Catilina's riddle

'A few days ago the Master ordered Forfex to slaughter one of the goats, but Forfex slaughtered the wrong one, or so the Master insisted. The Master flew into such a rage — terrible to see, like lightning when it strikes the mountain. He beat Forfex across the back with his whip so hard he ripped his tunic. There was blood on the whip. Then there was a terrible change in the Master's face. I was standing close enough to see. The sight of it turned me to water. It was as if he had made up his mind that Forfex was ruined and not worth keeping, like a cracked clay bottle that a man might smash just for the thrill of it That's what he did to Forfex. He turned the whip about in his hand and began to strike him with the handle — it's made of leather wrapped around iron, with hard iron studs. He began to strike Forfex all about his head. He laughed and said, "Since it's your head to blame, I'll take it out on your head!" And all the time Forfex bleated and moaned and then started making other noises. Oh, please—'

The memory had turned his face the colour of chalk. His eyes were red and moist. He blinked and staggered uncertainly. The kid across his shoulders bleated at the sudden jostling and began to kick, so violently that the boy lost his grip and the animal went flying through the air, landing with a clatter of hooves on a flat stone. It bounded into the water and then out again and went running through the underbrush towards the path, shaking itself and sending beads of water flying from its snowy fleece.

The young goatherd staggered back against a wall of rock and slid downward until he sat on a stony bench, holding his hands to his stomach. 'It makes me sick to remember,' he said weakly.

'I'm sure it does,' I said earnestly. How much sicker would it make him to see Forfex now? 'When did this happen?'

'Five days ago.’

'Are you sure?'

'Yes. It was just after the Ides. The Master was gone for a few days, down to Rome for the election. He came back as soon as it was over. They say the voting went as he wanted, but he was in a terrible mood anyway. Perhaps something else went wrong for him down in Rome besides the election. I think he would have found fault with Forfex no matter what.'

'Five days ago,'I said, exchanging a glance with Meto. 'And last night Clementus told us he heard the splash from the well three or four nights before — that would fit exactly. What was done with Forfex's body?'

'Brought here,' said the boy dully. 'When it was over, when Forfex lay upon the floor, not moving, the blood and gore from his head all—' He broke off and swallowed hard.

'Go on.'

'The Master's face changed again. I don't think he quite knew what he had done until he had done it, if you know what I mean. His face, the look in his eyes — I've never seen such a look, except in a slave's eyes. As if he were frightened of what he had done. They say there's a goddess who punishes men, even free men, if they go too far. There's a Greek word—' He wrinkled his brow.

'Hubris,' I said. 'Insolence that borders on madness; arrogance that flouts all sense of decency. Hubris is punished by the goddess Nemesis, who brings retribution against the wicked.'

'Perhaps in some places,' said the boy, 'but I don't think that goddess ever comes to this mountain. Even so, for just a moment I think the Master knew he had gone too far. He dropped the whip and trembled. But then he hardened his jaw. He clenched his fists to stop them from shaking. He looked around the room, bunking as if it were too dark for him to see, though the sun was still up. His eyes fell on me, just because I happened to be closest, I think. "Clean it up!" he said, as if it were a mess left on the floor by the goats. "Clean it up and take what's left of him to the waterfall. Throw him off the cliff and let him join the rest of the bones!" '

'And is that what you did?'

'Yes, only we didn't cast him off" the cliff. We carried him down here, to the pond. One of the older slaves said we should strip his body and clean the blood off him, to make him fit to enter Hades. The old slave said a few words over the body, a prayer to some god or other. Even slaves have gods, you know, though I don't think any of them live on this mountain, and certainly not your Nemesis. We carried him across the stream, over to that jumble of boulders there, and laid him in a narrow place between the stones. We covered him with a few large rocks, and then we left. It was beginning to grow dark. No one comes here after dark.'

'Poor Forfex!' I said. 'To be left among the lemures he dreaded so much. To join their number.'

'That's why no one wanted to come here today to search for the bleating kid. They've always been afraid of the old spirits that dwell here, and now there's Forfex as well. How can his lemur rest after such a horrible death? He could never take revenge on the Master; the Master is too powerful. But on another slave, alone and helpless…' The boy's voice trailed to a whisper, and he looked across the water at the tumbled boulders and the deep shadows among them. 'It must be here now, watching us.'

'I think not, if his lemur follows his mortal remains. Come, show us where you put the body.'

The boy blanched.

'Come!’ I said.'If I'm right—

Meto cleared his throat.

'If my son is right, the body is long gone. Come, show us!' It was a testament to Gnaeus Claudius's cruelty that the boy could be controlled by a harsh voice alone. A less cowed slave would have required a few blows, or at least the threat of violence, to be prodded to his feet by a man who was not his master and then sent skipping across the stones in the stream to revisit a gravesite he believed to be haunted. The young goatherd obeyed, though he began to tremble violently as we climbed the tumbled rocks.

'Just on the other side of that big stone,' he said, his voice quavering. He pointed the way, but would go no farther.

Meto and I climbed past him and stood atop the jagged stones. We looked down into the narrow cleft and saw what there was to see.

'The body is gone,' I said.

'Gone?' The young goatherd climbed reluctantly after us. He stared down into the empty cleft with a look of superstitious dread on his face.

'Not the work of gods or lemures,' I assured him. 'Men put him here, and it must have been men who took him from this place.'

'The same man who killed him!' declared Meto.

I turned my face away from the goatherd and frowned at Meto. We had no proof yet of what he said. More than that, it is unfair to a slave to gossip about his master in his hearing, for he may repeat what you say, to his regret.

Meto scowled back at me. He had been right about Forfex, after all, despite my doubts. Just to be certain, he asked the slave, 'Was there a marking of some sort on one of Forfex's hands?'

'A marking? — You mean the little purple birthmark on the back of his left hand?'

Meto's face was suffused with triumph.

'But where has the body gone?' said the slave.

'You needn't know, at least not now,' I said. 'You shouldn't know.

You've braved enough danger already, simply talking to us and telling us how Forfex met his end. I should reward you, but I have nothing to give you.'

'There's nothing you could give me,' he said. "The Master lets us keep nothing for ourselves. The man who wanted to see the mine gave Forfex a few coins, but the Master found them and took them all away.'

'This man who saw the mine — has he been back since?'

The boy shrugged. 'I don't know. I never saw him. I was tending a flock on the far side of the mountain when he came.' He narrowed his eyes. 'They say there were others with him. Was it you?'

'I've managed so far not to answer any of your questions,' I said, smiling. 'I don't think I shall start now. The less you know, the better for you. You should forget that we were ever here.'

'Like lemures in the mist,' he said.

'If you wish.'

'There is one other question we should ask,' said Meto. 'When you put Forfex's body in this rocky place, what had become of his head?'

'Beaten to a pulp. I told you that,' said the slave, turning pale again. 'Yes, but was it still attached to his body?' 'Of course.'

'Not cut away? Being so badly mangled, perhaps—' 'The body was all in one piece!' protested the goatherd, his voice shaking.

'No need to press the matter,' I said to Meto, laying my hand on his arm. 'Tell us: was there another death among the goatherds, about a month ago?' I asked, thinking of Nemo.

The boy shook his head.

'Among your master's other slaves, then?'

'No. One of the kitchen slaves died of a fever, but that was well over a year ago. There's been only one death since then, and that was Forfex.'

We descended the tumbled rocks strewn with bones and crossed the stream. The young goatherd went on his way, while Meto and I rested for a bit before pressing on. The shady glen was a beautiful place, even if despoiled and made fearsome by the presence of so much death and suffering. Not a bad resting place, I thought, for the lemures of dead slaves, who must have been far more miserable in life, toiling beneath the hot sun or burrowing into the dank, stony earth.

XXVII

'We should confront him directly,' said Meto as we made our way down the mountain path. 'I agree.'

'We know now beyond any doubt that the body in the well was Forfex. We know that Gnaeus killed Forfex. And we know that he doesn't like us one bit. He thought he was going to inherit the farm from Lucius Claudius, didn't he? Therefore, motive: to spoil the well and try to drive us away.'

'There are a few gaps in your logic,' I observed wryly, negotiating a steep step and bending back a whiplike branch.

'Such as?'

'Why was the head of Forfex removed?'

'So that we wouldn't attribute the act to Gnaeus. He knew that we had met Forfex and might recognize him despite his injuries, and thus might surmise where he came from. Gnaeus is the worst kind of coward, skulking about and afraid to own up to his actions. He cut off the head so we wouldn't know where the anonymous body came from. He didn't count on my sharp eyes recognizing the birthmark on the back of Forfex's hand, did he?'

'No, the culprit did not. But why did Gnaeus order the slaves to dispose of the body at the waterfall if he intended to use it elsewhere?'

I looked over my shoulder. Meto shrugged. "The idea didn't occur to him until later. Obviously he didn't kill Forfex just so he could drop his body down our well; the murder wasn't premeditated, and neither was the outrage against us. But once he had the body at hand, it struck him that he could make use of it.'

'The young goatherd said nothing of being ordered to retrieve the body.'

"The goatherd didn't know anything about Catilina, either. Surely Gnaeus has other slaves more suitable for doing what was done with poor Forfex's corpse.'

'And what about Nemo?'

"That must have been Gnaeus's doing as well. He put Nemo in our stable to frighten us, but it didn't frighten us enough. So he tried the same cowardly trick again, only this time he did something truly dangerous, polluting the well. What a despicable man!'

'But where did Nemo come from? The goatherd told us that there have been no other deaths on the mountain.'

'Who knows? Perhaps Gnaeus waylaid a wandering freedman, or murdered a visitor from Rome.'

'A stranger, you mean. A stranger to us.'

'Yes.'

'Then why was Nemo's head removed? You postulate that the head of Forfex was removed to conceal his identity. That makes sense. But what of Nemo? Who was he and why was his head cut off?'

