation on people's faces. A small group of families own and control everything, and they will do anything not to share their wealth. There was some chance for reform with the Sullan legislation, but Cicero of course saw to it that those reforms came to nothing—'

'Please, Catilina! Surely Caelius told you that talk of politics is like a bee sting to me — I swell up and break out in welts if I'm exposed to it.'

Though his eyes were in shadow I could see that Catilina regarded me steadily. 'You're a strange man, Gordianus. You invite me, a candidate for consul, into your home, yet you cannot abide to speak of Rome's fate.'

'You said yourself that you came here to escape from politics, Catilina.'

'So I did. Yet I think that I am not the only one who poses riddles here.' He sat unmoving in the darkness, watching me.

Perhaps Catilina trusted me no more than I trusted him, but which of us had the greater cause to be suspicious? I might have asked him outright what he knew of the headless body that had been left in my barn, but if he was responsible he would hardly have admitted it, and if he knew nothing and said as much I wouldn't have believed him. Still, I thought that I might trap him by laying my words in a circle around him and then pulling them tight.

'The riddle you posed earlier was too easy, Catilina. But I find myself still puzzled by one that Marcus Caelius posed when he visited me last month. He said that you invented the riddle, so surely you can tell me the solution.'

'What riddle was that?'

'It was posed in this fashion: "I see two bodies. One is thin and wasted, but has a great head. The other body is big and strong — but has no head at all" '

Catilina did not respond immediately. From the shifting shadows on his brow and around his mouth I thought I saw him frowning. 'Caelius told you this riddle?'

'Yes. Contemplating it has caused me considerable distress.' I spoke only the truth.

'Strange that Caelius should have repeated it to you.'

'Why? Is the riddle a secret?' I thought of clandestine meetings, messages sent in code, oaths sworn and sealed by drinking from a cup of blood.

'Not exactly. But riddles have their proper time and place, and the time to pose that riddle has not yet arrived. Strange…' He rose from his couch. 'I'm suddenly weary, Gordianus. The journey has caught up with me, and I think I must have eaten too much of Congrio's cooking.'

I roused myself, intending to show him the way, but he was already leaving the courtyard. 'Don't worry about waking me in the morning,' he said over his shoulder. 'I'm an early riser. I shall be up even before the slaves.'

Only moments after he left, the last of the lamps sputtered and went out. I reclined on my couch in the darkness, wondering why Catilina would not supply the answer to his own riddle.

Later that night I woke up in my bed beside Bethesda. Nature called.

I rose to my feet. I didn't bother to reach for a cloak to cover myself. The night was warm.

I stepped into the hallway and headed for the privy; Lucius Claudius, never one to stint himself of luxury, had blessed the house with indoor plumbing, just like a city house in Rome. The hallway ran alongside one wall of the courtyard. Through one of the little windows I glimpsed a dark shape on one of the couches and gave a start.

It was a body. Of that I was instantly certain, though in the dim starlight I could tell little about it. I stared at the stiff, unmoving shape. I felt a tremor of fear, and then a hot flush of anger that I should feel such fear in my own home.

Then the body stirred. It was a living man.

He turned his head slightly, and in the dim starlight I discerned the profile of Catilina. He lay upon the couch with his hands folded on his stomach, not making a sound. I would have thought he was asleep, except that his eyes were open. He appeared to be lost in thought.

I watched him for a long moment, then silently continued on my way. I stepped into the privy and did my business as quietly as possible. On the way back to my bedroom I stopped and watched him again. He had not moved.

Suddenly he sprang up from the couch. I thought he must have seen or heard me, but he took no notice of me. He began to pace slowly around the small courtyard, circling the pool, his arms crossed and his head bowed. After a while he fell back onto the couch and covered his face with one hand, dropping his other arm limply to the floor. His posture suggested deep exhaustion or despair, but from his lips came neither snoring nor weeping, not even a sigh, only the steady breathing of a wakeful man. Catilina brooded.

I returned to my room and pressed myself beside Bethesda, who stirred but did not wake. I feared that I would brood and fret like Catilina, but Morpheus came quickly and pulled me deep into the black recesses of forgetful sleep.

XI

I arose the next morning expecting to find Catilina still abed, despite his claim to be up early, but when I looked into the room he shared with Tongilius I saw two vacant couches with their covedets neady folded. When had he slept — or had he slept at all?

Perhaps, I thought with a glimmer of hope, he had grown restless and departed altogether. But one of the kitchen slaves informed me that he and Tongilius had eaten an early breakfast of bread and dates and then had gone out, taking their horses from the stable and leaving word that they would return before noon.

Very well, I thought, the less I have to entertain him, and the less he disrupts the routine of the firm, the better. At least he possessed good manners, as a true patrician should. As a house guest, he could have been much worse.

I took Aratus and Meto and went down to the stream to continue our calculations for building the water mill. For a while, engaged in the work, I forgot about Catilina completely, but then I began to have new misgivings. He had gone out with Tongilius, he had said, but to where and for what purpose? As my guest he was free to wander wherever he liked on the farm, but the two of them had taken their horses with them, and the kitchen slave thought she had seen them headed in the direction of the Cassian Way. Catilina had said he would be back by noon, and therefore could not have gone far; what sort of business could he have nearby, and with whom? I did not like the idea of his using my home as a base for whatever dealings he might have in the 'vicinity. Nothing of the sort had been mentioned by Marcus Caelius, who had promised that Catilina would visit me only to retire from the city or to rest on his way north. I considered confronting Catilina with my displeasure. It seemed a reasonable thing to do, except that I kept remembering Nemo.

I tried to push such thoughts from my mind and to concentrate on the work at hand, but I was distracted and grew more and more irritated. Meto's obvious disinterest did not help. I had hoped that the water mill would spark his enthusiasm, and one of the reasons I wanted to pursue the project was to give him a practical lesson in building, but he had no head for figures or geometry and grew bored and restless at being asked to hold pieces of string and take a few steps in one direction or the other. Later in the morning he asked to be excused to return to the house, saying the heat was making him dizzy, and I let him, though I suspected he was more bored than faint.

I myself was clumsy with the siting instruments and kept giving Aratus the wrong figures to write down, then correcting myself Each time he erased the wax tablet with the back of his hand, the gesture grew more curt. I was about to reprimand him, but then he shut his eyes and used the other side of his hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. The sun was directly overhead. Perhaps it was only the heat that was setting our nerves on edge.

'We'll stop now, until it's cooler,' I told him. Aratus nodded and hurriedly gathered up the instruments, then departed for the house. Clearly, he was as tired of my manner as I was of his, and glad to have a break from me. I sighed, wondering if any farmer could succeed on such bad terms with his foreman. For an instant I wondered if I should replace Aratus, but the thought was too much to take on. I fetched my battered tin cup and went down to the stream to scoop up a drink of cool water. I drank it down slowly, then scooped up another cup and splashed it on my face. The day was going to be intolerably hot.

I heard a noise, and turned to see Meto stepping from behind an oak tree. From the smile on his face, the respite from geometry had lifted his spirits considerably. Then I saw the man who followed him. I gave a start, thinking another stranger had appeared on the farm. I stared, puzzled, then realized what had changed.

'Your beard, Catilina!'

He reached up and stroked his naked jaw, laughing softly. 'Would you share your cup? Just walking here from the stable has given me a thirst.'

I handed him the cup. While he knelt beside the flowing water, I sat down on a broad, flat rock in the shade. He drank his fill, then joined me on the rock. Meto slipped off his sandals and went wading in the shallow water to cool his feet.

'Tongilius did it for me this morning,' Catilina said, stroking his jaw again. 'Not a bad job, considering the poor light'

'He shaved you before you went out?'

He nodded. When had he slept?

'But the look was so distinctive, Catilina.' I meant the words to be ironic, considering that I had seen the same beard on every recent visitor from the city.

'The first to adopt a certain fashion should be the first to abandon it' said Catilina glibly.

"The voters will think you are changeable and frivolous.'

'The voters who know me will know better. The voters who despise me would like to think I could be changed, and thus should be comforted, or at least disarmed. And I don't worry that anyone in Rome, whether friend or enemy, considers me frivolous.' He frowned for a moment, then turned up his chin and squinted at the bright leafy canopy above. 'It was this foray into the countryside that did it like a plunge into cold water. New surroundings give a man inspiration to put on a new face. I feel ten years younger, and a thousand miles away from Rome. You should try it, Gordianus.'

'Moving a thousand miles from Rome?'

'No,' he laughed, 'shaving your beard.' Meto, wading in the stream, was paying no attention to our conversation. Even so, Catilina leaned towards me and lowered his voice. 'Women like it when a man first grows a heard, or when he shaves one. It's the change that's exciting, you understand. Imagine Bethesda's reaction if you should suddenly appear in her bed with a naked face. There, you see, you're smiling. You know I'm right'

I did smile and even laughed a little, for the first time that day. I was suddenly at ease as I realized with surprise. The change in my mood was because of the cool shade and flowing water, the respite from Aratus's scowl and from the sight of Meto's delight in the stream, I told myself. It had nothing to do with Catilina's smile.

Meto emerged from the stream and joined us. He stood first on one leg and then on the other, drying his feet and slipping on his sandals. With the stream behind him and the sunlight glinting on the hair that hung over his face, he looked like one of those statues of unselfconscious youth that the Greeks so admire. Impossible, I thought, that he was almost a man. He was still too pretty, too boyish. Having grown up myself without the benefit of beauty, I was never quite sure whether his good looks were an advantage or not Certainly men_rlike Pompey, not to mention Catilina, had used their looks to further their careers; Marcus Caelius was of the same mould. On the other hand, Cicero was proof that plainness was no disadvantage. And for a man of no great means or ambition, as for a woman of the same station, beauty could be as much a disadvantage as a boon, attracting the wrong sorts of patrons and leading a young man to rely too much on his charm. I only wished that Meto had a more serious side to his nature, and a bit more common sense.

Meto finished fastening his sandals and sat down beside me. His smile was so open and honest that I felt foolish for worrying over him. The sunlight, where it pierced through the leafy canopy, was warm on my flesh. A breeze gently strummed the high grass alongside the stream. The world was silent except for the splashing of water, the singing of birds, and the faint, distant bleating of a goat which echoed off the hillside. Meto was as well equipped to find his way in the world as I had been, if not more so. What doors could I have opened with his looks and his charm, and what did it matter if he had no head for adding figures? I sighed. Was there nothing so simple that I could not find an excuse to brood over it?

'Well?' Meto said, looking at me expectantly.

'Well, what?'

Catilina drew back a little, pursing his lips. 'I suspect your son thinks we've been discussing another matter. You see, I told him at the stable that if you had no objection—'

'The mine, Papa, that abandoned silver mine up on Mount Argentum,' said Meto, suddenly excited.

'What are you talking about?' I looked from one to the other.

Catilina cleared his throat. 'Yesterday, as we rode up the Cassian Way, I happened to notice the trail on the mountainside to the east. Later I asked your foreman about it. Aratus told me that the mountain belongs to your neighbour and that the trail leads up to an old silver mine. This morning Tongilius and I rode over to have a look. I have a friend in the city, you see, who believes he's found ways to extract ore even from mines that others have deemed exhausted. One is always looking for such opportunities.'

'And did you see the place?'

'Only the goatherds' house, which is not far from the road. We spent a pleasant hour talking to the chief goatherd, who appears to be in charge of the place. He was perfectly agreeable about showing us the mine, but he asked us to come back later in the day, after the worst of the heat. Apparently the way is quite arduous. Tongilius and I were talking about it when we returned our horses to the stable, and Meto overheard. He asked to come with us; it wasn't my idea. I told him he would have to ask for your permission.' 'May I, Papa?' said Meto.

'Meto, you know how things stand between Gnaeus Claudius and myself. It's out of the question that you should go exploring on his property.'

'Ah, yes, Gnaeus Claudius, the owner of the estate,' said Catilina. 'But there's no problem there, as Gnaeus is away. The goatherd says he's ridden up north to have a look at another property, a place more suitable for farming. It seems he's quite willing to rent or sell his property here, as he believes the mine to be worthless and he has no taste for goatherding. It's a farm he wants, and so the mountain is available. Thus the goathered is quite happy to show it to me. I'm sure there would be no objection if Meto came along.'

'And does the goatherd know who you are?'

Catilina raised an eyebrow. 'Not exactly. I introduced Tongilius, and myself I introduced as Lucius Sergjus. There are quite a few Lucius Sergii around, after all—'

"Though not many with the cognomen Catilina at the end.'

'I dare say not'

'And only one with the name Catilina who also wears a chin-strap beard.'

'Not even one of those any more,' said Catilina, stroking his chin. 'Very well, Gordianus, I was not completely forthright with the man, but he's only a slave, after all. If I wish to be incognito here in the country, surely that doesn't surprise you. Didn't Marcus Caelius tell you that I would prefer anonymity while I'm here? I should think you'd prefer it that way youself.'

'My neighbours are no partisans of yours, Catilina. Quite the opposite. Indeed, I strongly doubt that Gnaeus Claudius would deal with you if he knew who you are, so you'll only be wasting your time going to have a look at his mine.'

'Now, Gordianus, one hardly has to like a man to do business with him; that's what lawyers are for. Beside, it's not I who would make an offer on the property. I have no money at all, only debts. I'm interested in the mine for my friend, and Tongilius would do the dealing. But seriously, Gordianus, we're far ahead of ourselves. The matter at hand is quite simple. I intend to have a look at the old mine, and.Meto would dearly like to come with me. He tells me he's never seen a mine. His education is vital to you, I know, and unless one happens to be impossibly rich or else a wretched slave, how many men have the opportunity to walk through such a place? It will be an edifying experience.'

I thought it over, glumly. Meto smiled at me expectantly and drew his eyebrows together. Had I spoiled him so shamelessly that he would try to charm his own father to sway his judgment? What sort of Roman father was I? The question stiffened my spine, but only for a moment. I was no more a typical Roman father than my family was a typical Roman family. Convention and piety were dothing for other men but had always fitted me poorly. I sighed and shook my head and was about to relent when the vision of Nemo loomed up before me.

'Out of the question,' I said.

'But, Papa—'

'Meto, you know better than to contradict me, especially in front of a guest.' -

'Your father is right,' said Catilina. 'His decision is all that counts. The mistake is mine for not thinking the matter through and putting the question properly. What I should have said was this: Would you like to accompany me, Gordianus, and to bring your son along with you?'

I opened my mouth at once to answer, but some intuition told me that no matter how strenuously I objected or how many arguments I marshalled, in the end my answer would be the same, and so why waste my breath? I shut my mouth, considered for a very brief moment, and, feeling Meto's eyes on me, said simply, 'Why not?'

A man at my time of life understandably grows cautious and staid, I told myself) but even virtues can become vices when too rigidly adhered to. Occasionally a man must do the unexpected, the unforeseen, the uncalled-for. And so I found myself later that afternoon, after the heat had begun to dissipate, riding a little way north on the Cassian Way to the gate that opened onto the property of my neighbour Gnaeus Claudius. The gate was a simple affair, meant only to keep goats from wandering out onto the highway. Tongilius dismounted, threw the bolt, and swung it open.

'You need not even introduce yourself' Catilina said as we rode onto the rough path beyond the gate. 'I’ll simply say you're with me. The goatherd will be satisfied.'

‘Perhaps,' I said. 'Still, it seems less than honest for me to go snooping about on Claudian land without announcing myself'

"They would do the same to you,' said Catilina simply. Someone had already done so, I thought, remembering Nemo.

The foothills of Mount Argentum loomed abruptly before us. The way became progressively steeper. The earth became more rocky and the trees more dense until we round ourselves in a forest strewn here and there with boulders. Animals rustled in the underbrush, disturbed by our passing, but we saw no people at all. Around a bend in the road, at the crest of a steep ridge, we arrived at the goatherds' house.

It was a rustic affair, made of hewn stones and a thatched roof without adornment. The inside was a single room shared, if my nose was correct, by all the goatherds together, some ten or more to judge by the blankets piled against the walls where they slept. They were absent now, except for their chief, who lay upon a couch with splintered legs and threadbare cushions. The couch was of Greek design and workmanship, finely made but too worn to be worth restoring. It was the kind of expensive object masters are apt to pass on to a slave when the thing's beauty is used up, but not its utility. The goatherd seemed quite happy with it. He snored softly and batted a fly from his nose.

Catilina roused him by gently shaking his shoulder. The man blinked the sleep from his eyes and sat up. He reached for a skin of wine, swallowed a mouthful, and cleared his throat. 'So you came back after all, Lucius Sergius,' he said. 'Just to see an old hole in the ground. There's not much to see, as I told you. Still, for three sesterces…' He looked up at Catilina and cocked his head.

'It seems I remember promising you two sesterces,' said Catilina. ‘But no matter. You'll be paid.'

'And who are they?' The goatherd stroked his grizzled chin and squinted at our silhouettes in the doorway. 'Your friend Tongilius I met this morning, but not this man, nor the boy beside him.'