Meto was silent. For several moments the only sounds I heard were the crackling ofbranches, the scraping of our feet on the rough, uneven path, and my own laboured breathing. 'I don't have an answer for that,' Meto finally admitted. 'But does it matter about Nemo? We know now where Forfex came from, and that's the key. Gnaeus Claudius is the culprit He should be whipped. He should be tried for murder, if there were any justice. But there's no law against a man killing his own slave, is there? I suppose the best we can do is take legal action against him for polluting our well.'

'Hard to prove, since we have no witnesses.'

'But, Papa, the circumstances are obvious!'

'A court will require more than circumstantial evidence.'

' Then we'll have to find a witness. He could hardly have done it without the collusion of at least one of our own slaves, could he? Whichever of the slaves it was who turned on us, he must be made to talk!'

'How much force would you have me use against the slaves? I've already questioned them, and you saw the result. There are many masters who would use indiscriminate torture to obtain the truth. Aratus himself suggests I do so.'

‘I wouldn't have you do that, Papa.'

'Torture is inevitable where slaves and the law are concerned. Suppose we do find a witness among our slaves. A Roman court will not accept the testimony of any slave unless it's extracted under torture. Would you have me force such a thing on another man, even of a slave who plotted against us? And what if one of the slaves merely saw the act and is otherwise guiltless? Still, he would have to be tortured in order to bear witness. No wonder the slaves are so reluctant to speak. If they admit to being witnesses, it's like volunteering to be tortured.'

'I hadn't thought of that.'

'But they have, I assure you. Given your premise, the best witnesses would be the slaves of Gnaeus Claudius himself, such as our young goatherd friend. But there again the law defeats us. No man's slave can testify in court without his permission, and thus no slave can be made to testify against his master.'

'What if you could get Cicero to represent us? He's so clever and powerful, perhaps he could find a way—'

'Please, I want no more debts to Cicero. Besides, I don't imagine that our esteemed consul has time to trifle with such a matter now or for a long time to come.'

We reached the clearing behind the boulder. We untied our horses and led them through the narrow cleft between the old oak and the rock, onto the grassy, shaded verge. Over on the road a group of slaves trudged wearily past, linked neck to neck by a stout rope and driven along by a team of overseers on horseback. The slaves were either naked or covered with the merest scraps of cloth. For shoes they wore bits of leather tied to their feet. Neither slaves nor drivers took any notice of us. We stood in the shade, waiting for them to pass.

I turned to Meto and said in a whisper, 'Your argument against Gnaeus Claudius is clear enough, even if it does have lapses. Even so, my thoughts keep returning to Catilina.'

'You misjudge him, Papa!' whispered Meto, with surprising vehemence.

'Consider his connection with Forfex. Consider the coincidence of the headless corpses and his riddle of the headless body. Consider also that Nemo appeared just after Caelius first proposed that I play host to Catilina, as if to mtimidate me into agreeing. Now Caelius and Cicero have again insisted that I open my door to Catilina, I have protested, and Forfex appears in our well. Catilina is a desperate man—'

'Why blame Catilina? Or Caelius or Cicero, for that matter? You've been on the wrong scent all along, Papa. You said just now that no court would accept circumstantial evidence as proof) yet you've let coincidence rob you of your better judgment and blind you to the obvious. Gnaeus Claudius is the culprit. He must think he's very clever, laughing at us behind our backs. If we confront him directly, I'll wager that he admits his guilt out of sheer vanity and spite.'

'You may be right,' I admitted. 'We shall give him the chance today.'

The last of the roped slaves, a man with skin like leather and hair like matted straw, passed before us, and as he did he tripped on a stone in the road. He fell briefly to his knees, tugging at the rope around his neck and sending a ripple of distress up the line. An overseer quickly doubled back and struck at the man with a whip until he gained his footing and plodded on.

'When will this world ever change?' a voice whispered. It might have been in my own head, but it came from Meto, who gazed after the slaves with a solemn, sad look in his eyes. Without looking at me he mounted his horse. I did likewise, and we rode quickly back to the farm.

I wanted a suitable retinue surrounding me when I set foot again on Gnaeus Claudius's property. I ordered Aratus to come with us, partly because it seemed fitting that my foreman should accompany me and partly because I wanted to watch his reactions while I dealt with Gnaeus; I still did not trust him. I also chose a few of the burliest men, thinking I might need protection.

We set out after midday. I hoped that Gnaeus had eaten a heavy meal. I've often found it useful to accost a man while he's sleepy and off his guard.

We rode up the Cassian Way and turned onto the road to Gnaeus's house, openly and without stealth. The way grew steep. The foothills became thick with boulders and trees. In the midst of the forest we came to the house of the goatherds, where we had first met Forfex. The road came to the deep stream bed and ran alongside it. At length we came to the little bridge, crossed the ravine, and so arrived before the house of Gnaeus Claudius.

The two-storeyed structure was of rustic design, more Etruscan than Roman. It was a very old house and not well kept up, to judge from the plaster crumbling from the walls and the shutters hanging from broken hinges. It was set against a steep, wooded hillside and surrounded by shadows.. The air was dank and musty. Even on a summer's day a gloomy pall hung over the house and the little ramshackle sheds clustered around it.

Chickens and dogs inhabited the dry, dusty courtyard. At our approach the dogs roused themselves and barked, while the chickens cackled and scattered in a panic. The door to the house opened and a voice cried out sharply for the dogs to be silent. The beasts whimpered and ran about in nervous circles, but stopped their barking.

The slave at the door saw our company and backed away. I suspect his master had few enough visitors, especially from a group as formidable as I hoped ours appeared to be. The slave gave us a hard look and shut the door without saying a word.-

A few moments later the door opened again. Gnaeus Claudius himself stood staring back at us, looking as ill-humoured as when I had last seen him ingratiating himself with Catilina and punishing the hapless Forfex. He was a strikingly ugly young man, with his unkempt mop of red hair and his chinless neck, but his height and brawny frame gave him an imposing presence. At his appearance the dogs began to bark again. Gnaeus growled back at them as if he were a hound himself. In his hand he held a bone on which he had been chewing; bits of flesh clung to his lips. He cast it into their midst, and the beasts fell on it at once and competed for the prize, slavering and sniping and tearing it from one another's mouths in an appalling melee.

'Stupid dogs,' muttered Gnaeus. 'Still, smarter than most slaves, and they can't talk back.' His grating voice was as hard to listen to as his face was to look at. He squinted up at us. Claudia had said that his eyes were weak, but despite the gloomy shadows he seemed to recognize me easily enough. 'Back, are you? And this time without your scheming friend from the city. Come to spy on me again, I suppose. What in Hades do you want, Gordianus?'

'I should think you'd know the answer to that question, Gnaeus Claudius,' I said.

'Don't try to be clever with me,' said Gnaeus. 'I don't take to cleverness. Ask my slaves if you don't believe me. No one invited you here, Gordianus. You're trespassing on my property. I'd be perfectly in my right to pull you off that horse and beat you like a slave. State your business or get out. Or do you want a beating? I could give one to the boy, as well.'

'Papa!' said Meto under his breath, bristling. I touched his arm to quiet him.

'We've come, Gnaeus Claudius, because someone has committed an atrocity on my farm. An act of desecration. An offence against the law and against the gods.'

'If the gods are offended, perhaps it's because a plebeian nobody from Rome has got his hands on a piece of property that's been in my family for generations! Perhaps you should have thought of that before you set your backside down where it doesn't belong.'

'Papa, we shouldn't stand for this,' said Meto.

'Quiet! Are you admiring your responsibility, Gnaeus Claudius?'

'For what?'

'For the desecration I speak of

'I don't know what you're talking about. But if some catastrophe has fallen on your head, then it's good news to me. Keep talking. You amuse me, plebeian.'

'You don't amuse me, Gnaeus. Neither did the little prank you pulled a few days ago.'

'Enough of the riddles! Make your meaning clear or get out!'

'I'm talking about the body you threw into my well.'

'What? You've been out in the sun too much without a hat, Gordianus. That's the first rule you should have learned if you want to be a farmer: wear a hat.'

'You deny it?'

'What body? What well? Give your father a good hard slap, boy. He's babbling.'

Meto seemed barely able to restrain himself. I saw his knuckles whiten as he gripped his rein.

'I'm talking about the body of your slave, Forfex. Do you deny that you killed him five days ago?'

'Why should I deny it? He was my slave for years, and before that he was my father's slave. I had every right to kill him, and may Jupiter strike me down if he didn't deserve it!'

'You're an impious man, Gnaeus Claudius.'

'And you're a fool and an upstart, Gordianus, so-called Finder. You managed to find a body in your well, then? Good for you, and good for whoever put it there. But don't lay the blame at my door. I had nothing to do with it.'

'The body was that of Forfex.'

'Impossible. My slaves disposed of the corpse. I gave the orders myself, and my slaves are not in the habit of disobeying me, you can believe that!'

'Even so, the body ended up in my well' 'Not Forfex’.

'Yes, most certainly Forfex.'

'Would you even have known Forfex if you'd seen him alive? Oh, but that's right, you were along when Forfex showed your friend the way to the mine, weren't you?'

'Was I?'

'So Forfex said later; he claimed that one of the trespassers was called Gordianus, though I didn't recognize you in the gloom that evening. If I'd known it was you, I'd have had you dragged from your horse and whipped.'

'You're very generous with your threats and insults, Gnaeus Claudius. You seem quite proud to confess that you killed a helpless slave. Why are you so timid when it comes to admitting that you had Forfex dropped down my well?'

'Because I did no such thing!' he shouted. The dogs began to bay and howl.

'I say that you did. If it had been anyone else but Forfex—' ‘You keep insisting that this body was my slave. Prove it, then. Show him to me.'

'And if I do, will you admit to this act?'

'No, but at least I might believe you when you say that it was Forfex you found in your well.'

'But how can I do that, when you yourself took steps to see that I couldn't prove the slave's identity by showing his face?'

'What do you mean? I may have crushed his skull, but he could still be recognized. You must have recognized him yourself since you say you knew him by sight.'

'I never said that.'

"Then how do you know it was Forfex?' he shouted, infuriated. 'I have my ways.'

'What do you mean? Have you been trespassing on my land again, talking to my slaves, putting lies in their ears?' He squinted, so fiercely that I could not see his eyes. 'How did you know that I killed Forfex? Who told you? Who dared?'

'I also know about the other body,' I said, partly to change the subject, partly to see his reaction. At the same time I glanced at Aratus, whose face remained impassive. I had not caught a single look exchanged between him and Gnaeus; if they shared some secret, or even knew each other by sight, their eyes and faces did not betray it.

^‘What other body?' cried Gnaeus.

'You proclaim your ignorance too quickly, Gnaeus Claudius — the sure sign of a guilty man. You know what I'm talking about. Furthermore, I have strong proof against you for that offence as well, and you shall regret your impudence.'

Gnaeus cocked his head and made a face. He spat on the ground and waved both hands at me. 'You're mad, utterly mad. You make no sense at all, and now you've begun to threaten me in front of my own home. Get out, now! Get out or I'll call the dogs on you. They can seize a man by the leg and pull him off his horse in an instant, and tear the throat out of his neck in the blink of an eye. If you don't believe me, just give me an excuse to prove it! And there's no law to keep me from doing it as long as you're on my land, as you well know. Now get out!'

I looked at him steadily for a moment, then reined my horse and turned around. 'But Papa—' Meto protested.

'Our business is done, Meto,' I said under my breath. 'And I think he means his threat about the dogs. Come!'

Reluctantly, and not before he cast a glowering look back at Gnaeus, Meto turned his horse around. Aratus and the other slaves had already done so at my signal. I set the pace, riding at a gallop across the little bridge, down the trail past the goatherds' house and through the rockstrewn woods. The dappled sunlight felt good on my face, but my spirits did not truly lift until we emerged into the full sunlight again, not far from the Cassian Way.

Meto rode up beside me. 'But, Papa, we left before Gnaeus Claudius admitted his guilt!'

'We would be a long time waiting for him to admit something he didn't do.'

'I don't understand.'

'You saw the man with your own eyes, Meto, and heard him speak with your own ears. Do you believe he knows anything about the body in the well?'

'He admitted to killing Forfex!'

'Without hesitation, which makes his protestations of ignorance all the more convincing. I believe him when he says he knows nothing about the body in the well. He killed Forfex and ordered his slaves to dispose of the body, and that is the last he knew of the matter. You noticed, I suppose, that I never mentioned that the body had no head, though I alluded to it.. He showed no comprehension at all, and assumed that we recognized Forfex by his face, not by his birthmark.'

'But he could have been lying.'

'The man is not much of an actor. He shows everything on the surface. I know his type. He was raised to have all the pomposity and pride of a patrician without any of the polish of his class. He threatens and bullies other men with impunity, because he thinks it's his birthright. Not a devious or even deceitful type; he has no use for lying, because he's never ashamed of anything he does, no matter how outrageous. He says whatever he wants because he always expects to get his way, and he probably does.'

'He didn't get his way about keeping you from having the farm.'

'True, but if he was serious about attacking us, I think he would do so in a less underhanded manner. And if he was involved in these outrages, I think he would admit his part when we accused him, don't you? He would boast about it. He's a crude man; he has no subtlety at all — you've seen the way he handles his slaves and his dogs. Whoever gave us Nemo and Forfex has a shrewd mind, almost playful, however wicked. That hardly describes Gnaeus Claudius.'

'I suppose not. But just before we left, you accused him outright of being responsible for Nemo, too. You said you could tell he was lying. You said you had proof!'

'A final bluff, a last effort to convince myself that he knows nothing at all about either of the bodies appearing on the farm. No, Gnaeus is not our tormentor. He killed Forfex, true, and for that I pray that Nemesis will punish him. Forfex somehow came to be in our well, with his head missing -1 give you credit for remembering the birthmark when I did not, and I confess to doubting you wrongly. But between the crude interment of Forfex's body and its decapitation and appearance in the well, someone else had a hand.'

'But who, Papa?'

'I don't know. Without some further crisis, we may never know.'

I could see by the look on his face that this was not good enough for Meto. Nor was it satisfactory for me, but the years had given me more patience. 'I still say we should bring charges against him,' said Meto.

'It's not worth bothering Volumenus. You've seen how long it's taking him to get a judgment on our water dispute with Publius Claudius. What is the point of bringing a suit where we have no evidence at all?'

'But we do have evidence!'

'A headless corpse with a birthmark? The testimony of a goatherd who could never be compelled to testify against his master? The complete denial of the charge by Gnaeus Claudius? The testimony of an old, senile farm slave who thinks he might have heard a splash and might have glimpsed a shadow one night when he got up to pass water? No, Meto, we have no evidence at all Granted, we might be able to bribe a jury, which is one way of winning a lawsuit in Rome when you have no case, but my heart would not be in it. I don't believe that Gnaeus Claudius was responsible.'

'But, Papa, someone must have done it. We have to find out who!'

'Patience, Meto,' I counselled wearily, and wondered if I should counsel resignation also, knowing all too well that many mysteries are never resolved. Men go on living anyway, in ignorance and fear, and though they may call their state of puzzlement intolerable, they seem able to tolerate it nonetheless, as long as their hearts keep beating.

Aratus gave me counsel on the purification of the well. Hardly a priest, he seemed nonetheless to take a practical view of the matter, and he had seen others purify wells polluted by rodents and rabbits, if not dead slaves. He thought it significant that Forfex had been properly buried, at least for a slave, before his remains were disturbed. This meant there was a good chance that Forfex's lemur had been put to rest before he was disinterred. If so, the lemur might have clung to the more familiar site of the waterfall on the mountainside, rather than follow the desecrated and beheaded corpse onto unknown soil. The arguments seemed to ring true with the slaves, who accordingly relinquished their newfound terror of the well. Whether Aratus himself believed the arguments he put forth I did not know, but I was grateful for their pragmatic effect and for his politic handling of the situation.

There remained the literal pollution of the well, for while a lemur might or might not have been involved, there was no doubt that a bloated corpse had been in contact with the water and had tainted it. A man or beast could grow sick and even die from dnnking such water. Aratus believed that the well would replenish and purify itself, given time, and meanwhile recommended that we drop heated stones into the well, to make the water boil and steam. This seemed to me like cauterizing a wound with a hot iron and made no sense in connection with a well, but I reluctantly took his advice. In the meantime, we had some water that had been stored in urns, and the stream was not completely dry. Still, there were dry days ahead.

Much of our hay for the winter had been blighted. We ran a grave risk of running short of water. I began to realize, with great uneasiness, that if another such disaster struck, I might be compelled to sell the farm. For a rich man, a farm in the country is a diversion, and if it loses money the loss is merely the cost of the diversion. But for me there was no fortune back in the city; the farm was the enterprise on which I had staked my future. Its success was essential; its failure would ruin me. That summer it seemed to me that the gods themselves were conspiring to rob me of what Lucius Claudius in his generosity had given me, and Cicero with his cleverness had secured for me by law.

Each day, Aratus fed a bit of well water to one of the farm animals, usually a kid. It did not kill them, but it did loosen their bowels and cause them to vomit. The water remained undrinkable.

I persevered with the building of the mill on the stream. Aratus had the slaves tear down a little unused shed to provide building stones and beams. Day by day the vision in my mind began to take shape. My old friend Lucius would have been surprised and proud, I thought.

I anticipated a visit from Catilina, or perhaps from Marcus Caelius, but for the rest of Quinctilis and well into the month of Sextilis I was undisturbed. In the meantime I posted slaves to act as watchmen each night, relieving each other in shifts, like soldiers in a camp. Whether this was the cause or not, we received no more rude surprises in the form of headless bodies. There was another unsettling event, however.

It was the just after the Ides of Sextilis, almost a month after our return from Rome. The day had been unusually busy. We had reached a critical pass in the construction of the mill; the gears would not mesh, though I had measured and remeasured the proportions and worked out all the calculations beforehand. Also, a thunderstorm had blown over us during the night, bringing no rain but scattering broken branches and other debris all over the property; the men had a full day's work cleaning up the mess. As the long summer afternoon dwindled to twilight, I at last had found time to rest for a moment in my study, when Aratus appeared at the door.

'I didn't want to disturb you before, because I thought it might pass, but as he's getting worse, I suppose I should tell you now,' he said.

'What are you talking about?'

'Clementus. He's ill — very ill, it appears. His complaints began this morning, but as they seemed to come and go, and as he appeared to be in no great distress, I saw no reason to bother you with it. But he's grown worse through the day. I think he might die.'

I followed Aratus to the little lean-to by the stable where Clementus slept at night and as often napped in the daytime. The old slave lay in the straw on his side, clutching his knees to his chest He moaned quietly. His cheeks were flushed, but his lips were slightly blue. A slave woman hovered over him, dabbing his race from time to time with a damp cloth. At intervals he was seized by a shuddering spasm, drew even more tighdy into a ball, and then slowly relaxed with a pathetic whimper.

'What's wrong with him?' I whispered.

'I'm not sure,' said Aratus. 'He was vomiting earlier. Now he can't seem to swallow, and when he tries to speak his words come out slurred.'

'Do any of the others share the same complaints?' I asked, thinking that a plague on the farm would be the final calamity.

'No. It may simply be because he's old.' Aratus lowered his voice. 'Such storms as we had last night are often harbingers of death to people of his age.'

As we watched, Clementus convulsed and stiffened. He opened his eyes and peered up at us with an expression more of puzzlement than pain. He parted his lips and released a long, rasping moan. After a moment the woman attending him reached out and touched his brow with trembling fingers. His eyes remained unnaturally open. The woman drew back her hand and crushed her knuckles to her lips. Clementus was dead.

He was quite old, of course, and the old are apt to die from many causes, and at any time. But I could not help remembering that it had been Clementus who had heard a muffled splash when Forfex was dropped into the well, and afterwards had witnessed a vague shadow walking about in the night.

XXVIII

The water mill would not work.