'Friends of mine,' said Catilina. He moved so that a jingling sound was produced by the little bag of coins within his tunic.

'Oh, friends of yours are friends of mine!' said the goatherd heartily. He raised the wineskin and squeezed a long draught of wine between his lips, then stood up and wiped his mouth. 'Well, what are we waiting for? Let me fetch my mule and well begin.'

* * *

The goatherd's name was Forfex, so called, I imagine, for his proficiency at shearing his flock. His hair and beard were grey and his skin looked as brown and tough as old leather. Despite his age he moved with the wiry agility of a slave who has spent his lite on rocky hillsides, learning to be as surefooted as the goats in his charge. He struck me as a naturally cheerful fellow, sitting atop his little mule and humming a song. The coins in his bag and the wine in his belly had put him in an especially good mood.

The way led at first beneath a high canopy of trees that grew alongside a deep, rugged streambed on our left-hand side. The stream was dry, or nearly so; little ponds of stagnant water appeared here and there among the tumbled boulders. We proceeded towards the south and shortly came to a juncture where a little bridge crossed the ravine and led to the main house. Through the trees and rocks I caught glimpses of a rustic two-storey structure set against a steep hillside. Chickens and dogs surrounded the place. The hounds, smelling us across the ravine, roused themselves and began to bark. The more energetic ones ran to and fro, throwing up clouds of dust and causing the chickens to flutter and cluck. Forfex shouted at the dogs to be quiet. To my surprise, they obeyed.

We did not take the bridge but rode on, leaving the house behind. The way became steeper and steeper; the forest became more and more dense. At length we came to what appeared to be a dead end. Only when we entered the little clearing was I able to see the narrow passage that led away to the left through a bower of low branches.

'We'll have to dismount here,' said Forfex.

'This is the path that leads to the mine?' asked Catilina.

'Yes.'

'But how can it be so narrow? Surely at one time there must have been a great traffic of men and beasts upon it.'

'At one time, yes, but not for many yean,' said Forfex. 'Once it was practically a road, as broad as two men laid head to head. But when the mine failed there was no more reason to use the path, except for driving goats. Stop using a path and you see what happens — the woods reclaim it. It's still passable, yes, but not on horseback. Youll need to dismount and leave your horses here.'

As I was tying the reins to a branch, I noticed another path that opened into the woods. It was even more overgrown, so much so that I might have missed seeing it altogether. I stared into the shadowy undergrowth, trying to make out its course, then realized that Catilina was standing behind me, looking over my shoulder.

'Another path,' he said to me in a low voice. 'Where do you suppose it leads?' Then he called Forfex over. 'Is this another pathway?'

The old goatherd nodded. 'Or used to be. Nobody uses it at all, so far as I know, except perhaps to go looking for a lost kid.'

'Where does it lead?'

'Down to the Cassian Way, if I remember correctly. Yes, pretty much straight down the mountain towards the south and west. It used to come out on the highway not far from the gate to Claudia's farm. That way you could send a slave from Claudia's house all the way up to this clearing and on up to the mines without his having to go up north as you did and enter by the main gate. But the path hasn't been cleared in years and years. It may be blocked by fallen branches and stones, for all I know; we get some fierce storms up here on the mountain in the winter, blowing over trees and setting off landslides. It takes many a slave to keep the pathways clear.'

"Then one would pass this pathway on the ride up from Rome, before coming to the main entrance?' said Catilina.

'Oh, certainly. I dare say that's another reason it was built, so that slaves bought at market in the city could be driven up to the mine as directly as possible. It's a very steep path, you see, and very rough — I remember taking it once when I was a boy. A road fit only for mine slaves, too steep for horses; no one would take it by choice so long as there was an easier way. But as I say, it's been disused for many years. I doubt you can see much evidence these days of where it used to branch off from the Cassian Way.'

Catilina nodded. Forfex turned away, to tend to his mule. Under his breath, I thought I heard Catilina murmur, 'Good, very good.'

XII

We proceeded on foot. The narrow path was so steep that in places the stones underfoot had been cut into steps. Within the woods the air was still and hot, but the shade at least provided protection from the lowering sun. I found myself breathing hard and struggling to keep up. Meto seemed not to suffer at all from the heat and the steepness; he would run ahead of the party, double back, and run on again. Tongilius likewise showed no discomfort. But they were both young, I told myself, while Catilina was nearly my own age. Yet he seemed not to suffer at all. He picked up a fallen limb to use as a staff, sang a marching song under his breath, and kept up a steady rhythm. Where did he find such energy, especially without a full night's sleep?

While on the main path, we had moved away from the stream on our left, but now we seemed to be converging with it again, for I began to hear the sound of trickling water. To ascend much higher we would have to cross the stream eventually. I wondered what sort of state the bridge would be in. Given the general condition of the path, I feared it might be no more than a rope wound between tree trunks on the opposing banks. The sound of trickling water grew louder and more insistent.

But there was no bridge. Instead, we came to a vertical stairway of sheer rock, some thirty or more steps cut into the solid stone. Meto ascended first, running up the steps with the surefootedness of a goat. Tongilius followed him, and then Catilina, who planted his staff in the crevices between each step and pulled himself up by it. Our guide, out of breath, allowed me to pass him. By the time I reached the top my heart was pounding and my brow was covered with sweat.

The steps emerged into a clearing above a high waterfall. Here the stream flowed across a wide, flat bed of rock cut with fingerlike rivulets. We hardly got our sandals wet crossing to the other side. While I scooped up a handful of water to cool my face and wet my lips, Meto scurried to the edge of the cliff, where the water gathered against a lip of rock before spilling over. He picked his way among stones covered with treacherous moss and peered over the abyss. He looked so slight standing against the empty sky that 1 imagined a puff of wind could blow him over the edge. I followed after him and grabbed his tunic.

'But, Papa, look!'

The tops of high trees shivered below us. The slope of the mountain reared on our right, but to the north the view was wide open. I could see the Cassian Way disappearing into the dusty horizon, its paving stones shimmering like a white ribbon. Away to the west the sun was a blood-red globe hovering above the dark hills. High trees obscured the view of my farm, but I could see quite clearly the ridge where I sometimes retreated and talked with Claudia.

'Yes,' I said, 'a pretty view.'

'No, Papa, at the foot of the waterfall!'

The lip of rock made it impossible to look down without leaning over the edge. I stepped cautiously forwards and peered downward. Heights have never particularly intimidated me, but the sheer drop made me catch my breath. The waterfall ended some thirty feet below, where the thin trickle spilled into a shallow pond covered with green scum. The pond was ringed by jagged boulders, and the boulders by high trees with thick, bark-covered roots that coiled among the stones and disappeared in the water. But it was not the stones or the trees that caused me to shiver. It was the skeletons.

Some were all in pieces scattered amid the rocks — a splintered rib cage here, a broken skull there, and farther away a leg bone or a bit of spine. Others were very nearly intact and immediately recognizable as the remains of a whole body, as if a man had been wedged amid the rocks and then been blasted by the gods until only his bones remained. Altogether I saw many more scattered bones among the roots and rocks than I could count.

Forfex, having at last made his way up the steps, walked up to us, huffing and puffing. He peered over and saw what we were looking at.

'Oh, yes,' he said. 'You'll see plenty more like them before we're done.'

'What do you mean?' 'Plenty more bones.' 'The bones of men?'

'What else does a mine owner use to work the pits?' He shrugged. 'I suppose you might see the remains of a goat here and there, but goats are generally more surefooted — and if one falls and breaks its neck, you go after it and fetch the carcass so you can eat it, don't you? Whereas the body of a dead slave isn't much worth going after, is it? You might break your own neck hopping from rock to rock and end up like one of these,' he laughed. He uncorked the wineskin slung across his shoulder, then sucked at the spout.

'You mean all these men fell?'

He shrugged. 'Some of them, probably. A man carries a heavy load of silver up out of the mines and down the hill, comes to this place, and then has to cross the water — it's higher than this, most times of the year. Well, you can see how he might stagger a bit and lose his balance. And then of course this stream drains the whole of the slope below the trail up ahead. A man falls down the hillside and breaks his neck, the vultures get to him first, but then the rains come and wash him down. A few years later, after a big storm, you'll see his skull come bobbing along on the water and shooting over the waterfall.' He laughed again.

I looked at his seamed, leathery face. At least half the teeth were missing from his grin. It was no mystery that he should laugh at such an image. Forfex was a slave himself, at the mercy of his master and with no means to escape his fate. To such a man, another slave's misfortune is only a measure of his own good fortune.

'And then of course there were those who were pushed,' he said.

'Deliberately?'

He mimed a shoving motion, pressing both palms flat against an invisible phantom at the cliffs edge. 'Murdered?'I said.

'Executed. I remember seeing it once when I was a very young boy and happened to come this way with my flock. That was back in the days when young master Gnaeus's grandfather was still alive and running the mine, just before it was finally closed for good. It was a way he had of punishing the troublemakers, you see. Slaves sold for the mines, they're mostly murderers and thieves, aren't they? The scum of the earth with nothing to lose — the mines are their death sentence, everybody knows that. So a master has to wield a heavy hand to keep them in line. Whips and manacles go only so far. You've still got the wild ones who just won't behave, or the lazy ones who won't carry their load. So the old master would make a public punishment of it. The strong-armers would line up the misbehavers on this very spot and push them over the edge while the others watched. Sort of an example, to show the rest that things could be even worse if they didn't do as they were told.'

He took another swallow of wine and shook his head. 'And then, in his later years, the old master was a little crazy. It runs in the family, you know. The mine was running out of ore, and he kept blaming the slaves for not digging deep enough. What he needed was a wizard to turn worthless rock into silver, and not a bunch of broken-back slaves. But the slaves took the blame, and the punishments happened more and more often until they were a regular event. A lot of slaves were pushed over this cliff in the final years. Then the old master took sick. The mine was finally shut down. Well, thank the gods I was born to be a goatherd and not a miner, eh?'

We stood for a moment, gazing down at the scattered bones. Forfex turned to go, but Meto clutched the sleeve of his tunic.

'But the lemures!' he said.

The old slave gave a shudder and pulled his tunic free. 'What of them?'

'The spirits of the dead — with so many bodies left unpurified, neither burned nor buried, surely their lemures have never been put to rest. They must be everywhere around us.'

'Of course they are. But they were slaves in life, broken and weak. Why should they be any more powerful in death?'

'But in life they were murderers and—'

'You're a citizen, young fellow, and besides that you're quick and strong. What have you to fear from the tired, broken lemures of dead slaves? Besides, it's still daylight. At night's when they stir, rising like mist from the earth. They come here and play with their old bones, tossing each other's skulls like balls and using their finger bones for dice.'

‘You've seen them?' said Meto.

'Well, not with my own eyes. One of the other goatherds, the mad one who can't sleep at night, he comes here sometimes and keeps company with the lemures, or says he does. Oh, no, you wouldn't catch me on the mountainside after dark.' He squinted towards the lowering sun. 'Come, let's hurry and see the mine, since that's what you came for.'

Beyond the waterfall the way became even more arduous. The trail broke out of the trees and onto a bare, rocky hillside without shade. As Forfex had said, the slope was spotted here and there with human bones, as if we crossed an ancient battlefield. The narrow path coiled back and forth on itself like a snake. Up and up we went, until each step became a greater struggle than the one before. In the full blaze of noon, such a trip would have been enough to cause a strong man's heart to burst.

We were rewarded with a truly spectacular view, quite dwarfing the view I so treasured from my ridge. Far below I saw my farm laid out like a picture, surrounded by the farms of Claudia and her cousins and other farms, hills, and forests beyond. The ridge that separated my land from Claudia's looked quite small, like a fold in a blanket The stream that ran between my land and Publius's land was a thin green band with a glint of silver here and there where a glimpse of water broke through the dense trees. The Cassian Way stretched out of sight to the north and south. It occurred to me that so long as we could see all these places, we ourselves could be seen from below by anyone with sharp enough eyes.

We traversed a bare shoulder of the mountain and dipped into a hollow, shaded from the sun at last and no longer visible to anyone in the world below. Ragged trees grew up around us, and fallen stones blocked the trail. The path took us deeper and deeper into the hollow, to the very heart of the mountain. At last we stepped around a boulder and saw the gaping black pit of the mine.

The entrance was smaller than I had expected, hardly taller than a man, and so narrow that no more than two men could pass through at one time. The scaffolding that had once surrounded it was in ruins, the broken timber lying about in pieces. Rusted picks, chisels, and hammers lay abandoned on the ground, along with cast-off manacles. Here and there flowers grew up through the rusted chains.

Beneath us the ground fell steeply away towards the winding stream below. Down the rugged hillside was strewn a great mass of bones, mixed in with the tailings from the mine to form a talus of crushed rock and bone. Even here whole skeletons had been preserved, and skulls stared up from jagged crevices in the stone.

'Have you ever seen a mine in operation?' asked Catilina, so close behind me that I gave a start. 'No.'

'I have.' His face was sombre in the soft light, with no hint of a smile. 'You can't really understand the value of a precious metal until you've seen its true worth at the source — the agony and death required to extract it from the earth. Tell me, Gordianus, when does the weight of a hundred men equal less than a pound?'

'Oh, Catilina, not a riddle…'

'When they are stripped of their flesh and weighed against a single cup made of pure silver. Imagine all those bones down there gathered up and stacked high upon a great scale. How much silver would it take to strike the balance? A handful, no more than that. Think of it me next time you press a silver cup to your lips.'

He turned towards Forfex. 'At least it should be cooler inside the mine. Tonguius, you brought the torches? Good. Are you corning with us, Gordianus?'

I had no particular interest in seeing a hole in the ground and would have preferred to sit for a while and catch my breath, but it struck me that an abandoned mine could be a dangerous place, especially for a fifteen-year-old boy. 'Yes,' I said wearily, 'I'm coming.'

Just within the entrance we came to a shoulder-high wall made of stone. 'Good for keeping out goats,' Forfex explained. And grown men, I thought, though when it came my turn to step into the stirrup of his hands and scurry over the wall, I did so without complaining, following the examples of Catilina and Tongilius. Meto gave Forfex a boost, and then followed last, pulling himself up unassisted.

Only a little light seeped over the wall, just enough to illuminate our immediate surroundings with a vague twilight. Tonguius knelt and kindled one of his torches, then lit the other and handed it to me. The flames lit a low, narrow chamber that sloped steeply downward into darkness. In such a confined space the burning pitch smelled strongly.

Catilina took a torch from Tonguius and led the way. Meto followed, and then Forfex, with myself in the rear. This is absurd,' I whispered, thinking how easily one of us might trip and fall into the void. I imagined Meto breaking his neck, and I cursed myself for allowing him to take part in such folly.

'We needn't go far,' said Catilina. 'I only want to have a look at the general condition of the mine. How far down does it go?'

'Quite a distance,' Forfex said. 'Consider that there used to be as many as two hundred slaves inside here at one time.' 'Two hundred!' Meto said..

'So I was always told. Oh, this was quite an operation in the old days. That's how young Master Gnaeus's ancestors made their fortune, from this silver mine. That's how they came to buy all the land for miles around. Now of course it's split up among the Claudian cousins, but at one time the mountain and all the land you could see from it made up a single great estate, or so they say. Watch your head, young man!'

Meto, straying from Catilina's lead, had nearly collided with a jagged fist of rock suspended from the ceiling. Forfex laughed. ‘I should have warned you. We call that one the miner's brains, partly because it looks a bit like a brain, all knobby and slick, but more because many a careless miner lost his brains against that stone! Made of something so hard they could never chisel it out, so there it stays, waiting to bash in the skull of any man who walks too close. If you look at it closely you can still see a coating of dried blood on it.'

'It's no laughing matter,' I said. 'Come,' I called ahead to Catilina, 'you'll agree this is no place to bring a boy. The place is dangerous.'

Catilina's laughter echoed from ahead, distorted and hollow as if he were calling from a well. 'I'm beginning to wish I'd left you behind, Gordianus! Are you always so fussy and difficult? Have you no sense of adventure?'

I looked over my shoulder and saw that the opening had dwindled to a dismayingly small spot of grey light. The spot suddenly blinked shut I opened my mouth and almost cried out, thinking that someone had covered it up. But by moving my head I was able to catch glimpses of light, and realized that because of a slight curve in the path the rock called the miner's brains had come between us and the entrance, blocking out the light. After a few more steps I lost sight of the entrance completely.

'How much farther are we going?'

'Oh, I think this may be far enough,' said Catilina.

The path abruptly grew level and we found ourselves in what appeared to be a small, oval chamber hewn out of the solid rock. The air was musty but dry, cool but not chilly. The ground was flat underfoot Low doorways had been carved out of the rock, leading in different directions.

'It's like a little room, underground,' said Tongilius.

'Like the entrance to a maze,' said Meto, 'or the Labyrinth of the Minotaur!'