I told myself ruefully that I was not an engineer — any more than I was a farmer, added another voice in my head — and so should hardly have been surprised when my plans turned out not to be workable. I had kept the design as simple as I could. I had built a little model out of slivers of wood that seemed to work well enough. Aratus himself, never hesitant to inject a negative note, had deemed the idea practical and the construction sound. But when I set the slaves to turning the master wheel (for at midsummer in the month of Sextilis there was not enough force in the stream to turn it), the gears revolved only for a few degrees and then jammed fast. The first time this happened, the slaves kept pushing at the master wheel until two of the wooden axles split asunder with a great noise like a thunderclap. I was more careful the next time, and the next, but the mill simply would not function.

At night I dreamed of it. Sometimes I saw it as it should be, with the stream sliding along its banks, the master wheel spinning, and the crushing blocks gnashing together like teeth, with grain pouring from the outlet in endless abundance. In other, darker dreams I saw it as a sort of monster, living but malicious, spinning out of control, crushing hapless slaves in its gears and pouring blood from its mouth.

Why did I lavish so much energy and imagination on the completion of the mill? I told myself that it was a gift to the shade of my benefactor, Lucius Claudius. It was a sign of my full adjustment to country life, a signal that I had not simply accommodated myself to being a farmer but was mastering the elements around me. It was a gesture of defiance against Publius Claudius, who thought he could rob me of my water rights. It was all these things, true enough (besides being what it concretely was, or should be, a building of intrinsic value), but it was also a diversion. The mysteries of Nemo and Forfex remained unsolved. Rather than allow these failures to prey on me, I fretted over the continuing failure of the mill instead; rather than turn my fantasies to the professional satisfaction I would feel if I could somehow resolve these mysteries once and for all — an old, familiar satisfaction, as comfortable as a worn garment — I turned my fantasies to the technical triumph of a water mill that would actually work. In the same way, my obsession with the mill allowed me an escape from the problem of our dwindling water and the looming prospect of a winter without enough hay.

These crises seem small now when compared to the greater crisis that was brewing all around us — not only down in Rome and in Etruria, but all up and down the length of Italy. I might claim that I had no intimation of the catastrophes to come, but that would not quite be true. A man who turns his back on a fire can truthfully say that he cannot see the fire, but he can feel its heat against his back; he can see the lurid light that colours the objects around him and his own shadow cast before him. But if I had an inkling of where the struggle between Cicero and Catilina would lead, I chose to fret over my water mill instead.

Towards the end of the month of Sextilis, Diana reached her seventh birthday. The birthdays of little girls are not much celebrated among Romans, but this day — the twenty-sixth day of Sextilis, four days before the Kalends of September — was doubly special in our household, for it was not only the day that Bethesda had given birth to Gordiana, but also the day when Marcus Mummius had delivered Meto to us after rescuing him from his bondage in Sicily. We had made the day a family holiday and always celebrated with a special meal; several days beforehand Bethesda began overseeing Congrio's preparations in the kitchen. Eco had always been present for the event, and this year would be no exception. As we had journeyed down to Rome for Meto's toga day, so Eco and Menenia would come up from the city for the private celebration.

They arrived by wagon on the day before Diana's birthday, with Belbo and five other slaves in attendance. The slaves, I noticed, were among the strongest in Eco's household and were all armed with long daggers tucked into their tunics. I made some joke about his going out with a bodyguard to rival Cicero's, but Eco did not laugh. 'Later,' he said enigmatically, as if to acknowledge that he owed me an explanation when I had only been jesting. - Bethesda took great pains to make Menenia feel at home, returning the courtesy that her daughter-in-law had shown her in the city; the warmth between them seemed quite genuine. Meto and Diana were delighted to have their older brother on the farm, if only for a brief visit. While all the others were engaged in one another's company, I took the chance to slip away. I found Belbo with the other slaves from Rome relaxing in a patch of shade beside the stable and taking turns in a round of trigon. They stood in a triangle, batting the leather ball back and forth. Belbo, famous for strength rather than agility, was soon out of the game. I called to him to join me. He followed as I strolled around the corner and out of hearing of the others.

'My son surrounds himself with a considerable bodyguard to protect two people with nothing valuable on their persons, on such a short journey and on such a well-travelled road.'

Belbo grinned and shook his head. 'The old Master misses nothing, as always.'

' "As always" — Belbo, I wish I were half as observant and canny as I once was, or thought I was. Why so many daggers?' 'Times in the city are tense.'

'That's awfully vague. What has my son got himself into?' 'Shouldn't that be for him to tell you?'

'If you were new in the household, I'd excuse you from talking to your old master about your new master behind his back, but you know me too well to hide anything from me, Belbo. Is Eco up to something dangerous?'

'Master, you know the life. You remember the danger from day to day.'

I stared at him steadily, unimpressed with his evasions. He was as strong as an ox and as loyal as a hound, but he was as bad at keeping secrets as he was at playing trigon. I watched his face blush red to the roots of his straw-coloured hair.

'It's me new work he's doing,' he confessed.

'For whom?'

'For the young man who was at Meto's party — you saw him, you talked to him. He came back several days later to hire the young Master..The man with the fashionable beard and hair.'

'Does that young man have a name?' I asked, knowing it already.

'Marcus Caelius,' said Belbo.

'Numa's balls, I knew it! They've cast their web over Eco as well.'

Once his meagre resistance had been breached, Belbo seemed eager to speak. 'It's something to do with a conspiracy — a plot to murder Cicero and bring down the government. The young Master's been going to meetings at night in secret I don't hear a lot; I stay outside with the other slaves and bodyguards. But there are big people at these meetings, I can tell you that — senators, equestrians, patricians, people I've seen in the Forum for years. Marcus Caelius is often there as well.'

While he spoke, I shook my head and clenched my teeth. Eco should have known better, I told myself than to let himself be drawn into the affairs of Marcus Caelius and his master, whether that master was Cicero or Catilina. To investigate the circumstances of a simple murder or ferret out the truth in a property dispute was one thing; to put on a blindfold and be pushed back and forth in the devious plot and counterplot between Cicero and Catilina was quite another. It was more than the unacceptable degree of clanger and uncertainty; I had taught Eco to be a Finder, not a spy. To my mind, there is honour in uncovering the truth and laying it out for all to see in the sunlight, but none at all in covering it from view and whispering in the dark.

It occurred to me that Eco might have been allowed no choice in the matter. The idea of a headless body appearing at the house in Rome caused me to clutch at Belbo's tunic. 'Has he been threatened? Intimidated? Have they dared to make him fear for Menenia, or for us, here on the farm?'

Belbo was taken aback at my vehemence. 'I think not, Master,' he said meekly. 'Marcus Caelius came to the house not long after you left Rome. It all seemed cordial enough — the young Master is like you were; he doesn't like to take work from people he doesn't trust, not if he can help it. He seemed quite willing to do what Caelius wanted. If there were threats or the like, I never knew of it'

To hear such a placating tone of voice from such a giant suddenly struck me as absurd; almost as absurd as the sight of my fist, clutching the neck of his tunic and looking like a child's hand against the massive width of his neck. I released him and stepped back.

'See that the others keep their knives about them, even while they're playing trigon,' I said. 'And have someone keep an eye on the road that leads from the Cassian Way. If Eco believes he needs a bodyguard, I trust his judgment. But he should know, and so should you, that he's no safer here than in the city.'

I took a long walk around the farm to gather my thoughts. When I returned to the house, I found the family gathered in the atrium to escape the heat of the afternoon. Bethesda and Menenia reclined on couches facing each other; Diana sat cross-legged on the floor between them, playing with a doll; Meto and Eco sat side by side on a bench beside the pool. Between them was the little board game that Cicero had once given me and that I had passed on to Meto, called Elephants and Archers. They had evidently finished their game, for the bronze pieces had all been pushed to one side of the checkered wooden board. As I approached, I overheard Meto say something about Hannibal

'What are you two discussing?' I asked, as blandly as I could.

'Hannibal's invasion of Italy,' said Meto.

'With elephants,' added Eco.

'Actually, the elephants never reached Italy,' explained Meto, turning back to Eco. He seemed quite pleased for a chance to play the pedagogue with his older brother. "They died in the snow, crossing the Alps. So did Hannibal's men, by the tens of thousands. Don't you remember, years ago, when I first came to Rome, one of the magistrates put on a spectacle in the Circus Maximus — Hannibal crossing the Alps. They piled up mounds of dirt to make little mountains and ravines. For snow they used thousands of bits of white cloth, and slaves were hidden in little nooks with great fans to make them bluster and swirl. But the elephants were real. They didn't actually kill them; somehow the beasts had been trained to lie on their sides and play dead.' His smile faded. 'One of the slaves playing a Carthaginian soldier was trapped beneath an elephant and horribly crushed. It was awful, the red blood against the white snow — don't you remember, Eco?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Do you remember, Papa?'

'Vaguely.'

'Anyway, Eco, the point, as Marcus Mummius says, is that victory in battle hinges not only on superior numbers, bravery, and tactics, but on the elements as well — rain, snow, a muddy field, an unexpected sandstorm. "Elephants and elements both matter," he says, and "Men make war, but gods make weather." You should talk to Mummius about it sometime. He knows everything there is to know about great generals and famous battles.'

I shook my head. 'How did you ever end up talking about Hannibal? Oh, I see — Elephants and Archers.'

'Actually, Papa,' said Eco, 'Meto is very keen on military history.'

'Is he? Well, if you can leave the battle behind for just a moment, Eco, I'd like to ask your opinion of the water mill.'

Eco shrugged and stood. Meto began to stand, but I waved him back. 'Stay here. Visit with Menenia; try to keep your sister out of trouble. Surely you've seen enough of me mill by now.' Meto started to speak but bit his tongue and lowered his eyes. He sat down on the bench again and began to fiddle with the little bronze warriors.

'He really is fascinated by things military,' said Eco as we walked towards the stream 'Where he picked up such an interest I can't imagine. I suppose he's always been fond of Marcus Mummius—

'More to the point, what have you been up to in Rome lately?'

Eco sighed. 'Somehow I didn't think you had come to fetch me just to have a look at your water mill.'

"There's not much point. The thing is a failure, like almost everything else on the farm'

'Things are going badly?'

We reached the mill. I found a shady spot and gestured for Eco to sit beside me. Together we stared at the hard, baked mud along the banks and the thin trickle of water over the stones. 'I shall tell you my troubles first,' I said. 'Then you'll tell me yours.'

I gave him a full account of all that had happened since we left Rome — the discovery of Forfex's corpse, the pollution of the well, the encounter with Gnaeus Claudius, the death of Clementus.

'Papa, you should have let me know. You should have written.'

'And you should have let me know about your dealings with Marcus Caelius.' Eco looked at me askance. 'I wrangled it out of Belbo,' I explained.'It wasn't hard.'

'And I confess, I already knew about the body in the well.'

'How—'

'Meto told me. Most of the story, anyway.'

'Yet you let me tell you the story again, as if you knew nothing!'

'I wanted to hear it from you, from beginning to end. Meto's account was more dramatic, but yours was more coherent. Meto seems quite proud that he was able to identify Forfex by the birthmark on his hand. You glossed over that in your version.'

'Did I? Meto remains convinced, I suppose, that Gnaeus Claudius is the culprit'

'He leans towards that opinion.'

'Even if Gnaeus Claudius were, I'd be powerless to press charges against him. But he knows now that we suspect him — I as much as told him I had proof against him, so if he is guilty, and if he's capable of being intimidated, notice has been served. But there's something else I wanted to talk to you about—'

'Papa, you act as if it were nothing, finding another headless body on the farm! And this time it was an act of malicious destruction, not just intimidation. Really, if the matter can't be resolved, I think you should bring the family back to Rome, before something truly terrible happens.'

'Eco, we've discussed this before,' I said impatiently. "There's no room for all of us at the house, and besides, I have no stomach for living in the city. Instead of my leaving the farm, I'd suggest that you leave Rome and come here. Better that than putting yourself in the hands of Marcus Caelius. What does it mean that you've allowed him to send you into secret meetings with Catilina and his circle? Don't you realize the danger?'

'Papa, I'm working for a Roman consul.'

'Slim protection if you're caught in some crime with these men and slain on the spot, or if they find out you're a spy and lay an ambush for you. Where will Cicero be then?'

Eco pinched the bridge of his nose. 'I know you've come to have a low opinion of Cicero in recent years, Papa. You seem to have lost respect for him entirely since he won his election against Catilina. But you must give him credit for being true to his friends.'

'Don't tell me you're spying on Catilina out of friendship.'

'Why, no, Papa, I'm doing it for money. You would be the one who's doing it out of friendship.' There was an edge in his voice I had never heard before — the voice that had always been beautiful to my ears because for so many years he was mute. We had never had a true fight before. I suddenly realized that we were on the verge of having our first. I looked away and took a deep breath. Eco did the same.

'I suppose it would reHeve my anxiety to a degree if you would explain to me the exact circumstances of your involvement,' I finally said. 'What is Catilina really up to?'

'What Marcus Caelius says is true: Catilina and his colleagues are compiling to bring down the state. They had hoped he would win the election, in which case he would commence his revolution from the top, using his consular powers and the powers of his friends in the Senate to bring about their radical reforms by law if they could, and by civil war if they couldn't. That was the route Catilina himself preferred. He seems to have thought he had a genuine chance of being elected. Now that the only course remaining to him is an armed revolt, Catilina hesitates. He finds himself ringed in by doubt and uncertainty.' 'I sympathize,' I said, under my breath.

'So far, the conspirators have done nothing illegal, or at least nothing that could incriminate them. They put nothing in writing. They meet in secret, sub rosa.' Eco smiled. 'Catilina is quite literal-minded about it; he actually hangs a rose from the ceiling in any room where his friends conspire, to remind them that the rose means silence and that their words must never reach the world beyond. Still, Cicero knows eveiything they do.'

'Because you spy for him.'

'I'm hardly alone. And I'm only a lowly spy, not a member of Catilina's inner circle. I belong to an outer tier of men he thinks he can trust and who, he thinks, may be valuable when the crisis comes. Still, I hear a great deal, and I'm good at sorting the truth from all the fantastic rumours woven through it. These people are full of grand delusions; sometimes I wonder if they pose any danger at all'

'Don't tell Cicero that! It's not what he wants to hear.'

Eco sighed. 'Papa, you're impossibly cynical.'

'No, that describes Cicero. Don't you see that he craves the role this crisis gives him? If there were no conspiracy against the state, I think he'd invent one.'

Eco gritted his teeth. We were again on the brink of a rupture. I drew back. 'Give me details,' I said. ‘Who are these conspirators? Do I know them? Who else spies for Cicero?'

'Do you really want me to tell you these things? Once spoken, they can't be unspoken. I thought you wanted to wash your hands of Rome.'

'Better to know than not know.'

'But secrets are dangerous. Whoever possesses them takes on the burden of keeping them. Do you really want that responsibility?'

'I want to know what company my son is keeping. I want to know who threatens my family, and why.'

'Then you've given up on hiding your head in the sand?'

I sighed. 'The feathers of the ostrich are highly prized, but easy to pluck. Burying his head in a hole gives him no room to manoeuvre.'

'And leaves his long neck exposed to daggers,' said Eco. 'A sharp observation.'

'A sharper pun.' We both winced, then laughed. I reached out and clutched his hand for a moment. 'Oh, Eco, you say these conspirators are deluded, but not half so deluded as I've been, imagining. I could escape from Rome. No one can! Ask any slave who's fled all the way to the Pillars of Hercules or the Parthian border, only to be trapped and carted back to his master in a cage. We're all slaves of Rome, no matter how we're born, no matter what the law says. Only one thing makes men free: the truth. I've tried to turn my back on the truth, thinking that by ignorance I could escape the Fates. I should have known better. A man can't turn his back on his own nature. I've lived my lite searching for justice, knowing how rare it is and how hard it is to find, — still, if we can't find justice, sometimes we can at least find the truth and be satisfied with that. Now I've given up on justice altogether, and I even seem to have lost my appetite, not to mention my instinct, for finding the truth, until I despair of ever finding it again; but to give up on that search is to be utterly lost.' I sighed and shut my eyes against the brightness of the shimmering leaves above. 'Do these rumblings make any sense to you, Eco? Or am I too old, and you too young?'

I opened my eyes to see him smiling sadly at me. 'I think you sometimes forget how much alike we are, Papa.'

'Perhaps I do, especially when we're apart. When you're with me, I'm a stronger, better man.'

'No son could ask for more. I only wish you felt the same…' His voice trailed off and he bit his Hp, but I knew he was thinking of another who was not with us — of Meto, up in the house with his mother and sister, excluded once again from his father's counsel.

XXVIII

'So,' I said, making myself comfortable on the grass, 'tell me all you know of Catilina and his circle.'

Eco made a rueful expression.

'I accept the responsibility of knowing,' I said.

'It's not only you I'm thinking of but myself. If word ever got back to Catilina that there had been a breach in his secrecy and that I was responsible—'

‘You know you can trust me to keep quiet.'

He sighed and settled his hands on his knees, locking his elbows. I recognized the posture as if I looked in the mirror. 'Very well. To begin with, there are more of them than you might think. Cicero and Caelius always speak as if their enemies were legion, but you know how Cicero tends to exaggerate.'

'Cicero exaggerate?' I said, feigning shock.

'Exacdy. But in this case, he has good reason to be alarmed.'

'What exactly are these conspirators conspiring to do?'

'That remains unclear, probably even among themselves, but some sort of armed insurrection is definitely in their plans, and Cicero's death is their first priority.'

'Do you mean to say that all those bodyguards and that absurd breastplate were not just for show? I thought it was merely a vulgar display to frighten the voters.'

'I'm not so certain that Catilina wanted Cicero dead before the elections, at least not badly enough to actually plot his assassination. If Catilina had won the consulship, things might have gone very differently. But now the conspirators are all resolved on one point, if on nothing else: that Cicero must be eliminated, partly from revenge, partly as a lesson to others who serve the Optimates, partly as a practical matter.'

'Who are these men? Name names.'

'There's Catilina himself, of course. Everywhere he goes nowadays he's attended by a young man named Tongilius.'

'I know them both, from the time they spent under my roof. Who else?'

'Chief among them, after Catilina, is Publius Cornelius Lentulus Sura.'

'Lentulus? "Legs" Lentulus? Not that old reprobate!' 'The very one.'

'Well, Catilina has chosen a colourful enough character for his chief conspirator. You know the man's history?'

'Everyone does within Catilina's circle. And like you, they smile at the mention of his name.'

'He's an old charmer, I won't deny that. I did some work for him myself, six or seven years ago, right after he was expelled from the Senate. Everything about the man cried out "scoundrel", but I couldn't help liking him. I suspect his fellow senators liked him, in a begrudging sort of way, even as they were voting to expel him from their ranks. Does anyone call him "Legs" to his face?'

'Only his fellow patricians,' said Eco.

Sura is the nickname, meaning the calf of the leg, that had been earned by Lentulus in the days of Sulla's dictatorship, when Lentulus held the office of quaestor. A rather substantial sum of state money disappeared under Lentulus's administration. The Senate called on him to explain the matter. In response, Lentulus came forth and in an offhand and contemptuous manner stated that he had no account to render (the accounts being empty), but that he would offer them this — whereupon he stuck out his leg, as boys do when they play trigon and miss the ball. Lentulus got away with his show of contempt, thanks in no small part to his kinship with Sulla, under whose dictatorship a mere crime of embezzlement was child's play, but the nickname stuck.

At another point in his career Lentulus was brought to trial for some malfeasance or other, and was acquitted with a plurality of two judges voting in his favour. Later he was heard complaining that he had wasted his money by bribing one judge too many. A scoundrel, as I have said, but not without a sense of humour.