'This is only one of several such rooms in the mine,' explained Forfex. 'Without a guide, you'd need a map to find your way, or else be willing to spend a day wandering about. For that you'd need more than a couple of torches.'

'Where does this passageway lead?' said Catilina, ducking beneath one of the rocky lintels.

'Careful, there,' called Forfex. And under his breath, 'Wouldn't you know, of all the passages he'd choose the most dangerous? Careful, please! They warned me from boyhood about going into that one. There's a sheer drop down into a deep pit. It's one of the oldest parts of the mine. You could easily fall!'

From beyond the narrow doorway, lit up with shivering shadows from Catilina's torch, there issued a sharp gasp of alarm. Tongilius hurried after him 'Quick, Gordianus, bring your torch!'

Together we wedged ourselves into the narrow passage. Meto pressed up against my back, peering over my shoulder, and behind me I heard the goatherd clucking his tongue.

'Lucius, what is it?' said Tongilius.

'See for yourself,' said Catilina.

Ringing the pit was a ledge barely wide enough to stand on. The five of us pressed close together, shoulder to shoulder, gazing down. Forfex, who all that day had seemed so inured to the sight of human bones, gave a gasp of shock.

Catilina looked at him sidelong. 'I thought you knew these mines?'

'Not this chamber. I told you, as a boy I was always warned away from this part of the mine. I always thought it was just a sheer drop into darkness.'

'And so it would be, if it weren't for these, filling up the abyss.' Catilina held his torch aloft. By its wavering light the skulls of the dead peered up at us, their empty eyes strangely animated by the flickering play of light and shadow.

'So many!' whispered Tongilius.

'I've never seen anything like it,' I said.

'Nor have I,' said Catilina.

We had seen many bones that day — at the foot of the waterfall, along the hillside, in the talus that spilled from the mine. But those sights were scant preparation for the vast pit heaped up with skeletons that we now saw below us. There were hundreds of them, perhaps many hundreds, for there was no way to tell how deep the pit was.

Whatever dwelled in the cave had picked them perfectly clean, for they were as white as if they had been weathered in a streambed. The sheer number of them was staggering and somehow unreal, for without flesh the bones of the dead lose all identity, and one skull becomes like another, so that to see so many in one place numbs the senses. The meaning of such a thing cannot be comprehended at the moment, only in retrospect, for the mind cannot make sense of what overwhelms the eye.

The cave seemed very dark and our lights very small. The torch in my hand sputtered and popped and let form a powerful odour of burning pitch. 'Where did they come from?' I asked.

'It must be…' Forfex frowned and rubbed his jaw. "There were always vague rumours of such a thing, but I never thought it happened here in the mine. I thought if it was true, the skeletons amid the tailings outside accounted for it.'

'For what?' said Catilina.

'It was always said that when the mine was shut down, the master sold off the unwanted slaves to other mine owners or to galley owners down in Ostia. No slave is ever expected to leave a mine alive, so where do you sell a used mine slave, eh? But I remember hearing from some of the older goatherds that the old master didn't bother to try to sell the slaves at all, but got rid of them instead, every one. I never knew it happened here in the mine. They must have blocked up this narrow rim on either side of the passage and driven them through the door—'

At that moment something stirred among the bones. There was a rustling and a hollow, clanking noise, followed by an eerie noise almost like a groan. In the uncertain light of our torches the whole mass of bones seemed to heave and shift. A rat, I thought, and a gust of air from some hidden shaft But Forfex thought otherwise.

'Oh, Pluto!' he shrieked. "The lemures!' He turned around, shoving so carelessly that Meto staggered and might have fallen into the pit had I not seized his arm.

'Lemures!' Forfex shrieked again, his voice echoing from the stone chamber. From the immediate terror in his voice it was impossible to tell whether he meant the things in the pit or whether he had encountered more lemures in the chamber without.

In a rush we retreated from the narrow stone shelf, pressing against one another in the narrow passageway and emerging into the antechamber. Catilina and I held our torches aloft, but the room was deserted. Forfex, never pausing in his flight, was far ahead of us. From the shaft down which we had descended we heard the echoey cry, 'Lemures!' together witha hail of loosened gravel 'Lemures!' we heard again, and then a distant, sickening thud, followed by more tumbling gravel and then silence.

We stood stock-still and looked at one another, wondering what had become of Forfex. In the pale torchlight, every face appeared white and bloodless. Tongilius bit his lips. 'You don't think it was really…'

'The miner's brains!' said Meto.

Catilina smiled faindy and arched an eyebrow. 'Without a doubt.' He held up his torch and led the ascent towards the exit. I sighed with relief at the first glimpse of daylight. A little farther up we came upon Forfex, not far from the protrusion of rock he had called the miner's brains. He was lying on his back, trying in vain to get up.

Tongilius and Meto lifted him to his feet and helped him stagger up the slope. His hair was matted with blood, and his face was covered with blood and dirt. In the lurid torchlight he looked like some sort of demon, tripping blindly about with his eyes pasted shut and his hands outstretched.

He was completely helpless, dazed and weakened by his injury and trembling from fear or shock. Eventually we managed to hoist him over the wall. Tongilius helped me over the wall, then followed.

It was Tongilius who tended to the goatherd's wound, splashing it with wine from the man's own wineskin, hushing his squeals of pain, and tearing a strip of cloth from the man's tunic to bind his head. The man who had led us up to the mine with such a bluff demeanour had a considerably different appearance descending. We took turns holding him up by his shoulders; he was able to put one foot ahead of the other, but seemed unable to steer himself.

Shadows began to loom. Crickets and cicadas began their twilight chirping. Forfex must have been a little delirious as well as groggy, for he kept starting back from the shadows and whimpering, 'Lemures!' Perhaps he saw things that were not there, or perhaps, having had a close scrape with Pluto himself, his senses perceived the haunting spirits that the rest of us could not see. Those nearest to death, they say, have their eyes and ears opened to those already dead.

We came at last to the place where our horses were tied. We left Forfex's mule behind, deeming it too slow. Instead, Catilina shared his own mount with Forfex, holding him upright in front ofhim. The man complained loudly of the pain in his head when we approached a gallop, then quieted and only occasionally whimpered the word 'lemures!' at some passing pool of shadow or clump of rock.

A yellow light glowed at the open door of the goatherds' house, and from the pens behind it came the bleating of goats gathered for the nights Catilina and Tongilius dismounted and helped Forfex from the horse. A wide-eyed slave stuck his head around the edge of the doorway and peered at us quizzically, but instead of stepping out to greet us or help Forfex, the man quickly withdrew from sight. A moment later the reason for his timidity emerged from the doorway.

I had seen Gnaeus Claudius several times in the Forum during our litigation. He was a hard man not to recognize at once, with his frazzled wreath of red hair and his chinless neck. He was a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, and while he had evidently inherited whatever brawn there was in the family, he lacked all the charms of youth. His face was set in a perpetually sour expression, as if he resented the Fates for cheating him of any appealing qualities and was determined to make the most of his unappealing ones, such as his loud, grating voice.

'Forfex!' he shouted. ‘Where in Hades have you been?'

The goatherd relieved himself of Tongilius's support and staggered forwards to meet his master, his head humbly bowed as if to show the wound he had received in the mine. 'Master, I thought you would not be retaining until—'

'And who are you?' said Gnaeus, staring hard at Catilina. There was a look in his eyes that indicated he could almost, but not quite, place Catilina's face.

'My name is Lucius Sergius,' said Catilina. 'I've come up from the city—'

'Sergius, eh?' said Gnaeus souriy. He spat on the ground and nodded grimly, acknowledging the presence of a fellow patrician. 'And what have you been up to with my slave, trespassing on my property in my absence?'.

The goatherd was merely showing us the abandoned mine up on the mountainside. You see, I—'

'The mine? Why in Hades have you been snooping around my mine?'

'I thought that the property might possibly be for sale.' 'Is that right? And you have a particular interest in silver mines?'

'I have an associate who does.'

Gnaeus spat on the ground again. 'Well, you had no business trespassing’

'Forfex assured me that in your absence he was authorized to—'

'Forfex is as worthless and smelly as his goats. "Authorized," my balls! No one goes snooping around my land when I'm not here. He knows better — don't you, Forfex? Don't flinch when I raise my hand to you! What, is that a jingle I hear?' He gave the old goatherd a hard shove. Forfex staggered back, covering his head with his hands.

'I do hear a jingle!' shouted Gnaeus. He tore at the slave's tunic and found the little bag of coins, looked inside and threw the three sesterces at Catilina's feet. 'I'll thank you not to bribe my slaves! They're unruly enough as it is.' He slapped Forfex across the face, hard enough to make the old goatherd stagger and fall.

'Gnaeus Claudius!' said Tongilius. 'Can't you see the slave is already injured! He's bleeding!'

'And who are you, pretty boy?' said Gnaeus derisively. 'Who are all these strangers that you've brought trespassing on my land, Lucius Sergius?' For the first time Gnaeus seemed to look at my face, and at Meto, but there was no hint of recognition. In the gathering gloom he could not see me well enough.

'Gnaeus Claudius,' said Catilina, 'my interest is completely legitimate. My associate in the city actively seeks out mines of all conditions, and pays well for properties in which he deems it worth his while to invest. I merely wished to have a cursory look at your mine. Had I known that the slave was forbidden to act on your behalf I would never have set foot on your land.'

This speech seemed to mollify Gnaeus, who sucked in his cheeks and seemed to chew them. After a moment he said, 'And what did you make of the mine, then?'

Catilina smiled. 'I am encouraged.'

'Yes?'

'I believe my associate may be interested.' 'It's been closed for years.'

'I know. But my associate owns engineers who can sometimes extract just a bit more from the earth even when a vein seems exhausted. Any price he might offer would take the condition of the mine into account. He would send out some of his slaves to have a closer look before making up his mind — if, of course, I recommend that it's worth his bother.'

'Then you think the land might be worth—'

'Alas, Gnaeus Claudius, night gathers. I've had a long and weary afternoon. The trip up to the mine is strenuous, as you must know. I need a meal and my rest. Perhaps we can discuss this another time.' Catilina mounted his horse, as did Tongilius.

‘You have a place to stay, then? If not —' said Gnaeus.

'Yes, a fine place, not too far away.'

'Perhaps I should ride with you—'

'No need. We know the way. Meantime, I suggest you have someone tend to the goatherd's head. He had a nasty accident — not his fault at all. He was only doing his best to accommodate me. His concern for your interests is commendable. It would be a pity to lose such a slave because a wound he received in his master's service was not properly seen to.'

We rode off, leaving Gnaeus to stare after us, a mingled expression of greed and uncertainty on his face. Just before we rounded a bend in the way, I looked around and saw him raise his arm and strike the cowering goatherd square on the head.

XIII

'Gnaeus Claudius — what an awful man!' said Catilina. 'Are all your neighbours so awful?'

'So I'm finding out. Though not all of them,' I said, thinking of Claudia. 'Is the water hot enough for you?'

'Quite.'

'And you, Tongilius?' 'It's perfect.'

'I can call one of the slaves to put more wood in the furnace…'

, any hotter and I should melt,' sighed Catilina, letting himself sink into the tub until only his head was above the steaming water.

My old friend Lucius Claudius had outfitted his country house with many citified luxuries, among them baths complete with three rooms, one for the warm plunge, another for the hot plunge, and the third for the cool plunge- Generally, in summer, I found it too hot even at night to want to immerse myself in warm water; I preferred to do my bathing with a sponge and strigil down at the stream It was Catilina who had suggested that the slaves might stoke the furnace housed between the kitchen and the baths and fill the marble tubs with heated water. My stiff legs and aching feet had agreed, and so, after a light dinner, we retired not to the atrium but to the baths instead. We stripped off our soiled tunics and began in the warm basin, then moved on to the adjoining room and immersed ourselves in the hot basin. Catilina and Tongilius took turns scraping the sweat from each other's backs with an ivory strigil.

Meto had not joined us, though I think he wanted to stay up and listen to the grown-ups' conversation. All his leaping from stone to

stone and running ahead and back on the trail at last began to take its toll at dinner, and he was yawning and dozing on his couch even before the final course of diced onions arrived. When the meal was over, Bethesda roused him and sent him to his bed.

It was just as well, for I was not quite sure I wanted Meto displaying himself naked in Catilina's presence. In matters of the flesh, Catilina's appetites were said to be voracious and his self-restraint nonexistent, notwithstanding his version of the Vestal story. His standards, at least, were rigorous, to judge from the sight of Tongilius in the nude. The young man's sleek, well-knit athlete's physique was of the sort to make boys jealous and older men sadly nostalgic, or else lustful. As I discovered in the baths, he was one of those handsome, charming youths who become more haughty with their clothes off than on. There was a trace of self-conscious preening in the way he lifted his well-muscled arms from the water, raised his chin, stared into the middle distance and pushed the shimmering hair back from his forehead, like a sculptor smoothing and moulding his own perfection.

Catilina seemed to approve of this gesture, for he watched it intently. Though their eyes did not meet, they smiled at the same moment, in such a way that I suspected that a secret touch had been exchanged beneath the water.

Perhaps it was a signal, for a moment later Tongilius stood up and stepped out of the basin. He wrapped himself in his towel and shook the water from his hair.

‘You won't be taking the cold plunge?' I asked.

'I prefer to cool off on my sleeping couch. The steam rising from the flesh as it dries relaxes the muscles as well as any masseur. It's a delicious way to fall asleep.' He smiled at me and then bent down until his cheek was almost touching Catilina's. They said a few words to each other in whispers, and then Tongilius departed.

'Have you known him long?' I said.

'Tongilius? For five years or so. Since he was Meto's age, I imagine. A charming young man, don't you think?'

I nodded. The only light in the little room came from a single lamp suspended from the ceiling by a chain. Its glow was muted by the rising steam so that the room was filled with a soft orange haze. Hie quiet gurgling of the pipes and the gentle splashing of the water against the edge of the tub were the only sounds. Hot water swirled about my naked flesh so that I felt swallowed up by comfort What had Catilina said, that if the water were any hotter he would melt? I felt as if I had melted already.

For a long time we lay at our opposite ends of the big marble tub. Catilina closed his eyes. I gazed at the ephemeral patterns made by the rising steam, like a series of dissolving veils suspended in the darkness.

'The odd thing is, the silver mine just might be worth buying.' 'Are you serious?' I said.

'I'm always serious, Gordianus. Of course, all those bones would have to be cleared out — too discouraging for the new workers. "It doesn't do to dampen morale, even among mine slaves." '

'You're quoting someone.'

'Yes. My associate in the city, the one who buys abandoned mines and makes a good profit from them.' "Then there really is such a person?' 'Of course. Did you think I was lying to poor old Forfex?' 'Your friend in the city sounds familiar.' 'He is hardly obscure.' 'Marcus Crassus?'

Catilina opened his eyes to slits and arched an eyebrow. 'Why, yes. You've solved a riddle, Gordianus: who is the secret buyer from Rome? But the clues were perhaps too easy. Well-known — otherwise why hide his name? — experienced with mining, always concerned to maximize the productivity of his slaves. Who else but Rome's wealthiest man?'

'The riddle is that you should be associated with such a man closely enough to be scouting out properties for him,' I said.

'Where's the puzzle in that?'

'Your politics are known to be quite radical, Catilina. Why should the richest man in the world ally himself with a firebrand who advocates the forcible redistribution of wealth and the wholesale cancellation of debts?'

'I thought you had no desire to discuss politics, Gordianus.' 'It's the water, making me lightheaded. I'm not myself. Indulge me.'

'As you wish. True, Crassus and I have our differences, but we face a common enemy — the ruling oligarchy in Rome. You know whom I mean — that little circle of incestuous families who clutch the reins of power so jealously, and will stop at nothing to cripple their opposition. You know what they call themselves, don't you? The Best People, the Optimates. They refer to themselves thusly without the least twinge of embarrassment, as if their superiority were so evident that modesty could only be an affectation. Everyone outside their circle they consider to be mere rabble. The state, they argue, must be run by the Optimates alone, without concession to any other party, for what better way to run a state than to place it in the hands of those who are undeniably and in all ways demonstrably the Best People? Oh, their smug self-satisfaction is insufferable! And Cicero has bought into it completely. Cicero, the nobody from Arpinum, without an ancestor to his name. If he only knew what they say about him behind his back…' 'We were talking of Crassus, not Cicero.'

Catilina sighed and settled himself more comfortably in the water. 'Marcus Crassus is too great a force to belong to any party, even the Optimates. Crassus is his own party, and so he finds himself at odds with the Optimates as often as not. You're right, Crassus has no sympathy with my plans to restructure the economy of the state, which must be done if the Republic is to survive. But then, Crassus cares not a whit for the survival of the Republic. He would just as soon see it wither and die, so long as the dictator who inevitably follows is named Marcus Crassus. In the meantime, the two of us quite often have occasion to find ourselves allied against the Optimates. And of course Marcus Crassus and I go back a long way, to the days when we both served under Sulla.'

'You mean to say that like Crassus, you also profited from the proscriptions during Sulla's dictatorship, when the property of his enemies was confiscated and put up for auction?'

'Many others did the same. But I never murdered for gain or used the proscriptions to get away with murder — oh, yes, I know the rumours. One has me putting my own brother-in-law on the lists, because my sister couldn't stand him and wanted his head cut off Others say I killed him myself and then had his name inserted in the lists to legalize the crime. As if I would have wanted to see my own sister dishonoured and disinherited!'

His voice took on an angry edge. 'And then there's the wretched He put about by Cicero's brother Quintus last year during the consular campaign, which had me taking part in the murder of the praetor Gratidianus during those years. Poor Gratidianus, chased down by the mob. They broke both his legs, cut off his hands, gouged out his eyes, and then beheaded him. Hideous savagery! I witnessed that atrocity, yes, but I didn't instigate it, as Quintus Cicero claimed, nor did I swagger about Rome carrying Gratidianus's head like a trophy. Even so, only last year some of the Optimates managed to call me to trial for the murder — and I was soundly acquitted, just as I've been acquitted of every single charge they've brought against me over the years.'

'Speaking of heads, your own is turning red as a beet, Catilina. I think the water must be too hot'

Catilina, who in his passion had drawn himself up until his chest was above the water, took a deep breath and sank back into the tub. 'But we were talking about Crassus.. 'He smiled, and I marvelled at how easily he could let go of his bitter tone and restore his good humour. 'Do you know what really cemented our relationship? The scandal of the Vestal Virgins! Fabia and I weren't the only ones brought to trial that spring — Crassus was accused of polluting the Virgo Maxima herself. Do you remember the details? He had been seen in her company so often that that scheming Clodius had no trouble convincing half of Rome to believe the worst. But Crassus's defence was unbeatable: the millionaire was merely pestering the Virgo Maxima over a piece of property that he wanted to buy from her at a bargain — a story so typical of Crassus that no one could disbelieve it! He escaped with his life, and so did I, but both of us took a blow to our reputations — Crassus, because everyone believed he was innocent but greedy, and I, because everyone thought I was guilty but got away with it. After the trial we celebrated together over a few bottles of Falernian wine. Political alliances are not always founded on hard logic, Gordianus. Sometimes they grow out of shared distress.' He looked at me steadily, as if to emphasize his words. 'But I understand you've had your own dealings with Crassus.'

'He called on me to deal with the murder of his cousin down in Baiae,' I said. 'That was nine years ago. The circumstances were quite remarkable, but I'm not at liberty to discuss the details. Suffice to say that Crassus and I parted on less than friendly terms.'‘

Catilina smiled. 'Actually, Crassus has told me most of the story, or his version of it. He wanted certain slaves found guilty of the crime, while you would settle for nothing less than the truth, no matter how disappointing to Crassus's schemes or how personally embarrassing. Believe it or not, he secretly admires your integrity, I think, even if he did resent your, shall we say, inflexible nature. I suppose Crassus himself is rather inflexible, which accounts for your mutual antipathy. But your work for him in Baiae had at least one good outcome. I understand that's how you met your son Meto. Oh, please, don't lower your eyes, Gordianus. I think it's a remarkable thing, to free a young slave boy and then adopt him as your son. I realize it's not a fact you care to advertise, for the boy's sake. But I know the story, and with me you can be frank.'

'I would rather forget that Marcus Crassus was ever Meto's master. Had Crassus had his way, Meto would be long dead. As it was, Crassus sold him to a farmer in Sicily, just to thwart my having him. That he was eventually found, that I freed him and made him my son, is proof that even the richest man in the world can be cheated of his petty revenge.'

Catilina pursed his lips. 'Evidently Crassus didn't tell me the whole story.'

'Because Crassus doesn't know the whole story. But you won't hear it from me.'

'Now it's you who've turned beet-red, Gordianus! Are you ready for the cool plunge?'

like Catilina in his agitation, I had raised myself halfway out of the water. I sighed and settled back into the soothing warmth.

‘You're very protective of the boy, as well you should be,' said Catilina. "These are dangerous times, full of peril. I'm a father, too. I worry constantly about the future of my wife and her daughter. Sometimes I think it would be better to follow your example and withdraw from the world entirely, or as much as a man can. To live in simple obscurity, like Cincinnatus. You know the old story — when the Republic was imperilled, the people called on the farmer Cincinnatus, who laid down his plough, assumed the dictatorship, and saved them all.'

'And when the peril was over, he laid down his dictatorship and went back to his plough.'

'Yes, but the point is that he acted when the occasion called for it. For a man to turn his back on the world entirely is to relinquish his opportunity to shape the world's future. Who can give up that chance, even if his efforts end in failure?'

'Or in utter disaster?'

'No, Gordianus, when I contemplate the world my descendants will live in, I cannot become a hermit, apathetic and ineffectual. And when I think of the shades of my ancestors watching me, I cannot be idle. The founder of my family stood by Aeneas when he first set foot on Italian soil. Perhaps it's my patrician blood that drives me to take the reins — to rip them from the Optimates' hands if I have to!'

He reached out and clutched a fistful of steam, then relaxed his grip and slowly dropped his open hands into the roiling water. The motion took on a vague and unreal aspect in the orange haze, like an actor's gesture seen from afar.

For a while we were both quiet. A slave stepped silently into the room and asked if he should open the valve from the furnace to add fresh hot water. I nodded, and the slave withdrew. A moment later the pipes gurgled and the tub swirled. The mist thickened and the lamp burned lower. In the dense orange haze I could see Catilina's face only as a soft blur.

'Do you want to know a secret, Gordianus?'

Oh, Catilina, I thought, there are many secrets I would like to know, foremost among them the identity of Nemo and how his headless body came to rest in my barn! 'Why not?'

'It's a riddle, actually—'

'Telling a secret and posing a riddle are entirely different things, Catilina. I would like to hear a secret. But tonight I would not care to hear a riddle.'

'Indulge me. Well, then: how can a man lose his head twice?'

The water swirled. The mist was as thick as a sea fog. 'I don't know, Catilina. How can a man lose his head twice?'

'First, over a beautiful woman, and then to the executioner's blade.'

'I understand the answer but not the riddle.'

'I lost my head over the Vestal Fabia, and then almost lost my head for the crime. Do you see? I think it's a rather good riddle. I was younger then. What a fool I made of myself…'

'What are you saying, Catilina?'

'I'm telling you that what you always suspected was true. There was more between Fabia and myself than a shared appreciation for Arretine vases.'

'And that night in the House of the Vestals—'

'It was the first time. Before that, she always resisted me. But that night she gave in to me. When the man behind the curtain cried out, we were in the middle of making love. Fabia wore her gown, and I wore my tunic, and we stood the whole time. I wanted her to be naked, I wanted to touch her everywhere, I wanted to take her on the couch. But she insisted we keep our clothing on and do it standing up. Even so, it was one of the most exciting and exquisite moments of my life. When the man cried out, I hardly heard him in the heat of my passion. It might have been myself crying out in sheer ecstasy. Fabia panicked, of course. She pushed at me, trying to make me withdraw, but I told her that would be madness. I wasn't quite finished, you see, and if she pushed me out of her I would either leave a pool of evidence on her floor or else carry a telltale bludgeon inside my tunic. We consummated the act and drew apart only moments before the Virgo Maxima entered the room. Fabia's cheeks were as red as apples. Her breasts were heaving, covered with beads of sweat, I was still tingling—'

'Catilina, why are you telling me this?'

'Because you prize the truth, Gordianus; you're one of the few men I know who does. Because you've never been quite certain what really transpired, and now you can be.'

'But why tell me now?'

Catilina was quiet for a long moment. In the dim orange mist I tried to make out his expression, but could not tell if he smiled or frowned, or even if his eyes were open. At last he said, "They say you have a gift for listening, Gordianus. Every politician needs a listener. They say you have a way of drawing out the truth, even if one doesn't mean to speak it.'

'"They"?'

'Crassus, actually. In all these years he hasn't forgotten your late-night conversations down in Baiae. He says he can't recall ever speaking so frankly to another man, and a hireling at that He says you have some uncanny power to draw the truth from men's hearts.'

'Only if their hearts are burdened with something that they need to release.'

‘What sort of burden?' he said.

'It varies from man to man, woman to woman. Some feel compelled to confess fear of failure, others their remorse for wickedness done to the dead. Some confess their shame at submitting to the cruelty of others, some confess their shame for inflicting such cruelty. Some have committed terrible crimes and gone unpunished by man or god, and yet feel they must tell someone. Others have only imagined such crimes, and yet they feel a burden just as heavy as if they had committed them.'

'And what of those who failed to commit a crime when they should have?'

‘I don't understand.'

'What of those who should have taken action, and then quavered and railed to act? Have you ever encountered aman like that, Gordianus, whose confession was that he did not commit a crime when he should have?'

'Is this another riddle, Catilina?'

Despite the dimness, I knew he smiled. 'Perhaps. But like the riddle that Caelius repeated to you, the time for its telling hasn't yet arrived. Perhaps that time will never come.'

'I should think, Catilina, that you already have plenty of crimes to confess without fretting over those you might not be able to get around to.'

I thought my bluntness would offend him. Instead he laughed, sharply at first, and then with a low chuckle that blended with the gurgling of the pipes and the hissing of the water. 'I fear that the reputation far outstrips the reality, Gordianus. And if you observe the reality, you will see that I have been the victim of my enemies' unrelenting persecution. Yes, three years ago I was brought to trial, accused of practising extortion against the locals while I was propraetor in Africa. Were the charges brought because of true misdeeds? No, my old enemy Clodius mounted the prosecution on behalf of the Optimates for no other purpose than to wreck my political career. They achieved their object, in the short run; thanks to the way they drew out the proceedings, I was disqualified from running for consul for two years! But ultimately I was acquitted, a fact no one seems to recall. Did you know that before the trial Cicero himself offered to defend me? Yes, the same lying opportunist who now paints me as the most wicked man in Rome. I think this says more about Cicero than it does about myself

'Last year I was finally able to stand for consul, and there was nothing the Optimates could do to prevent me. To thwart me, they made Cicero their creature and set his venomous tongue against me. I lost. Even so, they feared that I would run again, and win, and so to prevent me they mounted another prosecution against me, this one for murdering Gratidianus back in the days of Sulla! You can be sure that Cicero did not offer to speak for my defence this time! Even so, again I was acquitted, and the Optimates failed in their attempt to keep me out of the race. I was free of the cloud in plenty of time to stand for consul again this year.

'So then, Gordianus, what are these crimes for which I'm so notorious, except so much dust blown into the races of the voters by my enemies, who would destroy a man's reputation with no more thought than swatting a fly; When a man is brought to trial again and again, it leaves a taint, I know, but to what crime should I confess, except that I'm a fly in the Optimates' ointment?'

I squinted at Catilina and saw only an uncertain head above half-submerged shoulders, an obscure island floating on the mist. 1 was thinking of other crimes, Catilina, offences of a different order altogether.'

'You're too wise a man to believe even half of what you hear, Gordianus, especially from the venomous lips of Cicero and his brother Quintus. I don't pretend to be humble or meek, but I'm hardly the monster my enemies portray — what man could be? Oh, I know the rumours and insinuations. Very well, let's begin with the worst: when I sought to take Aurelia Orestilla as my second wife a few years ago, she refused, because she wouldn't marry into a household that already had an heir, and so to please her I murdered my own son. You're a father, Gordianus. Can you imagine the anguish that lie has caused me? Every day that passes, I mourn the death of my son. If he had lived, today he would be a man, at my side in my struggles, a comfort and an inspiration to me. He died from fever, yet my enemies call it poison, and they use the tragedy of his death as a sordid weapon against me.

'They also say I married Aurelia for her money, to get myself out of debt. Ha! That only shows the depth of their ignorance, to so vastly underestimate my debts. They also underestimate the bond between Aurelia and myself, but that is none of their business, and none of yours, either, if I can say so politely.

'And then there are the tales of my sexual exploits, some of them true, some of them totally fantastic — really, the next thing you know, they'll be saying I raped my own mother and thus fathered myself! What does it matter which of these tales are real, anyway? No one cares about such things except dried-up moralists like Cato and Cicero with their black hearts and their black tongues. Honestly, I have never been able to understand why men who have no appetite should feel such spite for men who eat with relish!'

'A pretty phrase, Catilina, but enjoying a hearty dinner is one thing, while taking a girl's virginity and mining her chances for a good marriage is quite another, as is convincing young men to ruin their credit on your behalf, destroying their own careers in the process.'

The lamp had almost burned out. From the dim haze I heard a sigh. 'Alas, Gordianus, I can no longer see your face, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you smile as you speak such outrages, knowing them to be nothing more than slanders concocted by my enemies. Oh, yes, I confess that I have a weakness for the young and innocent. What man with a healthy appetite does not appreciate a blushing fruit plucked fresh from the tree? And in a world so corrupted with machinations and lies, what man would not find a special appeal in those of an unworldly character? Where else can sweetness be found in this bitter world except among the young? But I don't force myself on others. I've been accused of murder and theft, but never of rape — even my enemies credit me with being able to attract my partners without coercion. Nor do I merely take and give nothing in return. They give me their innocence and in return I give them my worldliness, the commodity I possess in greatest abundance; each gives to the other what the other lacks and desires.'

'And what did you give to the Vestal Fabia?'

'Adventure! Pleasure, excitement, danger — all the things her drab existence denied her.'

'And was that worth the chance of snuffing out her existence altogether? What if the affair had ended with Fabia being buried alive? It could very easily have ended that way.'

'Blame Clodius for that, not me.'

'You shrug off your responsibility too easily, Catilina.'

He was silent for a long moment, then I heard him stir in the water. He stood, causing the water to splash against the lip of the tub and the vapours to whorl and part before him. His skin was reddened from the heat. Beads of moisture clung to the black hair flecked with silver that matted his chest and ran down to his sex, which floated heavily half in and half out of the water. His shoulders and chest were broad, his belly flat. He was an uncommonly virile-looking man. No wonder his lovers appreciated him, I thought; no wonder constipated, thin-limbed, plain-faced men like Cato and Cicero so despised his physical and sexual prowess.

He seemed to read my thoughts. 'You're a fit-looking man yourself, Gordianus. The active life of the farm obviously suits you. Men grow soft and fat in the city — it's one thing to grow old and quite another to grow soft, eh? But I think you're a man of strong appetites yourself' He stood gazing down at me with a thin smile, as if he expected something from me. His gaze made me uncomfortable. 'Well,' he finally said,

'I've had enough of this heat! Will you join me in the cool plunge, Gordianus?'

'No, I think I'll stay here a while longer. Perhaps I'll follow Tongilius's example and simply dry myself and gp to bed.'

Catilina stepped from the tub. He took his towel from the niche in the wall, but did not bother to cover himself. He paused at the door to the cooling room 'Shall I call for a slave to bring another lamp?'

'No,' I said. 'The darkness suits my mood.'

Catilina nodded and shut the door behind him A moment later the light dwindled and died. I lay in the darkness, ruminating on Catilina and his crimes.

I must have dozed for just an instant, for suddenly I was awakened by a faint creaking noise, not from the door through which Catilina had just exited but from the door that led back to the warm bath and thence to the rest of the house. It was just such a noise as might be made by someone leaning against the door without meaning to. At the same instant a thin crack of light appeared at the top of the door frame.

Perhaps the door had moved on its own, swollen by the humidity and heat. Still, my heart began to beat more quickly, and the languid drowsiness of the hot bath was instantly dispelled. Perhaps it was Tongilius returning, I told myself — but why should he be skulking? Perhaps it was a slave come to replenish the extinguished lamp — but then why did the slave not enter?

I listened and heard nothing more from beyond the door, but I was convinced that someone stood there, waiting.

I rose from the water as quietly as I could and stepped from the tub. I reached for my towel, but not to cover myself. A simple towel, wound tightly like a rope, has many uses — as a shield against daggers, as a means of binding an enemy, as a weapon good for strangling or breaking necks. I walked on tiptoe to the door. I reached for the wooden handle, hesitated for a heartbeat, then pulled it open.

He tumbled towards me, staggering. I caught him in the twisted cloth, pinned his arms to his sides and spun him around. He tripped and lurched, but didn't struggle. He tilted his face towards mine.

I hissed a curse and released the towel. My captive stepped free and sucked in a quick breath, and then, as if what had just happened had been nothing more than a game, whispered, 'So Catilina did sleep with the Vestal!'

'Meto!'

'Sorry, Papa, but I couldn't sleep. My feet hurt from climbing the mountain! When I came to the door, I heard the two of you talking. It didn't seem right to step in on you, but I had to listen. You wouldn't have said anything different if you'd known I could hear, would you? And Catilina might not have said so much if I'd been in the room. I was awfully quiet, wasn't I? Did you really not know that I was there until just now? That was a mistake, leaning against the door like that…'

'Meto, when will you learn respect?'