The scandals surrounding him did not prevent him from attaining

the praetorship and finally the consulship; unfortunately, he was elected to the office at the worst possible time, during the slave revolt led by Spartacus. Virtually everyone in power at the time was discredited by the state's faltering attempts to contain the rebel slaves; an orgy of recriminations and finger-pointing erupted when Spartacus was finally defeated. A year after his consulship, bereft of allies and vulnerable to his political enemies, Lentulus was expelled from the Senate on charges of misconduct. This time he showed his fellow senators not his bony leg but the back of his bowed head as he departed in disgrace.

But Lentulus persevered. At a time in life when most men would have been crushed by such a humiliation and too weary to recover, he reentered the electoral fray, beginning at the bottom like a young man. A year ago he was elected to a praetorship, more than ten years after his first term as a praetor, and thus won readmission to the Senate. Sheer brazenness had fuelled his re-emergence, but he possessed many other assets — the distinguished patrician name of Cornelius; a populist pedigree handed down by a famous grandfather who died sixty years ago in the anti-Gracchan riots; his marriage to the ambitious Julia, kinswoman of Julius Caesar, with whom he was raising her young son Marcus Antonius; and not least, a seemingly lazy but shrewdly calculated oratorical style which imparted the full charm of his jaundiced sense of humour and his compelling ambition.

'What are the man's motives in conspiring against the state?' I asked. 'After all, he's recovered his senatorial rank. He could actually run for consul again.'

'With no hope of ever winning. Behind his jaded sense of humour there's a great store of bitterness, and a burning impatience. Here's a man who had to start over at the middle of his life; he's eager for a shortcut to reach his destiny.'

'His destiny?'

'There seems to be something new in his character of late: a weakness for fortune-tellers. It seems there are some rather shady soothsayers. They've regaled Lentulus with verses purportedly from the Sibylline books that prophesy that three men of the Cornelius family will rule Rome. We all know of two — Cinna and Sulla. Who could be the third?'

'These soothsayers tell Lentulus outright that he's to be dictator?'

'Nothing as obvious as that. Oh, these fortune-tellers are clever. You know how the Sibylline verses are said to be written in acrostic, with the first letters of each line spelling out hidden words? Well, what do you think the first letters of these particular verses spell?'

I pursed my lips. 'Does it begin with an L?'

'Exactly: L-E-N-T-U-L-U-S. Naturally, they didn't point this out to Lentulus, but left him to notice it for himself. Now he's convinced that he's meant by the gods to rule Rome.'

'He's mad,' I said. 'I see what you mean by delusions. Still, a man like that, having risen so high, fallen so low, and risen again — he must feel that Fortune has some special role in store for him.' I stretched my legs on the grass and gazed up at the sun-spangled leaves. 'So Lentulus is the "leg" on which Catilina stands?'

Eco winced. 'The chief leg, yes, but as with most bodies there are two. The other is not quite so strong.'

' "Why does Catilina's conspiracy limp?" Please, no more riddles concerning body parts!'

'Even so, the second leg is another senator of the Cornelius clan, Gaius Cornelius Cethegus.'

'No nickname?'

'Not yet. Perhaps he's too young to have acquired one. If he did, it might be Hotheaded.'

'Young, you say, but if he's in the Senate he must be at least thirty-two.'

'Barely. Like Catilina and Lentulus, a patrician, with all the trappings. Men are different who are brought up from infancy to think so highly of themselves.'

'Yes, they are,' I agreed, thinking of Catilina's effortless poise and self-assurance, and thinking also of how an ambitious New Man like Cicero must envy and despise that natural, unaffected assumption of superiority.

'Like Lentulus, Cethegus is of the Cornelius clan, with many powerful connections by blood and ancient obligation. But he lacks Lentulus's long-suffering perseverance; he's young, impetuous, impatient, with a reputation for violence. He's not very effective in the Senate; he's not a very good orator — he itches for action, and words make him restless. He's also had a falling-out with his immediate family; he has an older brother, also in the Senate, with whom he hardly speaks. They say there was a bitter dispute over inheritance. Cethegus beHeves himself to have been slighted, not just by his family, but by the Fates.'

'An ideal candidate for revolution. He sounds sane enough, if not very charming.'

'He casts a spell nonetheless, over those who are susceptible. He appeals to well-born young men like himself who distrust rhetoric and hate the slow hand of politics, who find themselves shut out by the Optimates and who lack the money to launch successful careers but have a craving for power nonetheless.'

I picked up a twig and poked at the ground. "These are the principal conspirators?’

'Yes. Lentulus because of his perseverance, Cethegus because of his energy and daring.'

"These are the legs, you said.' I scratched two lines in the dirt. 'And Catilina is the head.' I drew a circle. 'But between legs and head there must be a trunk. Not to mention arms, hands, and feet.'

'I thought you'd had enough of physical metaphors.'

I shrugged. 'And I thought I wanted to know none of this, but I'm asking you nonetheless.'

'Very well. The trunk would be the people of Rome, of course. If Catilina could persuade them to follow him, if Lentulus and Cethegus could carry the plot forward, then the body would be powerful indeed. As for the arms and hands, there are a number of men in regular contact with Catilina and his friends — senators, equestrians, men who were once rich and now are not, men who are rich and want to be richer, as well as common citizens and freedmen. There are some who seem to be attracted by the simple excitement and danger of the enterprise, and others who seem to be fascinated by Catilina himself I suspect there are even a few high-minded idealists who think they are about to change the world.'

'Eco, you've become as jaded as your father. Perhaps they are about to change the world, though who can say if for better or worse. Names, Eco!'

He recited a lengthy list. Some of the names were familiar. Others were not. 'But you will know the names of Publius and Servius Sulla,' he said.

'The dictator's grandsons?'

'The same.'

' "How are the mighty fallen" ' I said, quoting one of Bethesda's Eastern maxims. 'Unless they land on their feet.'

"The Sullan connection runs deep. Among Catilina's most fervent adherents are the dictator's old soldiers who were settled in farming colonies up north. Most of them have fallen on hard times; they chafe at the yoke, so to speak, recalling the grand old days campaigning with their master in the East and helping him wm the civil war at home. Once all the world was at their feet; now they find themselves knee-deep in mud and manure. They think that Rome owes them better than they received. Now that their current champion, Catilina, has lost his bid to become consul, not once but twice, they may be ready to take up arms for what they want. They're busy rummaging behind ploughs to find their old armour; they're polishing their breastplates and greaves, sharpening their swords, fixing new points on their spears.'

'But can these aging veterans really stage a revolution by arms? I should imagine those old breastplates are getting a bit rusty, not to mention tight across the belly. Sulla may have once commanded the world's best army, but his soldiers must be getting a bit grey and soft.'

'Their military leader is an old centurion named Gaius Manlius. He's the one Catilina keeps running to Faesulae to confer with. He's represented the veterans' interests for many years and become their leader. It was Manlius who headed the veterans when they came to Rome on election day to vote for Catilina, and it was Manlius who kept them from resorting to violence when Catilina lost. A bloodbath after the election would have been premature; Manlius kept discipline in the ranks. He has hair the colour of snow, but he's said to be in superb health, with shoulders like an ox and arms that can bend a steel bar. He's been drilling the veterans and secretly storing up arms.'

'Is Manlius really up to running an army?'

The conspirators down in Rome think so, though perhaps it's only another of their delusions born of despair.'

'Perhaps they're right. Sulla did have an unbeatable army, once upon a time. They fought for glory and pillage when they were young; now they'd be fighting for their fortunes and their families. Who else supports Catilina?'

'There are the women, of course.'

'Women?'

'A certain set in Rome — mostly women of high birth who have an appetite for intrigue. His enemies make out Catilina to be hardly more than a pimp for such women, connecting them with his young friends in return for jewels he can sell, or secrets about their husbands. But I suspect that many of these women — wealthy, educated, exquisitely bored — crave power no less than men and know they will never attain it in any ordinary way. Who knows what sort of promises Catilina makes to them?'

'Politicians without a future, soldiers without an army, women without power,' I said. 'Who else supports Catilina?'

Eco hesitated. 'There are hints and rumours, vague indications that there may be men far more important than Lentulus and Cethegus involved, men considerably more powerful than Catilina himself.'

'You mean Crassus?'

'Yes.'

'And Caesar?'

'Yes. But as I say, I have no evidence of their direct involvement. Yet among the conspirators it's taken for granted that they'll both support whatever Catilina decides to do.'

I shook my head. 'Believe me, Crassus is the last man who would benefit from an armed revolution. Caesar might, but only if it served his own specific ends. Still, if they're involved, or even if they only tacitly support Catilina…'

'You see how the scale of the thing changes.'

'Yes. like a trick of the eye — a low hill capped with white flowers turns out to be a distant snow-peaked mountain. No wonder Cicero is nervous and covers the city with spies.'

'Cicero always knows about everything that happens in the city, and I do mean everything — they say the consul is never taken by surprise, whether the crisis is a riot at the theatre or a slur against him in the fish market. He has a passion for gathering intelligence.'

'Or an obsession. The mark of the New Man — nobles don't need constant surveillance to feel secure about their station. And to think that it started with me, when I investigated the case of Sextus Roscius for a rising young advocate with a peculiar name. I suppose I was the first agent in Cicero's network. And now you,' I said sardonically. 'Who are the others?'

'Cicero is too clever a spymaster to let his agents know of one another's identity. Because I report to him, Marcus Caelius is the only one I'm sure of-'

'If indeed we can be sure of him'

'I think we can, unless he's even more clever than Catilina and Cicero put together. For that, Caelius would have to be a god come down in human form to play havoc among us mortals.'

'At this point even that would hardly surprise me. The whole business stinks. Give me a good, honest murder any day.'

'It's the times we live in, Papa.'

'Speaking of time, how imminent is this crisis?'

'Hard to say. Like a pot on a flame, it simmers. Catilina is cautious. Cicero bides his time, waiting for his enemies to make some slip that will give him irrefutable evidence against them. In the meantime, Marcus Caelius says you've agreed to do as you did before, letting Catilina stay here if he wishes.'

'I never agreed to that.'

'You refused Cicero when he came to you in the city?' 'In so many words,' I said.