Meto put his fingers to his lips and nodded towards the door to the cool plunge. I lowered my voice. "This habit of yours, skulking and spying, where did you possible learn such — ' I sighed. 'No, as a matter of fact, I had no idea you were there until the door creaked. Which means that you are young and agile while I am growing old and dull and possibly a little deaf I wonder, which of us is more in need of a good night's sleep?'

Meto smiled at me, and I couldn't help smiling back. I gripped the back of his neck and gave his head a firm shake, none too gently. It was time for bed, but before we turned to go I looked back at the thin bar of lamplight that shone from beneath the opposite door. A faint splashing came from the pool of cool water in the room beyond. As on the night before, soon everyone in the household would be abed and sleeping except Catilina, who would still be up, defying Morpheus and who knows what other gods to come and take him.

XIV

Morpheus must have come for Catilina at last, and claimed him until well past sunup, for it was not until mid-morning that Catilina and Tongilius appeared in the kitchen seeking food. They both looked a bit bleary-eyed from oversleep, but were quite cheerful — indeed, suspiciously self-satisfied, I thought. They muttered little jokes to one another, laughed out loud, and smiled at nothing. Their appetites were enormous, and they devoured everything Congrio set before them.

Once finished with his breakfast, Catilina announced that they would be leaving before noon. He and Tongilius dressed in blue riding tunics, gathered up their things, said farewell to Bethesda, paid their compliments to Congrio on his cooking, and loaded their horses in the stable.

I asked Catilina which way he was headed. To the north, he told me, saying he had more visits to pay in Etruria, compaigning among Sulla's old veterans, whom the dictator had settled on farmland seized from his enemies. I watched them ride off Despite having dreaded his visit so much, I was not as happy to see him leave as I'd thought I would be.

Curiously, when they reached the Cassian Way, Tongilius and Catilina turned not north but south, towards Rome. I would never have noticed, for I was no longer watching, but Meto was. He came running up to me outside the pigsties and pointed towards the two figures on the distant highway. 'What do you make of that, Papa?' 'Odd,' I said. 'Catilina claimed he was heading north. I wonder¹—' 'I'll go and watch from the ridge,' Meto called back over his shoulder as he broke into a run. He was on the ridgetop long before I came

up huffing and puffing behind him He had already found the ideal lookout between two towering oaks, shielded from sight behind a dump of brambles. We could not be seen from the road, but had a clear view of everything that passed on the Cassian Way.

It was not hard to spot Catilina and Tongilius, as they were the only horsemen on the road. They seemed to have come to a halt at a spot not far from the pass between the ridge and the foothills of Mount Argentum, Why they should hesitate was unclear, until I realized that they were waiting for a team of oxen to pass by, heading north. Once over the rise, the oxen must have passed out of their sight — just as Catilina and Tongilius passed out of the oxherd's view. They looked stealthily about, then dismounted and led their horses into the underbrush on the eastern side of the road.

Their mounts secured somewhere out of sight, the two men reappeared, but only for a moment before they passed beneath the branches of a large tree and out of sight. Then I saw them again, stepping back onto the road, but only for a moment. So it went, with Catilina and Tongilius disappearing and reappearing, going back and forth along the roadside as if searching for something they had lost.

'What are they looking for?' asked Meto.

"The trailhead,' I said.

'What trailhead?'

'You must have run on ahead when Forfex explained it to me yesterday. There's another path that leads up to the mine, beginning somewhere along the Cassian Way. It's long been disused and overgrown. Catilina is trying to find the trailhead.'

'But why? He's already been to the mine.'

I made no answer. From the corner of my eye I saw Meto frowning at me, not because he was perplexed but because he sensed that I was withholding my thoughts from him. Together we watched as Catilina and Tongilius went in and out of the dense underbrush alongside the road. At length a team of slaves appeared from the south, linked by chains from neck to neck and driven along by freedmen wielding whips. Catilina and Tongilius disappeared for as long as it took the slaves to pass, then reappeared again when the way was clear.

Eventually they vanished into the brush and did not reappear for so long that I began to think they had found what they were seeking. Suddenly Meto clutched my sleeve. In the same instant I heard a rustling in the underbrush behind us, followed by a familiar voice.

'Not your usual spot — oh, please, I didn't mean to startle you! Oh, how rude of me, coming up on you like this. Gordianus, forgive me, I shouldn't laugh, but you gave such a start!' 'Claudia,' I said.

‘Yes, only me. And here's young Meto — so long since I've seen the boy. Oh, but I mustn't call you a boy, not for much longer, must I, young man? You turn sixteen this month, don't you?'

‘Yes,' said Meto, darting a glance over his shoulder, back down towards the road.

'A beautiful view from this side, isn't it? You really get the whole effect of the mountain, how vast it is, towering above the road like that.'

'Yes, quite impressive,' I said.

'But it's so uncomfortable here amid the brambles. Come, there's a spot close by with the very same view where we can all sit together on a log.'

I shrugged, trying not to look down at the road. My eyes fell on the basket in Claudia's hand.

'Oh, but you fear you'll be intruding on my lunch! Not at all, Gordianus. I have quite enough bread and cheese and olives for all of us. Come now, I won't have my hospitality refused.'

We followed her to a clearing a few feet away. As she had promised, the view was exactly the same, with the difference that we were in plain sight of the road, should anyone happen to look up.

'Now, isn't this better?' said Claudia, settling her plump bottom on the log and laying her basket before her.

'Much,' I said. Meto, I noticed, could not seem to keep from darting furtive but very obvious glances at the spot where we had last glimpsed Catilina and Tongilius. A good watcher he might be, but as an actor he was a disaster. 'However, Meto really needs to be getting back to the house.'

'Oh, Gordianus, you Roman fathers! Always so strict and demanding. My father was just the same, and I was a giri! Here it is, one of the last fine summer days of Meto's boyhood, and you would have him doing chores at midday. In a very short time hell be a man, and after that, summer days may be just as hot but they will never be as long and lovely and full of flowers and bees as they are for him at this very moment. Please, let Meto join us.'

At her insistence, Meto sat at Claudia's left and I at her right. She passed us food and waited for us to begin before taking some for herself. Once he was settled on the log with his mouth full ofcheese, Imust admit that Meto did a good job at feigning only casual interest in the doings at the foot of the mountain. More traffic passed on the Cassian Way — herds of sheep, slaves bearing bundles of wood on their backs, a long train of wagons ringed by armed men headed south towards Rome.

'Vases from Arretium,' declared Claudia.

'How can you tell?' said Meto.

'Because I can see right through the crates packed inside the wagons as if they were invisible!' said Claudia, then laughed when she saw that Meto seemed to be taking her seriously. 'I know, Meto, because those wagons have been coming down the Cassian Way since I was a girl, taking Arretine vases to Rome. They're awfully valuable — hence the armed guard, and the slow procession. If it were anything else valuable enough to justify the guards, the wagons would be going twice as fast. Gold and silver don't break, but fine clay vases do.'

The progress of the wagons did seem to take forever as they crept along the ribbon of road. There was no sign of Catilina.

Then Meto made an odd noise in his throat, and when I glanced at him, he made an almost imperceptible nod. I followed his gaze to a point on the mountain at least two hundred feet above the road, where a patch of blue the shade of Catilina's tunic flashed in a clearing amid the green canopy. The blue patch moved and was joined by another; I squinted, and the blue patches resolved quite clearly into two men moving about on the mountainside.

Claudia, busy leaning over her basket, did not see.

'Actually, Gordianus, I was hoping to run into you here on the ridge, for otherwise I should have had to come to pay a formal visit, and that would have been no fun at all. And I'm glad that you happen to be here as well, Meto, for I think this involves you, too.' She sat back and pursed her lips. For a moment I thought she was looking directly across the valley at Catilina and Tongilius, but she was only staring absently into the middle distance, thinking about what she had to say.

'What is it, Claudia?’

'Oh, this is so difficult…'

'Yes?'

'I had a visit this morning from my cousin Gnaeus. He says there were strangers on his mountain yesterday, men from Rome hiking up to visit the old mine.'

'Is that a fact?' I looked across the way and saw that Catilina and Tongilius had disappeared amid the foliage again.

'Yes. Some business about one of them wanting to purchase the old mine, or representing someone who might. Nonsense, if you ask me — the mine is worthless now. There's no more silver to be got from it. Anyway, Gnaeus was asking if I happened to have seen anyone traipsing about on the mountain yesterday — you can see quite a bit of the old trail from my house, you know, though it's a long way off. Well, as a matter of feet, no, I hadn't seen a thing, and none of my slaves had noticed anyone on the mountainside either.'

Claudia paused to chew an olive. 'Gnaeus says he didn't know any of these men, and only one of them bothered to introduce himself — one of the Sergii, up from Rome, as I said. But afterwards Gnaeus questioned the goatherd who had shown the men around, an old fool named Forfex, and do you know what the man told him?'

'I can't imagine.'

'He said that along with this Sergius there was a younger man who seemed to be his companion, and then there was another middle-aged man and a youth. He didn't know them, but he seemed to recall hearing the man addressed as Gordianus.' She looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

I thought for a moment. 'Did Gnaeus see these four visitors for himself?'

'Yes. But the light was growing dim. And despite his youth, Gnaeus doesn't have the best eyesight. That's why he seldom catches a boar!'

'Ah. Then you're asking me—'

'No, I'm asking you nothing. I can tell everything from your face. Well, not everything, but enough. If you wish to go snooping about my cousin's property, that is a matter between you and him. And if Gnaeus wishes to confront you about the matter, he can do so himself; I'm not his messenger. However, Gordianus, I would be derelict in my duties as a blood relation of Gnaeus, and as a good neighbour to you, if I merely kept silent. Gnaeus was not happy when Forfex repeated your name, nor was he happy when he came to see me this morning. I doubt that he'll come to see you or even send you a message; he prefers to keep to himself and brood, disappearing into the woods to hunt his boars. But if there is some untoward business going on, I advise you to consider your position very carefully, Gordianus. Be cautious! My kinfolk are not to be trifled with. There is only so much I can do to mollify them. I tell you this as a friend.'

She paused for a moment to allow this to sink in, then bent over and reached into her basket. 'And now I have a surprise — honey cakes!

My new cook baked them fresh this morning. Alas, he's no Congrio, but he does have a way with sweets.'

Meto managed to tear his eyes from the mountainside; he has always had a taste for honey. He ate the little cake quickly and then licked his fingertips. Claudia offered me a cake, but I declined.

‘You don't care for sweets, Gordianus? The new cook will take it very badly if I return with them uneaten.'

'A touch of Cicero's complaint,' I explained, touching my stomach and frowning.

'Oh, but here I've gone and upset your digestion with all this talk of Gnaeus. How thoughtless of me, to give you bread and cheese and unpleasant news at the same time. Perhaps a honey cake will settle your stomach.'

'I think not.' It was not only Claudia's news that upset my stomach, but the tension of knowing that she might spot Catilina on the mountainside or emerging onto the road at any moment. The real cure would have been for her to simply go away. But she had more to say.

'So the toga party is this month. What day?'

'Two days before the Ides.'

'Ah, just after the elections.'

I nodded but said nothing, hoping my silence would keep the conversation away from politics. It was bad enough that I was planning to be in the city immediately after the voting. Whether Catilina won or lost, his supporters or enemies were likely to be out in the streets rioting in protest. And if, as Caelius had hinted, there was actual revolution in the air, then Rome was the last place I wanted to be.

Claudia nodded and smiled. 'Ten days from now, and you will be a man, Meto! But I shall save my congratulations until then. I assume you'll be having some little celebration in the city before he takes his walk in the Forum. Would it be too forward of me to beg an invitation?'

'Will you be in the city, Claudia?'

'I'm afraid so,' she sighed. 'Along with my dear cousins. They're all planning to be in the city to vote this time around. Afraid Catilina might somehow slip through, you know. The actual voting is all up to the men, of course, and usually I don't go to Rome at all at this time of year, but there's no way out of it. It's that house on the Palatine that Lucius left me — I'm planning to rent it out, and the slave who runs the place tells me it's due for some renovations. Well, I'm not about to let one of Lucius's old slaves make the arrangements and spend my money. I shall oversee everything myself. I'm leaving tomorrow, and I suspect I’ll be there most of the month.' She raised her eyebrows and looked at me expectantly.

Then of course you must come to Meto's birthday party,' I said.

'Oh, thank you! I should love to see it. Never having had a son, myself you know…' Her voice trailed off. 'And I shall bring honey cakes!' she added, brightening. 'Meto will like that.' She reached out and touched his shoulder. Meto smiled a bit shyly, then a strange expression crossed his face.

He was watching something down below. I followed his gaze and saw Catilina and Tongilius emerging from the woods onto the road.

Claudia seemed to sense that something was amiss, for I saw her glance oddly at Meto and then felt her eyes on me. 'Perhaps—' I began. 'Perhaps I would enjoy one of those honey cakes, after all.'

'Ah, good, let me see, here's a nice one right on top,' she said, bending over her basket.

I took the cake from her and looked her in the eye as I bit into it. She smiled and nodded, then abruptly looked down towards the road.

'Look there,' she said. 'Who are those men and where did they come from?'

I started to speak and coughed instead, as the cake seemed to turn to dust in my throat. Meto, seeing that I was helpless, took the cue. 'What men?' he asked innocently.

"Those two men right down there, on horseback. Wherever did they come from?' Claudia furrowed her plump brow, cocked her head, and pulled at a strand of red hair that had escaped from the bun on her head.

Meto shrugged. 'Just two men on horseback.'

'But they're heading towards the north. I didn't see them ride up. Look, you can see the whole length of the Cassian Way coming up from the south, halfway to Rome — oh, I exaggerate, but still, we would have seen anyone approaching for miles. And suddenly two horsemen appear from nowhere.'

'Not really. I saw them riding up,' said Meto matter-of-factly.

'You did?'

'For quite some time. I think it was when you pointed out the wagons with Arretine vases coming over the pass. Yes, I noticed the two horsemen riding up from the south, quite far away. And now look, the wagons have gone about half that distance. That means the horsemen are going twice as fast as the wagons. Is that right, Papa?'

I nodded dumbly, still clearing my throat, and took back my poor opinion of Meto's acting skills.

Claudia remained dubious. 'You saw them riding up all this time — passing the wagons and getting closer?'

Meto nodded.

'And you, too, Gordianus?'

I shrugged and nodded. 'Two horsemen on the Cassian Way,' I said. 'Probably coming up from Rome.'

Claudia was perturbed. 'Why didn't I notice them? Cyclops and Oedipus, my eyes must be getting as weak as Gnaeus's.'

'It's not so odd,' I reassured her. 'You were distracted by our company and simply didn't notice. It's nothing to make a fuss over.'

'I don't like horsemen appearing from nowhere,' she muttered. 'I don't like feeling…' Her voice trailed off, then she managed a smile. 'But you're right, I'm being silly. Just a silly old woman, set in my ways and upset when I'm taken by surprise, and more upset when I realize I'm not as sharp as I like to think I am. Ah, well, have you had enough of the cakes? Here, I'll wrap them up again; mustn't waste them. The gods despise a wasteful man, my father always used to say. I really must be going. There, thank you, Meto, for helping me gather things up.'

She picked up her basket, stood and straightened her back. 'I leave for Rome tomorrow and won't be back for such a long time — you can imagine all the instructions to be left with the slaves, and the confusion in the household with the new cook, not to mention the packing! Oh, I hate the fuss — why Lucius left me a house in the city I can't imagine! But I'm glad I managed to see you here on the ridge, both of you. And I shall see you again on Meto's toga day! The party will be at your house?'

'Yes, Eco's house now. On the Esquiline. It's a little hard to find—'

'Ah, but you and Lucius were such good friends, I'm sure his old slaves in the city will know how to find the place. I shall be there.' 'We look forwards to having you.'

'And, Gordianus — consider seriously what I said, about Gnaeus. You must watch yourself. You have a family to look after.' Before she turned away, her face took on a quite stern, almost severe expression.

The moment she disappeared into the brush I licked the honey from my lips and suddenly craved another cake, too late. Meanwhile, Catilina and Tongilius had picked up speed and made rapid progress on the Cassian Way. Meto and I watched them for a while longer, until their blue-cloaked figures began to merge with the northern horizon, obscured, by the rippling heat that rose from the sun-baked paving stones.

'Catilina is a fascinating man,' said Meto.

'Catilina,' I said, 'is a blur on the horizon.'

XV

The following days passed without incident — or rather, without any unpleasant interludes of the Nemo variety. Of incident there was an abundance, for transporting a family from the farm to the city, even for a brief visit, is a matter of complex logistics and planning. When I consider that great generals like Pompey are able to move their armies successfully over vast arenas on land and sea, complete with tents and cooking utensils and stocks of food and all their daily needs, I am truly awed.

Aratus told me he had always been in charge of helping Lucius pack his things, and since Lucius had gone back and forth from city to countryside quite often and had no doubt travelled in considerable luxury, this claim at first impressed me. Then I realized that Lucius, being so rich, could have afforded to own two or more of everything, and so had little need to carry his necessities on his back like a turtle. Conversely, Bethesda and I had to plan very carefully to bring enough so that Eco would not be burdened by us, and at the same time make sure that the farm was well provisioned in our absence. It was a considerable job.

Nevertheless, I managed to make time to begin construction on the water mill. The time was right for the project, for the weather continued clear and hot, and the flow in the stream diminished appreciably from day to day. This made it easy to remove stones and to fill areas that needed levelling with mortar and brick. I was disturbed to see the water become so slow and shallow, but, fortunately, the farm had a well at the foot of the ridge. The well had been there since before anyone living was born, Aratus told me. It was situated among olive trees and ringed with a low stone wall. The shaft was so deep it barely sent back a faint echo from its watery black depths. The old well had always been reliable, Aratus assured me, even in years of drought.

Meanwhile, between work on the mill and preparations for the trip to Rome, I enjoyed my respite from worrying over unwanted visitors. The election would be held on the fifth day before the Ides; thus the consular contest would be decided even before we set out for Rome. I could arrive in the city without giving the matter another thought; hopefully, I would be able to enjoy Eco's company and Meto's day of manhood without any further worries about matters over which I had no control and in which I had no interest. Catilina would be elected, or he would not, but in either event his brief incursion into my lite would be over.

It bothered me that the mystery of Nemo's death and identity and his appearance in my stable had never been explained, but it would have bothered me more if further threats had followed, or if Diana and Bethesda were to stay behind while I went to Rome. But we would all be together in the city, safe in Eco's house, or as sate as anyone can be in a place like Rome.

On the day before we were to leave, I took a few moments from the preparations for the trip and the work on the mill and stole away by myself to the place where Meto and Aratus and I had buried Nemo. I stood before the simple stele and ran my fingers down the vertical letters that spelled the name of no one. 'Who were you?' I said. 'How did you die? What became of your head, and who arranged it so that I would find you in my barn?' I tried to convince myself that the whole incident was now over and done with, but at the same time I felt something else that was harder to dispel than my vague foreboding: a sense of guilt and failure, of an obligation denied. Not my obligation to Cicero, which had now been discharged, but to the shade of Nemo.

I shrugged. To relieve a kink in the muscles of my shoulders, I thought — or was it to demonstrate my indifference to the restless dead? What did I owe Nemo, after all? If I had seen his face, would I have even known him? It seemed to me unlikely. He had been neither client nor friend, so far as there was any way of knowing. I owed him nothing. I shrugged — yet I did not turn my back on his gravestone, and instead found myself staring at it, studying each of the four letters of the name I had given him, which was not a name at all but the very opposite.

Other men live with mysteries, never knowing the truth from day to day; it is a way of surviving in a world in which the truth is always dangerous to someone. I would live in ignorance as well, and prosper, and protect my family. I would do what the mighty demanded of me, and otherwise mind my business. So I told myself, but with faltering conviction. Why had I come to Nemo's burial place at all unless it was to pay my respects and converse with his shade? I had made vows to other dead men, to find their killers, to see that some semblance of justice prevailed. I had done so because the gods had made me wayward and dissatisfied with ignorance and injustice. But I had never made a vow to Nemo while he lived, I reasoned, arguing with myself; he was no one, and I owed him nothing.

I turned my back on the stele, but not easily; I could almost feel the hand of Nemo on my shoulder, holding me back, trying to extract from me a promise I would not make. I tore myself away, cursing everyone from Numa to Nemo, and made my way back to the stream.

I yelled at Aratus for no reason that afternoon, and after dinner Bethesda told me that I had been as cross as a child all day. In bed she did her best to raise my spirits, and succeeded at least in raising something eke. Within the familiar recesses of her body I found warm solace and left my worries behind. Afterwards she grew talkative. Her speech came quickly, all in a rush, which was not at all like her usual languid way of talking, especially after sex. It was the chance to go back to the city, after being away for so long, that excited her so. She catalogued the temples she would visit, the markets where she would shop, the neighbours she would impress with her new status as a country matron.

At last she grew weary. Her voice slowed and deepened, but I could tell, even with my eyes shut, that she smiled as she spoke. Her happiness gave me comfort, and I fell asleep to the soothing music of her voice.

The gods smiled on the day of our journey. The heat relented and occasional breezes wafted across the paving stones of the Cassian Way. A procession of white, puffy clouds paraded across the sky, threatening no rain but providing long passages of soothing shade. The wagon that carried Bethesda and Diana did not break an axle, and the horses on which Meto and I rode made no complaint. I picked out a few of the brawniest and ugliest slaves to accompany us as bodyguards — more for show than for any skill they might have in fighting — and though they knew little about riding horseback, they managed the journey without mishap.

Just north of Rome the Cassian Way branches in two directions. The smaller, southerly branch leads around the Vatican and Janiculum hills to join with the Aurelian Way, which enters the city at its very heart across the ancient bridges that cross into the great catde markets and thence into the Forum. Arriving by the Aurelian Way is always impressive — the first glimpse of the glimmering Tiber, dotted with small ships and lined with warehouses and shipyards along its banks; the clattering of hooves on the bridges; the looming skyline of the great city, dominated by the Temple of Jupiter high atop the Capitoline Hill; the slow progress through the markets and the sheer spectacle of the Forum with its magnificent array of temples and courts. It would have been a fitting way to enter the city for the purpose of celebrating Meto's coming of age as a Roman citizen, but simple pragmatism made me decide against it, for the traffic on the Aurelian Way going into the city on a late afternoon can be as slow as a dead man's pulse, and with a wagon in our retinue I dreaded being trapped on one of the bridges or amid the market stalls.

Instead we took the main, easterly branch of the Cassian Way, which joins with the Flaminian Way at the Tiber some distance north of the outskirts of Rome, and crosses the river over the Milvian Bridge. The entry into Rome by this route is less spectacular, for the countryside recedes and the city insinuates itself in stages, so that the traveller finds himself first on the outer edges and then in the very midst of the great city before he knows it. One passes the marching grounds and open spaces of the Field of Mars on the right, and then the great voting stalls (empty and probably Uttered with debris after the election the day before, I thought), and then passes through the Flaminian Gate and into the city proper. Our route would stay well north of the Forum and take us to Eco's house on the Esquiline Hill with hardly a glimpse of a priest or a politician, and with far less traffic than if we chose the Aurelian Way.

And yet, as we approached the juncture of the Cassian and Flaminian ways, the traffic became very heavy, and seemed to come to a virtual halt before the Milvian Bridge. The vehicles and riders were of all sorts — old men in oxcarts, groups of young men on horseback, farmers driving cattle to market. It struck me as the sort of crowd that typically thronged the city on an election day, when people gather from all over Italy to cast their votes, except that the traffic was flowing heavily in both directions, and the election was already over. Or so I had every reason to believe.

As we made our way towards the bridge, the noise of the crowd beat on my ears — people shouting, whips cracking, wheels creaking, asses braying. The traffic pressed in on both sides of us, so that we moved ahead with no choice in the matter, like leaves on a sluggish stream. Fortunately the flow carried us into a more vigorous channel while others became trapped in sluggish eddies all about us, and we managed to keep our retinue together in spite of the din and confusion. I looked over my shoulder and saw that Bethesda had lost her composure and was shouting something in Egyptian at a passing farmer who had somehow offended her. I heard a shout in front of me and turned to see that my horse had almost stepped on a child who had fallen from a passing wagon. A slave leaped from the wagon to retrieve the child, while his master in the cart began to shout and gesticulate wildly, whether at the slave or the child or me I couldn't tell. I was jostled on either side by two men on horseback who somehow found openings and raced ahead of me. We were only halfway across the bridge, and I already felt an impulse to turn around and go back to the countryside.

Back in the city! I thought with a groan, but said nothing, thinking there was no point in spoiling the occasion of Meto's return to Rome. He probably could not have heard me above the noise, anyway, and in fact he seemed quite impervious to the distress and discomfort all around him. The expression on his face as we entered the thickest of the crush on the Milvian Bridge was of unbridled delight, as if he actually enjoyed the jostling and the racket and the odours of so many men and beasts jammed together. I glanced back at the wagon and saw that Bethesda too was smiling, as if exercising her lungs on a complete stranger had given a lift to her spirits. She was holding Diana on her lap and the two of them clapped their hands, laughed, and pointed at a flock of bleating goats that scurried past us.

At last the ordeal was over and we reached the far bank of the Tiber. The traffic thinned a bit but continued to be heavy in both directions. At a high place in the road I stood in my stirrups and peered ahead, down the straight course of the Flaminian Way. All along the road, in open spots as far as the field of Mars, wagons had been pulled to the side of the road and their occupants appeared to have settled for a stay overnight. It was such a scene as one sees in wartime, when great masses of people take to the road unsuitably prepared, and yet there was no sense of panic in the air. Clearly, the strange state of confusion bad something to do with the election, but what?

Hooked around and saw a friendly-faced farmer on horseback. His copper-coloured hair and round face reminded me of my old friend Lucius Claudius, though Lucius would never have been seen in a tunic with so many patches. The man also had Lucius's red cheeks and nose and his unconcerned air, but these may have been attributable to the vanished contents of the deflated wineskin that hung from his shoulder. I hailed him and drew up alongside him.

'Citizen, what do you make of all this?' I said.

'Of what?’

"The crowd. The wagons alongside the road.'

He shrugged and burped. "They have to sleep somewhere. I went all the way back home to Veii myself, and now I'm back. There wasn't room for me and the rest of my family at my cousin's house in Rome. I could hardly camp by the road like these others, not by myself.'

‘I don't understand. People are leaving Rome and then coming back?'

He looked at me a bit suspiciously. 'What, you mean you're just now arriving? But you are a citizen.' He looked to the iron ring on my finger for confirmation.

'Does this have something to do with the consular election?'

'What, you don't know? You haven't heard?' He gave me that look of smug satisfaction that citizens who vote reserve for those who do not. "The election was cancelled!'

'Cancelled?'

He nodded gravely. 'By the mighty-mouthed Cicero himself. He got the Senate together and talked them into calling it off Filthy Optimates!'

'But why? What was the reason?'

"The reason, or more properly the pretext, was that Catilina is hatching some terrible plot to kill off the Senate, as if most of them didn't deserve to have their throats cut, and so it's not safe to hold an election. It all happened days ago — what, do you live in a cave? Messengers were sent out all over Italy telling people not to come to Rome, because the election was postponed. Well, a lot of people didn't believe it — thought it was just a trick to keep us away from the polls. Sounds just like the sort of thing the Optimates would pull, doesn't it? So we showed up anyway. Seeing such a crowd, the senators were ready to go ahead and hold the voting. But the day before, thunderbolts were seen on the horizon, out of a clear blue sky, and that night there was a small earthquake. The next morning the auspices were read and the augurs declared all the omens to be terrible. The voting stalls were all shut down. The election? Indefinitely postponed, they kept telling us. What in Hades does that mean? Then the rumours started flying thick and fast, saying the election will be in two days, or three, or ten. You see people leaving Rome and coming back and passing themselves going both ways. The last I heard is that the election will probably be the day after tomorrow.' 'What!'

'Yes, the same day as the election for praetors. That's why I'm heading back today. I figure that instead of two days from now, they'll try to have it tomorrow, you see, so they can fool me into showing up a day late! But I won't be fooled by those dirty Optimates. I’ll be at the Field of Mars outside the voting stalls bright and early tomorrow morning, ready to be counted with the rest of my tribe, and if need be, I'll be there again the next day and the next. For Catilina!' he abruptly shouted, raising his fist.

Around us, among the small circle who could hear the man's voice above the din, a number of fists went up in the air and I heard the name 'Catilina!' shouted again and again, until several voices took it up as a sort of chant.

The man smiled at the demonstration of support he had set oft) then turned back to me. 'Of course, not everybody can stay in Rome indefinitely,' he said, his smile fading. "That's why you see all these people going in the opposite direction. Common citizens have to get back to their farms, don't they? They have to worry about making a living and looking after their families. Not like Optimates, who can travel about at whim and never miss an election.' He looked me up and down suspiciously. 'I don't suppose you're one of the "Best People"?’

'I don't have to justify myself to you, citizen,' I snapped, and then realized I was not angry at the man, but at what he had told me. So it now appeared that the one thing I had most scrupulously avoided would take place, and I would be in Rome for the consular election! The gods were having a joke at my expense, I thought. No wonder we had suffered no mishaps on the journey — the gods insisted I get to Rome so that I could suffer through the election! I started to laugh. I stopped myself) then realized that it felt good to laugh, and so I let the laughter out. The stranger started to laugh, too, interrupted by a loud burp.

He raised his fist again. 'To Catilina!'

My laughter stopped. 'To the day when this madness is finally over,' I said under my breath.

'What's that?' the man said, leaning towards me. I merely shook my head, slowed my horse, and waved as he moved on ahead of me.

We made slow but steady progress into the city. Great clouds of smoke and dust rose from the Field of Mars, where thousands of voters from outside Rome had pitched their camps; on a normal day one would have seen chariot racers practising or soldiers staging mock battles. The Villa Publica, the open space where voters gathered, and the adjoining voting stalls, built like a maze of sheep runs, were closed off and empty. Traffic slowed again at the Flaminian Gate, but once through its portals we were at last within the old walls of the city, in Rome itself

The sun was lowering in the west, casting a red haze over the rooftops, but Rome was still very much awake, especially on the bustling Subura Way. The notorious street took us into the beating heart of the city, not to the place where its temples and palaces are proudly gathered, but into the district of butcher shops and brothels and gambling dens. The smells of the city assaulted my nostrils — horse dung and furnace smoke, raw fish and perfume, a whiff of urine from a public privy mingling with the aroma of freshly baked bread. In a single block I saw more faces than I had seen all year in the countryside. I saw bodies that were old, fat, young, supple, clothed in costly tunics and gowns, or in rags, or almost naked. Women leaned out of the upper-storey windows of cheap tenements and gossiped with one another across the street. little boys played trigon in an open square, standing in a triangle and tossing their leather ball back and forth. An Ethiop in a red gown, her skin the colour of lustrous ebony, gathered water at ' the public fountain.

The fountain caught my eye. It was the chief ornament of the neighbourhood it served, with a trough below for horses and a spout above for people. The spout was made of marble, carved in the likeness of a kneeling dryad pouring water from an urn. The fountain had been there since I was a boy. More times than I could possibly count I had put my lips below the spout to get a cool drink of water, had filled my wineskin from it, had watered my horses from the trough.

Nothing on earth could be more mundane, yet the fountain, and not just the fountain but everything around me, seemed at once familiar and strange. I had left Rome for good, I thought, and now I was back, and there was no denying that no matter how far afield I strayed or how long I stayed away, it would always be home.

I looked back at the cart. Diana was exhausted. She lay curled up against her mother, fast asleep despite the bumpy ride. Bethesda held one of her small hands and stroked her hair. She felt my gaze, looked up and smiled back at me. I knew in that moment that we shared the same sensation of homecoming, but she was less afraid to feel it, and less afraid to show it. The city was our city, no matter how much I might deny it or how deeply I might bury myself in the countryside. I breathed in deeply and smelled the Subura; I opened my eyes wide and tried to see everything before me at once. I turned and saw that Meto was looking at me oddly, the way I must so often look at him when I see him staring at the world around him in wide-eyed amazement. There is no place in the world like Rome.

We arrived at my old house on the Esquiline Hill dirty, hungry, and exhausted. The fading daylight had turned from red to hazy blue. The lamps in the house had already been lit. We were later than I had expected to be, but Eco, knowing the chaotic state of the roads into the city, told me he was surprised to see us so soon.

‘You must have come by the Flaminian Way,' he said, clapping his hands to summon slaves to help with the unpacking. I nodded. 'A good thing,' he said. 'The bridges down by the Aurelian Way are said to be a complete nightmare. They say there are wagons with skeletons at the reins.'

'With skeleton oxen to pull them?'

Eco laughed and nodded. 'That's the joke they're telling down in the Subura.'

'So very typical of the Subura,' I said dryly. The macabre sense of humour was familiar yet strange, like the city itself, like the house in which I found myself. My house it had been for many years, and before that my father's. Here was the atrium and the garden where I had played host to so many callers over the years, and where I had first met my dear old friend, Lucius Claudius, when he came to consult me after seeing a dead man walking about in the Subura.

"The garden looks very well kept,' I said, with a slight catch in my throat.

'Yes, Menenia oversees the gardening herself. She's fond of growing things.'

'The walls have a new coat of wash. I see you replaced those loose tiles along the roof and straightened the hinges on the front door. Even the fountain seems to be working.'

Eco smiled and shrugged. 'I wanted everything to be just right for Meto's special day. Ah, here's Menenia now.'