'To Cicero anything but an outright "no" means "yes", and even "no" means "maybe". He must have misunderstood. Caelius seems certain that you agreed to continue as before. Papa, do what Cicero asks of you. Catilina may not return. Or he may, and when he does you need only give him shelter. It's such a simple request. It doesn't even require you to take sides. I've cast my lot with Cicero, Papa, and you should do the same, if only by your passive assistance. In the end it will be for the good of everyone you care about.'

'I'm surprised at you, Eco, advising me to put everyone on this farm in danger because it will somehow make them safer in the long run.'

"The course of the future is already set. You said it yourself) Papa: you can't completely avoid danger, any more than you can give up your search for the truth.'

'What about my search for justice? Where does that stand in the midst of all this confusion? How will I know it, even if I find it?'

To this he had no answer, or at least no opportunity to give one, for at the moment a strangely garbed visitor strode over the crest of the hill behind us. We both looked around and drew back in surprise. 'What in the name of Hercules!' I said, while Eco threw back his head and laughed.

Diana marched down the grassy slope with as pompous a gait as Cicero had ever affected, her chin held high. Her haughtiness was compromised by a few awkward missteps; the sandals she wore were much too big for her tiny feet. Wrapped around her and dragging on the grass behind was a thin coverlet from her bed, tucked and folded in imitation of a toga.

'It's my birthday!' she announced. 'Now it's my turn to put on a toga and take a walk.'

'Your birthday is not until tomorrow,' I said. 'As for a toga — well, you're nowhere near sixteen. Besides that—'

I was saved from delivering a lesson on the hard facts of male and female by the appearance of Meto above the crest of the hill, who bore down on his sister, glowering. 'My sandals, you little harpy!' he snapped. He grabbed her by the shoulders, lifted her out of the sandals, and set her down again. He didn't shove or pinch her, but his grip was not gentle. As her bare feet struck the grass, Diana started to cry.

Meto paid her no attention as he slipped the sandals onto his feet. Then he shot me a dark look, turned around, and disappeared over the crest of the hill.

The makeshift toga came apart and fell to the ground. Diana, dressed in her tunic, clenched her little fists and cried, striking such a shrill pitch that I put my fingers in my ears. Eco scrambled to his feet and ran to comfort her.

Where was justice, indeed?

XXIX

It had perhaps been a mistake to exclude Meto from my conversation with Eco; on the other hand, his childish behaviour with Diana seemed to contradict his own insistence that he was as grown-up as his brother. I brooded over this for the rest of the day, while Meto brooded over being slighted. Eco brooded over the appearance of Forfex, and his father's stubbornness; Menenia brooded over her husband's disquiet. Bethesda brooded over the general atmosphere of unhappiness on the farm. Ironically, once she stopped crying, Diana recovered her good humour at once. The general uneasiness seemed to confuse her, but it did not quench her spirits.

Diana'sbirthday passed without any outward unpleasantness. Congrio once again outdid himself. If our spirits were ill at ease, our bellies had no cause for complaint. Menenia had gone shopping in the markets at Rome, and Diana was showered with little gifts — a blue ribbon for her hair, a wooden comb, a blue and yellow scarf like the one Menenia had bought for herself on Meto's toga day, which Diana had coveted. As if to shut away our anxieties, we concentrated all our attention on Diana, who accepted this outpouring of affection as if it were no less than her due for the accomplishment of turning seven years old.

Eco returned to Rome the next day.

The few remaining days of the month of Sextilis passed quickly. In the blinking of an eye we were well into September. It was a busy time on the farm, with much tending to crops and preparations for the harvest. The long days afforded time to deal with the endless repairs and improvements that had accumulated in the winter and been put off through the busy spring and summer. Every day there was more work than could be accomplished before sundown. No longer did I while away my days on the ridgetop or in my library; instead I plunged wholeheartedly into the operation of the farm. Rather than feeling burdened by this ongoing labour, I felt liberated by it. Confronted by the mysteries of Nemo and Forfex and unable to resolve them, uneasy over Eco's involvement in the plots and counterplots afoot in Rome and yet unable to affect his fortunes, I found escape in the simple, physical exhaustion of working myself to the limit each day and falling into a dreamless sleep at night. The slaves seemed uncertain of what to think of a master who drove himself so hard; I can scarcely imagine that Lucius Claudius ever did so much as pick a single olive from a tree. By sheer energy I believe I finally began to earn Aratus's grudging respect, and by working beside him day by day, seeing how he handled the daily crises and the slaves in his charge, I finally began to trust both his judgment and his loyalty.

I tried to delegate as much responsibility as I could to Meto, thinking to assuage his complaints of being slighted, but whatever tasks I gave him ended up half-done. He was growing bored with the farm, I feared, or else had decided to shirk any task his father might give him, simply out of spite. The more I tried to include him in the running of the place, the more the rift between us seemed to widen. He became increasingly inscrutable to me.

My relations with Bethesda, however, entered a delightfully mellow phase. She has always loved hot weather, for it reminds her of her youth in Alexandria, and as the long summer wore on into September she became more and more her essential, sensual self. She took to leaving out the pins and combs from her hair and wearing it down, in long tresses that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. There was more silver amid the black than there had been in past summers, but to me these silver strands were like the rippling face of the moon reflected in black water. My own newfound physicality seemed to please her; she liked the smell of sweat on my body, and the hardness of my arms after a day of strenuous work. Often, when I went to bed thinking I was completely exhausted, she would prove to me that there was indeed a measure of strength left in my body. She would summon it up and take it from me, leaving me limp and covered with a fresh sheen of sweat, drained of all anxiety and empty of every appetite, motionless, thoughtless, utterly at the mercy of Morpheus.

The stream continued to dwindle, and the water from the well remained impure, but Aratus expressed the opinion that we would last until the rains came in the autumn; as head of the household I was advised to pray to the gods to avert a dry autumn. As for the shortage of hay, which would loom large in the coming winter, I asked Claudia if I could purchase a quantity from her; unfortunately, she said, she had none to spare. To ask any of the other Claudii for help was, of course, out of the question. Other farmers in the region were not yet ready to sell their own private stocks, uncertain whether they had a surplus or not and preferring to wait until it was truly needed, when they could get a better price for it. I would have to solve the hay shortage when the time came; hopefully I would have the money on hand to buy what I needed, rather than see my livestock perish or face premature slaughter.

Though by comparison with these problems it was a minor complaint, I continued to be thwarted by the water mill. Aratus had no solution. I even invited Meto to help, but perhaps he detected the suppressed scepticism in my voice, for he exhibited an extreme disinterest. The failure of the mill would not have mattered so much if I had not begun the labour in memory of Lucius Claudius. Nor did it help that I had told Publius Claudius across the stream about it and had even invited him to share in its use. I hated to think of the wicked fool laughing smugly at my failure and passing the tale to his cousins Manius and Gnaeus behind my back.

On the morning of the Ides of September, I took a trip into the nearest village. We were constructing a new stone wall along one side of the stable, and I needed to hire a few extra labourers for the day. There was a market in the village where this could be done. I might have sent Aratus alone on the errand, but given the ugly events that had transpired on the farm that summer, I wanted to see for myself where any hired labourers came from and look them over before letting them on my property.

Aratus and I left on horseback early in the morning and returned a few hours later, leading a band of six workers on foot. They were slaves, but not shackled; these were trusted men, lent out by their masters for a fee. I would have preferred to use freedmen, but the man who ran the labour market in the village said that they had grown scarce in recent years. In hard times freedmen tend to give up the one thing they own, selling themselves back into slavery just to keep from starving.

As we turned off the Cassian Way, Aratus rode up beside me. 'Visitors, Master,' he said.

Sure enough, two strange horses stood tethered outside the stable, a dot of black and a dot of white against the wall. I left the slaves to Aratus and rode ahead. Meto had been in charge of the farm in my absence; I had made a point of conferring the responsibility on him, thinking it might help salve his pride. But when I reached the house he was not in sight, nor did he come when I called. The slave who was on watch — since the finding of Forfex, I had always kept watchers posted — scurried across the pitched roof of the stable and jumped to the ground.

'Where is Meto?’

'Down at the mill, Master.'

'The visitors?'

'Also down at the mill.'

'Only two?'

He nodded.

I rode at a gallop but slowed as I approached the mill. I dismounted and let the horse wander down to the streambed in search of tender grass and any pools of water that might be found among the dry stones and caked mud. As I approached, I heard a familiar voice from within.

'Then the problem must be here. Well, it's obvious these two gears were never meant to mesh — like trying to mate an ass and a goat.'

This was followed by good-natured laughter — Meto, laughing with more genuine enthusiasm than I had heard from him in many days, and someone else. I stepped into the doorway and saw Tongilius leaning against one wall with his arms crossed. His tunic was dusty and his hair windswept from riding. Meto stood nearby. They were both looking towards Catilina, who crouched among the great wooden wheels and axles. As I entered they all looked towards me.

'Gordianus!' said Catilina. ‘What a piece of work you've created! You thought up this design yourself?'

'With some help from Aratus.'

'Amazing! You're already known for cleverness; let no man say you lack ambition as well. I thought all the engineers were busy building catapults and siege towers for the legions, or else constructing bridges and aqueducts for the Senate. You have quite a talent. Who taught you?'

'Books and common sense. Having eyes and ears also helps. But not enough, I'm afraid. The mill doesn't work.'

'Ah, but it will. There's only one thing stopping it.' '"What do you mean?'

'Look here, at this shaft. It's exactly wrong.'

'What do you mean?' I found myself irritated at his self-assurance, but at the same time I had a glimmering that he knew what he was talking about.

'It should originate there,' he said, pointing, 'and be precisely perpendicular to its present arrangement.'

'But that would mean moving everything else around, changing the structure completely,' I said, hardly believing the solution could be so easy.

'Not at all. The two gears will meet side by side rather than at right angles. As it's now arranged, the mechanism must tear itself apart within a revolution. But with that single change—'

'By Hercules!' I tried not to look a fool, agape at how simple it was. He was absolutely right, without a doubt. 'Why could I not see what was before me?'