My daughter-in-law approached with lowered eyes, greeting me with all the deference due a Roman patriarch. She had been quite a catch for Eco, considering his humble origins and the antiquity of her family name. He had picked a dark-haired beauty with olive skin, like Bethesda, which I think pleased his adoptive mother, whether she showed it or not.

The open sky above the garden quickly darkened to a deep blue pierced by stars that twinkled like bits of frost. Tables and couches were brought into the open air, and the slaves served a hearty meal fit for weary travellers, though we were almost too tired to eat it. Before the sky had turned from deep blue to black, everyone was abed except Eco and me.

Once we were alone he asked me a few questions about Nemo and about Catilina's visit. I answered him wearily, and once he learned that the situation seemed to have come to a harmless if not very satisfactory conclusion, he did not press me with questions. He did inform me that the latest word on the elections was that they would be held on the day after the morrow — in other words, on the day after Meto's toga ceremony, while we would still be in Rome.

'Ah, well,' I sighed, 'it can't be helped. Rome on an election day! We shall certainly get a full taste of the big city.'

He showed me to my old room, where Bethesda was already asleep, and which he and Menenia had vacated for our visit. Meto and Diana were sleeping in the room next door. Where Eco himself was going to sleep and how he had juggled his household slaves to make room for mine I was much too tired to try to figure out. I lay down beside Bethesda, who sighed in her sleep and shifted her hips to accommodate me, and I fell asleep as my head touched the pillow and my lips pressed against her scented hair.

A strange sobbing woke me.

I woke in slow, fitful stages, as men of my age do when drawn from the black sleep of utter weariness. For a moment I didn't know where I was — a strange thing to experience in a house where I had lived most of my life. The furniture had been moved about, that was the problem, and the bed was different.

The sobbing that woke me came from the room next door.

I thought of Diana. The image of her finding the beheaded corpse of Nemo sprang into my mind, and I was awake all at once, conscious but still disoriented. My heart raced, but my limbs lagged behind. I stood up, banged my elbow against the wall, and cursed King Numa.

But it was not Diana who sobbed — the noise was not high-pitched or childlike enough. Nor was it exactly sobbing, but a kind of rhythmic, choking cry that came through clenched teeth and tighdy pressed hps, the sort of frightened whimper made by someone in a nightmare.

I walked into the hallway. The sound ceased for a moment, then I heard it again through the thin curtain draped across the doorway to the room shared by Meto and Diana. A lamp set into the wall still burned with a low flame — placed there by thoughtful Eco, I was sure; he knew his father would have to rise in the night and pass water and might trip or bump his knee. I took the lamp, pulled aside the curtain, and stepped into the tiny room.

Diana was sitting up in her little sleeping couch, her back against the wall, blinking the sleep from her eyes as if she had just woken up. She pulled the thick coveriet up to her neck and looked at Meto with grave concern. 'Papa, what's wrong with him?'

I looked down at Meto, who rocked back and forth on his bed. His coverlet was all twisted and tangled; his hands had become trapped in the cloth. His forehead was beaded with sweat, and his jaw was tightly clenched. Behind his shut lids his eyes seemed to twitch and dart about. He began to whimper again.

Once before I had seen him this way, not long after I had taken him into my household and before I had manumitted him and made him my son.

'Papa?' said Diana again, her voice very small. 'Is Meto—'

'He's all right,' I said softly. 'He's only dreaming. It must be a very bad dream, but that's all it is. You mustn't worry. Here, I'll take care of him. Why don't you go sleep with your mother tonight?'

The suggestion pleased her immensely. She gathered up her coverlet, draping it around her like a grown woman's stola, and hopped out of her bed. She stopped so that I could give her a kiss and then hurried to the door.

‘You're sure he's all right, Papa?'

'Yes,' I said, and Diana, her expression still grave but not frightened, hurried off to join her mother.

I stood over Meto, watching his tormented face by the lamplight, uncertain whether I should wake him. Suddenly he gave a start and opened his eyes.

He sucked in a ragged breath. He reached to cover his face, but his hands were caught in the twisted cloth. For a moment he panicked, whimpering as if he still dreamed and jerking wildly at the coverlet so that he only became more entangled. I put down the lamp and gripped his arms to stop his thrashing. After a moment he relaxed, and together we extricated his hands.

He reached up to his face, then pulled his hands away, blinking in confusion at the sweat that glittered on his fingertips.

'You were having a nightmare,' I said softly.

'I was in Sicily,' he said in a hoarse whisper.

'I thought so. You had a dream like that once before, long ago.'

'Did I? But I never think about Sicily. I hardly even remember the time I spent there. Why should I dream about it, especially now?' He sat up and blinked at the sweat that trickled into this eyes.

'I don't know. Here, use the coverlet to dry your forehead.'

'Look, the whole pillow is wet! I'm so thirsty…'

I looked about and glimpsed the dull gleam of a copper ewer and a cup on a small table by the door. I poured a cup of water and put it in Meto's hand. He drank it down in a single draft.

'Oh, Papa, it was horrible. Each of my hands was bound up in rags, just as the farmer used to do when he made me stand in the orchard to scare away the crows. He bundled my hands so I couldn't pick the fruit. The day was hot as an oven. The earth was so parched and broken that it was like a field of bricks — I kept stumbling and felling and skinning my knees. My lips were blistered from the sun. Sweat ran into my eyes, and I couldn't wipe it away. I was so thirsty, but I couldn't leave the field to get water or the farmer would beat me. I ran to the well anyway, but I couldn't pull up the bucket. I kept dropping it because my hands were all bound up and clumsy. And then the crows came — thousands of them. They swept over the orchard like horrible, shrill locusts until every tree was stripped bare. I knew the master would beat me. He would beat me until I died.'

Meto shuddered. He stared raptly at the dancing flame of the lamp. 'And then I was no longer in the field. I was back in Baiae. Not in the villa but in the arena that Crassus built especially to put his slaves to death. It was like being in a well, hemmed in by high walls all around with the sun beating on us. The sand was dick with blood. The mob leaned over the rail and jeered down at us. Their races were hideous, all twisted with hate — and then the crows again! Thousands of crows, so many that the sky was black with them. They swarmed over everything. They beat their wings in my face and pecked at my eyes, and I tried to scare them away but I couldn't even lift my hands — oh, Papa!'

I poured more water. Meto put the cup to his lips and drank greedily.

'It was only a dream, Meto’ 'But so real—'

'You're in Rome, not Sicily, not Baiae. You're in our house, surrounded by your family—'

'Oh, Papa, do I really have a family?' 'Of course you do!'

'No. This is the dream This is what can't be real. I was born a slave, and that never changes.'

'That's a lie, Meto. You are my son, just as surely as if you had my blood in your veins. You're free, just as free as if you had been born a Roman. Tomorrow you become a man, and after tomorrow you must never look back. Do you understand me?'

'But in my dream, Crassus, and the farmer in Sicily—'

'Those men owned you once, but that was long ago. They have no power over you now, and never will again.'

Meto stared blankly at the wall and bit his lip. A tear spilled down his cheek. A good, stem Roman father would have slapped the tear away, shaken him until his teeth rattled, and then made him go stand in the courtyard and keep watch all night, to face up to his fears and beat them down, and the more miserable the lesson the better. But I have never claimed to be a good father by Roman standards. I embraced him for a long moment, pressing him hard against me until I felt him shudder and relax. I squeezed him tightly, knowing it was the last time I could ever hug him like a boy.

I offered to leave him the lamp, but he said he did not need it. I stepped into the hallway and let the curtain drop, then walked restlessly about the courtyard. It was not long until I heard the quiet sound of his snoring — the dream as much as the long day had worn him out.

Diana was with Bethesda, and the bed was not large enough for all three of us, so I returned to the garden and reclined on one of the dining couches. I watched the constellations swirl slowly, slowly across the sky, until my lids grew too heavy to stay open and Morpheus caught me in his gentle snare.

XVI

The day of Meto's majority dawned bright and clear. In the garden I was up at daybreak, with the first blush of sunlight on my face and all around me the sounds of the early-rising slaves going about their chores.

It had been more than ten years since we had celebrated Eco's toga day. That had been the year before the trials of the Vestals and the outbreak of Spartacus's slave revolt. My purse had been leaner then, and the provisions had been quite humble. Eco's toga day had been a respectable affair, but not the sort of thing to make the neighbours gossip with envy. Perhaps it was for this reason that Eco seemed determined to make sure that his younger brother enjoyed a sixteenth birthday that he would not soon forget.

It was unthinkable that the event should take place anywhere but Rome, and since Eco's house was the logical place, he had offered early in the year to organize the details. That role in itself would have been a sufficient gift for Eco to give his brother, I thought. Eco had worked out the expenses and had asked me for a sum which I thought generous but reasonable. I discovered only later that he had more than matched the sum himself.

The day began with the erection of a yellow canopy over the garden. Slaves trotted about on the roofs of the porticos, hoisting the edges of the canopy and pulling the corners tight to fit them onto hooks. Below, more slaves began assembling tables and covering them with cloths and setting dining couches all about. Many of the couches were quite exquisite, with finely carved legs and plush pillows of many colours; the best of the couches (as well as the best of the serving slaves) Eco had borrowed from some of his well-heeled clients. From the kitchen came the clanging of pots and the bustling sounds of slaves hard at work.

Our morning meal, however, consisted humbly enough of fresh figs and bread. I watched Meto as he hungrily bit into his handful of bread, and saw no evidence of the doubt and dismay that had visited him the night before. He seemed rested, quietly excited, and only a little nervous. Good, I thought; let nothing spoil this day.

After eating, the family departed for the baths. Two women slaves came along to attend to Bethesda and Menenia. The slave whose dudes included grooming and barbering Eco would also be joining us. On this day Meto would receive his first shave.

We did not travel on foot, for Eco had rented a team of three litters and litter bearers for the day. They were waiting for us at the foot of the little trail leading down from the house to the Subura Way. Diana squealed with delight when she saw the broad-shouldered slaves and the long, elegant Utters. Bethesda tried to hide her surprise behind a cosmopolitan moue. Menenia smiled knowingly. Meto blushed and looked almost embarrassed at being offered such a luxury.

'Eco,' I said under my breath, 'this must have cost—'

'Papa, it's only for one day! Besides, it's a special rate. I arranged it over a month ago. At the time the owner thought, of course, that on this date the elections would just be over and the out-of-towners would have already gone back to the countryside, leaving no one to hire his Utters. I got them for next to nothing.'

'Still—’

'Climb in! Here, you can share this one with Diana. I'll ride with Meto, and the women can ride together. The slaves will follow behind on foot.'

And so I took a ride through the streets of Rome with Diana on my lap. I would be a liar if I said that it was anything less than an absolute delight. Even at that early hour traffic was beginning to thicken, but what did it matter that we had to pause at every street corner, when everything we passed held such fascination for Diana? The smell of baking bread delighted her as much as the scents that wafted from me perfume seller's shop; she clapped her hands and laughed at a group of bleary-eyed rustics emerging from a brothel, finding them quite as absurd and amusing as a team of half-naked acrobats who had decided to practise their handstands and cartwheels in a little square off the Subura Way. She bestowed a smile and a friendly wave on two grey-haired slave women who smiled but did not wave back, too burdened with their morning shopping, and then she did the same to a pair of gaunt, unshaven brutes whom I knew to be paid assassins; the two looked rather chagrined and waved weakly back. All things were equal in Diana's eyes; everyone and everything was equally fascinating. That, I thought, is what it means to be a child and why we long for childhood in our dreams; later on we are forced to choose and discriminate at every turn. Being a man and a citizen and a grown-up meant, for example, having to choose at times between the likes of Catilina and Cicero — and what fun was that, compared to Diana's simple delight in looking and laughing and accepting without question each moment of being alive?

After a while we veered off the Subura Way and took a series of smaller streets that skirted the foot of the Oppian Hill and eventually intersected with the Sacred Way. Here we turned right and shortly came to a halt just outside the Forum, at the steps leading up to the Senian Baths.

Inside the main entrance, beneath a shaded portico, the men and women parted ways. Diana was peeved at the separation and pouted, then was quickly distracted when Menenia leaned down and said that they would take turns brushing one another's hair. Diana abandoned me at once, and I watched her skip away towards the women's baths, flanked by Menenia and Bethesda holding her hands, and the two slave women following behind with their burden of unguents and brushes and combs.

'She has quite a way with children,' I said, looking after Menenia and her long black hair.

'Yes,' said Eco, nodding and smiling. 'I don't suppose—' 'Not yet, Papa.'

He led us into the recently rebuilt and enlarged men's baths. The size was impressive, sprawling, almost Egyptian in scale. Even so, Eco complained about the crush. 'Normally you'd have room to swing your elbows,' he sighed, 'but with so many men in the city for the election — well, you see how full it is.'

We made our way to the central courtyard, where two naked wresders were grappling on the lawn. Their companions stood by, either cheering them on or stretching their own muscles. Beneath the shaded portico a group of Stoics, fully dressed, sat in a circle. As we passed them, I overheard two of them arguing the merits of

Cicero's rhetorical style versus that of Hortensius, but it seemed to me that most of the philosophers were more interested in watching the naked young athletes.

Within the walls I was struck at once by the smell of the place (water on stone, bodies filthy and bodies clean) and the vague booming echoes that bounced from the domes in the ceiling (men laughing, boys whispering, water sloshing and dripping and splashing, the rhythmic slapping of wet feet against paving stones). We stripped out of our tunics and piled them onto the waiting, outstretched arms of Meto's barber. The slave folded them neatly and stored them in a niche in the wall, then returned with towels and strigils for our use.

We bathed first in the warm pool, which was gently scented with hyacinth, then in the hot pool, which made Meto yelp and lift his bottom from the water — and inspired the men already immersed to their necks to croak with laughter that echoed about the high-ceilinged room. Meto took no offence and merely laughed with them, suppressing another yelp as he lowered himself delicately but resolutely into the steaming, swirling water.

Scraped clean by the strigils, our faces flushed and our beards softened by the hot water, we removed ourselves from the pool and took turns submitting ourselves to the barber's blade. Meto went first, for this was his special day and the first time a razor would touch his face. The slave got into the spirit of things and made quite a production out of what could have been accomplished with three or four simple passes of the blade. There was, to be sure, a fair amount of downy growth on Meto's cheeks, almost invisible except when seen at certain angles in the light, while on his upper lip and his chin there was hardly any hair at all. Nevertheless, the barber approached the job as if he were faced with a grizzled veteran who had not shaved in months. He whetted the long, slender blade against a leather strop, rapidly, passing it back and forth until Meto, watching the guttering metal, became fascinated. The barber applied a hot, steaming towel to Meto's face and cooed to him like a charioteer calming a steed. He circled about him and delicately applied the edge of the blade to Meto's cheeks, jaw, neck, and chin, and, saving the most vulnerable and difficult spot for last, to his upper lip. Meto flinched more than once — being shaved is, after all, the most intimate duty a man can entrust to a slave, and real trust is built only with time. But the man did a splendid job. When it was over there was not a single drop of blood to be seen anywhere, neither on the towel nor the blade nor on Meto's freshly shaved face. Meto seemed almost disappointed not to have been wounded, but he was fascinated by the novel sensation of touching his own denuded flesh.

The barber men produced his scissors — a very fine pair which Lucius Claudius had given to me as a gift and which I had passed on to Eco when I left for the countryside. The barber laid a rough cloth over Meto's shoulders and set about shearing him until he looked quite respectable and remarkably grown-up, with his ears and the back of his neck showing. The barber then treated his hair with a scented oil and was done with him.

I allowed the man to trim my hair and beard a bit, but refused to let him touch me with his razor. Then it was Eco's turn.

"This is your chance,' I said, 'to get rid of that absurd haircut and that eccentric beard.'

Eco laughed. 'Absurd and eccentric? Papa, look around you.'

I did — and saw more than a few young men of Eco's age affecting the same style that he had adopted along with Marcus Caelius — their hair shorn short on the sides but left long on top, their beards trimmed and blocked into a thin strap across the jaw.

'You know where the fashion originated?'

'Yes, with Catilina. Or so you told me, and I've heard others say the same. Catilina and his circle set all the trends.'

'Well, did you know that Catilina has abandoned that particular fashion?'

'Really?'

'It happened under my very roof One night he had the thin beard, and the next morning—' I drew my finger across my jaw. 'All gone.'

'Cleanshaven?'

'As smooth as Meto's cheeks. Isn't that so, Meto?' Meto, still stroking his face to experience the novelty of it, nodded in confirmation.

'You see,' I said, 'it's Meto who has the fashionable look now. Perhaps you should do the same.'

'But everyone else is still wearing a chin-strap beard…' 'For a while.' I shrugged.

Eco reached out and the barber handed him a mirror. He studied his face and ran his forefinger and thumb over the thin black line of his beard. 'Do you really think I should get rid of it?'

'Catilina did,' I said, and shrugged as if I really had no opinion at all.

'Menenia never really cared for the beard anyway,' Eco said afterwards, stroking his jaw and studying himself in the polished copper mirror held up by his barber. He tapped at his chin and winced a bit; where the hair grew thickest the barber had resorted to tweezers to pluck him smooth. Eco had borne the ordeal without flinching. The barber, I suspect, had rather enjoyed it. By inflicting such tiny discomforts, slaves are occasionally able to vent their frustration against their masters.

‘I thought you said Menenia liked the beard,' I said, to needle Eco a bit.

'Shell like me even more without it, I'm sure.'

And she did. To judge from the look in her eyes and in Eco's when we rejoined the women in the vestibule, one might have thought they had been parted for months, not moments. But such is the first blush of passion. As for Meto, Bethesda touched his cheek and sighed, as if she could really tell a difference where the razor had passed. Diana, with the brutal frankness of a child, insisted that she could see no change at all. Menenia again took charge of the situation by proposing that Diana ride home in the Utter with her, a suggestion to which Diana assented at once. Menenia had put up her long hair in a coil held together with combs inlaid with bits of shell, in very much the same fashion as Bethesda's — though Menenia's combs, I noticed, were not quite so ornate. I admired her tactfulness more and more.

Clean and refreshed, we arrived back at the house on the Esquiline to find that preparations were almost complete. A sundial down on the Subura Way had shown the time to be almost noon; the first guests would arrive soon. It was time for Meto to put on his toga.

The donning of the toga is no simple matter, even for advocates and politicians like Cicero, who wear them almost every day. What seems so simple in its unfolded state — a very wide piece of thin white wool, cut into a roughly oblong shape — becomes devilishly intractable and takes on a life of its own when one attempts to make it into a respectable-looking toga. That, at least, is my experience. Somehow the thing must be made to cross the chest, drape over the shoulder, and lie across one arm. The precise placement of the numerous folds and the way they hang are of supreme importance, or else a man ends up looking as if he simply left the house wearing a common bed sheet — an absurd appearance sure to elicit the scorn of his neighbours.

Fortunately, as for everything else of importance, Romans have slaves to take care of the problem of donning the toga. (Indeed, there was a joke common when I was a young man in Alexandria that the reason the Romans were bent on conquering the world was to supply themselves with slaves to help them dress.) The same slave who groomed and barbered Eco also served as his dresser. Here, as with the tweezers, was an opportunity for a slave to take petty revenge on his master, arranging for him to leave the house with the hem of his toga dragging or some fold tenuously placed so that it would later lose its shape. But Eco's dresser was quite competent, and more than a little patient as he helped the three of us into our togas, beginning with his master, then myself) and finally Meto.

Eco had purchased Meto's toga from a fine shop at the foot of the Palatine. It took two attempts to get him into it, and quite a bit of fussing with the folds, but at last Meto stood before us perfectly draped in his first manly toga.

'How do I look?' he said.

'Splendid!' said Eco.

'Papa?'

I hesitated to speak, because I felt a catch in my throat. 'You look—' I began to say, then had to clear my throat. How fine he looked! He had been a beautiful boy; he would be a handsome man, and in that moment one could see both together, past and future at once. His hair looked very black and his skin very smooth against the white wool; the colour made him appear to be wrapped in purity. At the same time the authority and anonymity of the toga itself lent him an air of dignity and manliness beyond his years. I had told him last night that he could put his years of slavery behind him forever, that he need never worry about his unseemly origins again. Now I believed it myself.

'I am proud, Meto. Very proud.'

He walked towards me and would have hugged me, I think, but the drapes of cloth over his left arm constrained him. He looked confounded for a moment, then laughed and turned around, realizing that moving comfortably in a toga was a skill he would have to master. 'How on earth do I go to the privy with all this on?' he asked, grinning.

'I shall show you that when the need arises,' I said, and sighed in mock weariness. 'Ah, the duties of fatherhood!'

XVII

Out in the garden, the guests had begun to arrive. The sun was well up, and the filtered yellow light through the gauzy canopy cast a warm glow over the courtyard and into the hallways and rooms around it. Dishes with all sorts of delicacies had been placed on the tables, and the couches were disposed in informal arrangements, so that the guests could feed themselves and gather as they wished, rather than reclining and being served a succession of courses. This seemed rather chaotic and perhaps even a bit ungracious to me, but Eco assured me it was the new fashion.

'And like your beard, I suspect it shall come and go,' I said under my breath.

As always with such gatherings, at first there seemed to be only a handful of guests, and then suddenly the garden was full of them, the men in their togas, the women in multicoloured stolas. The soft murmur of their conversation filled the air. Their various perfumes and unguents mingled with the floral scents of the garden and the delectable odours of the roasted figpeckers and stuffed pigeons that kept arriving on trays from the kitchen.

I made my way through the throng, stopping to speak with neighbours and clients I had not seen in years, and at last found Eco and pulled him aside. 'Did you invite all these people?' I whispered.

'Of course. They're all friends or acquaintances. Most of them have known Meto since he was a little boy.'

'But you can't be intending for all of them to walk through the Forum with us, and then come back here for dinner!'

'Of course not. This is only the general reception. People are invited to come and enjoy themselves, to get reacquainted with the family, to see Meto in his toga, to leave when they wish—'

To eat you out of house and home! Look, over there!' A man with a grey beard who looked vaguely familiar — the association was not pleasant, and I seemed to recall that we had been on opposite sides of some litigation — was hovering stealthily over a little serving table, dropping stuffed grape leaves into some sort of pouch inside his toga.

Eco laughed. 'Isn't that old Festus? You remember, he came over once saying he wanted to consult you about a lawsuit pending against him, and we never saw that little Alexandrian vase again.'

'No.' I frowned, shaking my head. 'That is not Festus.'

Eco cocked his head. 'Ah, I have it. Rutilius — his own brother brought suit against him, accusing him of thieving from him. The scoundrel never denied it; instead, he wanted us to dig up something horrible and scandalous about his brother, so as to even the score.'

I shook my head. 'No, it's not Rutilius, either, but probably someone just as awful. Surely you wouldn't have invited either of those two to Meto's party! Oh, the indignities I've had to put up with over the years to keep our bellies full! I'm just glad I'm away from it all now. And I'm glad you're young and hard-shelled enough to see your own way through the snares and traps of this city.'

‘You trained me well, Papa.'

'I wish I had trained Meto half so well.'

'Meto is different from me,' he said. 'And different from you.'

'I worry about him sometimes, about his future. He's still such a boy—'

'Papa, you must stop saying that. Meto is a man now, not a boy.'

'Still — oh, now this is too much! Look, now that wretched man has begun pilfering the honeyed dates! There won't be any for the other guests. You see, you've invited far too many people — neither of us can even remember who that man is, though we're both sure we don't like him. This is why it's a mistake to have people serve themselves. If we were all seated with slaves doing the serving—'

'I suppose I should do something, 'said Eco. 'I'll go and ask the fellow if he's murdered any wives or poisoned any business partners lately.'

With that he ambled towards the old greybeard, who gave a start and jumped back from the table when Eco touched his shoulder. Eco smiled and said something and led him away from the food. The jump must have dislodged the man's hidden cache, for a string of stuffed grape leaves and honeyed dates began to drop from his toga, leaving a trail behind him on the floor.

A hand touched my shoulder. I turned and saw a shock of red hair, a spangling of freckles across a handsome nose, and a pair of bright brown eyes looking into my own. The next moment I was locked in a mutual embrace, then held at arm's length while Marcus Valerius Messalla Rufus looked me up and down.

'Gordianus! The country life most certainly agrees with you — you look very fit indeed!'

'And the life of the city must agree with you, Rufus, for you never seem to age at all from year to year.'

'I am thirty-three this year, Gordianus.'

'No! Why, when we met—'

‘I was about the same age that your son Meto is now. Time flies, Gordianus, and the world changes.' Though never enough for my taste.'

We had first met years ago in the house of Caecilia Metella, when Rufus was assisting Cicero in his defence ofSextusRoscius. He had been only sixteen then, a patrician of ancient lineage, politically precocious and secretly infatuated with his mentor, Cicero. Not surprisingly, the infatuation had come to nothing, but Rufus's more practical ambitions had led to a successful career. He had been one of the youngest men ever elected to the college of augurs, and as such was frequently called upon to read the auspices and pronounce the will of the gods. No public or private transaction of importance takes place in Rome, no army engages in battle, no marriage is consecrated without consulting an augur. I myself have never had much faith in reading messages into the flights of birds and divining the will of Jupiter from a flash of lightning across the sky. Many (or most) augurs are mere political hacks and charlatans, who use their power to suspend public meetings and block the passage of legislation, but Rufus had always seemed quite sincere in his belief in the science of augury. He, too, had been involved in the scandal of the Vestal Virgins, for it was Rufus, as a religious colleague, whom the Virgo Maxima had first summoned for help when Catilina was discovered in the House of the Vestals. Rufus had called on Cicero, and Cicero had called on me. As I have remarked before, Rome sometimes seems a very small town indeed.

'I'm glad you've come, Rufus. There are very few faces from the Forum that I miss seeing from day to day, and yours is one of them. I mean it,' I said, and I did, for Rufus had always been a young man of unusual integrity, soft-spoken but passionate in his beliefs and driven by an intensity that was not immediately apparent from his good-natured manner. His natural sense of justice and moral equanimity often seemed out of place among the self-serving oratory and ceaseless back-stabbing of the Forum. 'But what's this?' I said. 'You're wearing a candidate's toga.'

Rufus pretended to dust himself, for the natural woollen colour of his toga had been rubbed with chalk to make it a harsh white, as is the practice of men running for office. 'That's because I'm running for praetor this year.'

'Then I hope you win. Rome needs good men to run the city and give out justice.'

'We shall see. The voting will take place tomorrow, just after the balloting for the consular election. Normally the election for praetors and the election for consuls take place on different days, of course, but with the postponement of the consular election — well, it will be an insanely busy day. Caesar, too, is running for a praetorship, as is Cicero's brother, Quintus.'

'I suppose you're still allied with Cicero,' I said, then saw from his face that I was mistaken.

'Cicero…' Rufus shrugged. 'Well, you know the circus act he performed last summer in order to win the consulship. Blowing smoke from his mouth and jumping through hoops — though it came as no surprise to see him resorting to the most outlandish tricks to get himself elected. Over the years he's reversed his positions on virtually every issue, yet his rhetoric stays the same — as if rhetoric gave a man consistency, rather than principles. I find myself uncomfortable in his presence these days. I read the auspices on the day he took office — not officially, but for my own satisfaction — and they portended a year full of deceit and treachery, perhaps even disaster. Ah, Gordianus, I saw the look that just crossed your face: you have no faith in the auguries. Neither does Cicero, who thinks they're merely tools that men like himself can use to manipulate the masses. And manipulate he does, shamelessly. Hypocritically turning his back on the children of Sulla's victims who seek redress, railing against the Rullan land reform, the way he handled that riot over special seating for equestrians in the theatre, and now this postponement of the elections — you haven't been in the city long, have you?'

‘I arrived only last night.'

'Utter chaos. Voters arriving after hours or days of hard travelling only to find that the election day has been indefinitely postponed — imagine! Angry farmers from up in Etruria camping out on the Field of Mars, lighting camp fires that could burn down the city — and when the praetors ride out to warn them, the farmers pull out the rusty old swords they used to carry for Sulla! It's enough to make me want to drop out of the praetor's race. And all because of this preposterous notion of Cicero's that Catilina is set to slaughter half the Senate if he doesn't win the consulship. And now, as if to prove he has no sense of shame or decorum left at all, Cicero insists on going about the Forum wearing that absurd breastplate—' 'What's this?'

'Please, I can't even bear to think about it. You'll probably see for yourself down in the Forum. Oh, Cicero! These days, I'm aligned with Gaius Julius Caesar.' I nodded at the name of the young patrician who earlier in the year, against all expectations, had won the election to take the place of the deceased Pontifex Maximus, head of the state religion. In recent years Caesar had emerged as a standard-bearer for the party of discontent and reform. His lavish expenditures on public games and banquets had won the hearts of the masses (and driven him deeply into debt, it was rumoured, despite his family's great wealth). He was said to be witty, charming, devious, scornful of the Optimates, and possessed of that single-minded nature which in men of politics can lead to greatness, or disaster, or both. There were those who feared — or hoped — that Caesar would become another Catilina, if indeed Catilina's credibility and hopes for the consulship were about to reach their end.

'Cicero has disappointed us all,' sighed Rufus, 'whereas Caesar…' His brown eyes sparkled. He smiled — a bit coyly, I thought. 'The more I deal with Gaius Julius, the more impressed I become. As Pontifex Maximus, he has been an inspiration to me; he respects the religion of our ancestors in a way that a New Man like Cicero never could. His grasp of the world infinitely surpasses that of Cicero — in no small part because Caesar is not just an orator but a man of action who has known true battle and desperate danger — you must know that tale of his being kidnapped by pirates when he was young. He treated them with nothing but scorn, arranged for his own ransom, and later saw that they were all captured and crucified. Cicero would have merely bored them to death with his rhetoric. Caesar has taken up the cause of those who are still suffering from the dictatorship of Sulla, the children of those whom Sulla dispossessed and who now want to regain their birthrights. While Cicero, who always makes such a story of how he stood up to Sulla in the case of Sextus Roscius, won't lift a finger to help Sulla's victims — their claims are perfectly justified, he says, but this is not the proper time to disturb the government with their demands. It never is the proper time, of course! Not when the Optimates who control the state have their property and privileges nicely in place and want nothing to be disturbed. Cicero, who so bravely stood up against the dictator when he was young, does the bidding of the dictator's old friends without the least whimper of protest.

'And while Cicero pretends to be a man of vision, it's Caesar who sees the future. The empire must judiciously enfranchise those it conquers, not just exploit them. Stability may be built on blood and battle, but compassion must accompany victory. Caesar and I have pooled our resources to campaign for our praetorships together, but I feel rather presumptuous putting myself forward as if I were the equal of such a fine candidate. He's brilliant. There is no other word. When he speaks…' Rufus's voice trailed off, and he stared into the middle distance.

If Rufus is possessed of a fault, it is that he tends to fall blindly in love with those he respects and admires. So it had been with Cicero, but from the inflection Rufus now gave to the name he had once cherished, it was clear that love, respect, and admiration had all vanished together. Now he was clearly smitten with Caesar, and from what one heard about Caesar, beginning with his long-ago affair with the king of Bithynia, Rufus had a much better chance of finding reciprocation with the new object of his hero worship than he had from the old one — if indeed, to judge from the smitten look on his face, he had not found that reciprocation already.

'Ah, but you were remarking on my candidate's toga,' said Rufus. 'Actually, I was about to change out of it—'

'Please, you needn't stop campaigning just because you've entered our house,' I said, teasing him. 'I'd as soon ask a bird to take off its wings as request a politician to lay aside his candidacy.'

He looked at me blankly. 'But I shall have to put on my augur's robes before we commence the promenade, of course.'

'But then — do you mean to say that you'll be reading the auspices for Meto?'

'Of course. That's why I'm here, in my capacity as an augur. Not that I wouldn't have come simply as a friend. But didn't Eco tell you?' 'No. I thought he'd simply find a private augur, the type that handles marriage ceremonies. I had no idea — and for you to take time out from your campaign on the day before the election—'

'What better advertisement at the last moment than for me to be seen sombrely performing my duties as augur for the whole Forum to witness? I shall certainly look more respectable than all those candidates bullying and begging the mob for votes.' He smiled shrewdly.

'Rufus!' I laughed. 'You're a new stripe of politician, I think. Idealism as pragmatism; attention to duty and virtue rather than violence and outright bribery as the means to win an election. A quaint idea, but it just might work.'

'Gordianus, you're hopelessly cynical.'

'And you, Rufus, are still admirably full of hope and virtue.'

He smiled. 'But now I really must change into my augur's robes. Oh, and I may have a surprise for you and for Meto later in the day. But well talk about it then.' I summoned one of Eco's slaves to show Rufus to a private room; his own small retinue of slaves, carrying his robes and augur's wand, followed behind.

I looked about, momentarily at sea amid the bobbing heads. Then, nearby and above the murmur of the crowd, I heard a familiar woman's voice speaking.a familiar name: 'Ah, then you must have known my late cousin, Lucius Claudius. Yes, a jolly man with hair as red as that of the handsome young man who just paraded through the room, but with a figure more like mine, I'm sorry to say. Yes, well, I inherited Lucius's house up on the Palatine, a huge, sprawling, wonderful old place, but far too big and fancy for my humble needs, though I'm told I can get a good income from it if I can find a renter who's rich enough to afford it, and if I’ll do a bit of investing to pretty the place up, though my cousins think I should keep the house empty as a place for all of us to stay here in the city, but that means keeping at least a partial staff of full-time slaves in the place even when it's unoccupied, and I don't hear any of my cousins volunteering to feed them… Oh, but look, here he is, our host and my own dear neighbour. Gordianus, all happiness and pride to you on your dear son's birthday!'