Catilina shrugged and laid his hand on my shoulder. His hair was windswept like Tongilius's, and his face was ruddy from riding. He looked half his age, happy and sure of himself, not at all like a skulking conspirator. 'You created the mill from scratch, and your head is cluttered with all the multitude of choices that went into its design; amid so many others, the single small detail that keeps it from working is invisible to you. I, on the other hand, came upon the design in its elegant entirety, and to me the one thing wrong with its perfection is glaringly obvious. You see, Gordianus, sometimes a fresh perspective can be of immeasurable help to a man. You're not the only one who needs that from time to time.' His voice lent a certain gravity to these final words, and he gave me a significant look as he gave my shoulder a squeeze before releasing it.

I contemplated the gears, trying to convince myself to accept the simplicity of Catilina's solution. Was his deduction as unremarkable and logical as his unassuming explanation made it sound, or was he a genius? How could he see in a moment an answer that had been perplexing me for months? I was at the same time irritated, impressed, elated, and still dubious.

'You've been riding,' I said absently. 'Surely not all the way from Rome this morning?’

'No, from up north,' said Tongilius. Catilina had been conferring with his general Manlius and the Sullan veterans up in Faesulae, I thought.

'Your invitation to me still stands, doesn't it?' interjected Catilina with a smile. 'Marcus Caelius led me to dunk so.'

I took a quick breath and pretended to examine the gears again so that there would be an excuse for the hollowness in my voice. 'Yes. Of course.'

'Ah, good. You'd be surprised, or perhaps not, at how many of my friends and colleagues suddenly have no room for me under their roofs after my latest disaster at the polls. But then other friends appear, to make up the balance.'

Catilina and Tonguius retired to the house to rest and change their clothes. I was too excited at the prospect of finally completing the mill to join them. Instead of building the new wall at the stable, I set the hired labourers to work realigning the gears. We worked into the night. Bethesda sent Diana to call me to dinner, but I told her to send down some bread and cheese instead.

Eventually the new arrangement of gears was set in place. In the absence of a rushing stream, slaves pushed the paddle wheel. Within the mill the mechanism shuddered and began to turn. The shafts revolved; the teeth fitted and meshed; the grinding wheel turned for one revolution, and another, and another, without mishap.

Small adjustments would be necessary, the housing would have to be completed, and actual use would no doubt suggest improvements, but for all practical purposes the mill was a success.

This moment filled me with a greater sense of achievement than I could have anticipated. Aratus wore such a smile as I had never seen on his face before. Even Meto dropped his sullen frown and seemed to share in my excitement. Catilina should have been with me. I looked towards the house, at the darkened windows, and wondered again at the simplicity of his genius.

XXX

Though the day had been long and hot, the night was pleasant. I was covered with dust, sweat, and grime. It was late, but in the flush of my excitement, sleep seemed far away. While I spent a few final moments doting on the water mill, I sent word to the household slaves to prepare a hot bath. Given the shortage of water, this was a considerable extravagance — for many days we had all made do with sponges and strigils to clean ourselves. But I deserved a reward, I told myself

Meto declared himself too exhausted to share the bath with me; instead he sponged himself from a bowl of water and went straight to bed. As I opened the door to the baths, a wave of warm steam flowed over my naked body, swallowing me. The lamp burned very low. I could hardly see the tub, but located it by following the sound of its gentle gurgling. I climbed over the edge and lowered myself gingerly into the hot water, hissing as it nipped at my scrotum I slowly settled into the pool until the water came to my neck. I let out a long breath and felt my muscles turn to mist.

As I stretched out my legs, I touched another limb beneath the water. I gave a start, but only a small one. I was not really surprised to find that Catilina was already in the water.

We sat at opposite sides of the tub, facing each other. Our calves touched, but I didn't bother to draw away. I was too tired to move, I told myself. Through the veils of mist I saw Catilina smiling. He held up a cup of wine and took a sip.

'You don't mind my being here, I hope? In your bath, I mean.'

'I should be a poor host to deny any guest that pleasure.' Besides,

I thought, Catilina deserved to share in this small gift to myself, since without him I should have had nothing to celebrate or to keep me up so late.

'I heard the slaves pass the order to stoke the furnace and I couldn't resist. I've been riding horseback so much lately that my buttocks have turned to stone.' He groaned and flexed beneath the water. The motion caused his leg to rub against mine.

'Where is Tongilius?'

'Already abed and sleeping like a baby. Your mill — it works, now?' he said.

'Yes. Glorious! You should have been there.'

"The triumph was yours, Gordianus, not mine. You must be very proud of your accomplishment.'

'It was sweet when we set the wheels in motion and the thing began to move, like a creature coming to life. I would have sent for you, but I thought you must already be asleep.'

'No fear of that. Lately I've given up sleep altogether. No time for it.'

'You're managing to stay busy, then?' I said, then realized the implication — that a man who has just lost a bid for power usually has time to spare.

'Busier than I've ever been in my life. Quite as busy as if I had won the election, I imagine. I doubt there's another man in the Republic who has as hectic a schedule as I do.'

'Oh, I can think of one,' I said.

"The consul. Yes, but Cicero can afford to close his eyes occasionally. He has so many surrogate eyes — and ears — all over Rome to keep watch for him while he slumbers.'

For a long moment I scrutinized Catilina's face through the mist, and decided there was no ulterior meaning in this reference to Cicero's spies. It was doubdess a subject much on Catilina's mind, no matter in whose company he found himself. The circle of those he could trust was growing smaller and smaller.

The water loosened my muscles. I felt my mind relaxing as well. 'You came from up north?' I said. 'Faesulae and Arretium.' 'Heading down to Rome?' 'Tomorrow.'

For a while we were silent. The water cooled a bit. I knocked on the wall. A slave appeared. I told him to add fuel to the fire and to bring us each a fresh cup of watered wine.

'You must be very happy in this place, Gordianus,' said Catilina. His tone was desultory, that of a tired man sharing a bath with another at the end of a long day, making minor conversation.

'Happy enough.'

'I myself have never attended to the day-to-day running of a farm. I used to own a few outside Rome, but I sold them long ago.'

'It's not exactly the bucolic dream that sentimental poets like to imagine.'

He laughed softly. 'I suppose reality has somewhat rougher edges.'

'Yes. There are problems — small ones, big ones, always more than you can shut back into Pandora's box, no matter how hard you work.'

'Running a farm is not so different from running a republic, I imagine.' There was an edge to his voice, at once wistful and bitter.

'It's all a matter of scale,' I said. 'Of course, some problems are probably the same for all men — wondering whether one can trust a slave, trying to placate a demanding wife… do I see you smile, Catilina? Trying to do the right thing by a son who thinks he is a man but is still only a boy…'

'Ah, Meto. You're having trouble with him, then?'

'Ever since he put on his manly toga, we cannot seem to come to an understanding. He puzzles me. To be fair, my own behaviour towards him perplexes me. I tell myself that he's at an awkward age, but I wonder if it's not my age that's the problem'

Catilina laughed. 'How old are you?'

'Forty-seven.'

'I'm forty-five myself. An awkward age, indeed! Who are we, where have we been, to what end are we headed- and is it too late to change the destination? All in all, I think it's harder to be forty-five than sixteen, if only because one sees so much more clearly all the possibilities that are forever out of reach. Old enough to have grown tired of one's own cleverness and skills, old enough for the passions of one's youth to have grown stale. Old enough to have seen beauty wither, while death claims more of one's acquaintances than are still alive. And yet one still goes on living. Certain ambitions and appetites diminish, but others take their place. All the while, the petty business of life continues — eating, drinking, copulation; grappling with the contentious natures of parents, spouses, children. I don't know what your problems with Meto might be, but I think you're very lucky to have him. My own son, being gone — I often wish, especially nowadays..He left this thought unfinished.

For a while we were both quiet. I felt myself melting not only into the heat of the bath but also into a familiar role. Catilina was changed from his previous visit, when he had been in such total, calculating control of all that passed between us. He was a man who needed to speak, and I, as I had been for so many before him, was a listener, the sieve into which he could pour the raw material of whatever burdened him — bitterness, remorse, frustration, fear. There is something in me that draws the truth from other mem this curse, or gift, was passed in the blood from my father, bestowed on us by the gods. Cicero might say that Catilina was using that gift against me, turning me into his confidant for his own ends. A part of me, too, was sceptical.

But there was nothing disingenuous in the sigh that passed from Catilina's lips. 'Were you in Rome on election day?' he asked quietly.

'Yes. The whole family was there, for Meto's coming-of-age.' 'Ah, yes, I remember Caelius telling me that the boy had just turned sixteen.'

'He cast his first ballot.' 'For me, I hope.'

'Yes, as a matter of fact. Our century went for Silanus, though.'

Catilina nodded gravely. He didn't ask for whom I had voted, taking my support for granted, I suppose. What if he had asked me? For Nemo, I could have said For Nobody. For a headless corpse buried in a hidden grave not far from where we sit. For a moment I considered confronting him with the riddles of Nemo and Forfex. I tried to imagine where such a confrontation might lead. If he was responsible, he would never admit it, no matter how self-revealing his mood. If he knew nothing of the matter and I blamed it on Caelius, a confrontation between them must ensue, and Caelius would be compromised I could hardly voice my suspicions of Circero without revealing my own role as Cicero's tool, and by extension endangering Eco.

I had time to tread this barren circle more than once in my thoughts before Catilina spoke again. 'Do you ever find yourself plagued with doubts, Gordianus? Ah, I see the look on your face, though just barely. Thank the gods for this steam — the naked face of doubt is hard to look at!' He sipped his wine. 'Do you think it's only the closeness of our ages, the coincidence of having been born a few years apart, that gives us this mutual understanding? What else do we have in common? I'm a patrician, you're a plebeian; I love the city, while you've abandoned it for a farm; I believe in exploring every appetite, while you appear to be a man of great restraint. I'm bold and rash in my politics, while I suspect that you would turn your back on politics altogether if you could. But you hate the powers-that-be in Rome as much as I do — so Marcus Caelius tells me — and though you won't do more, I'm thankful at least that you'll grant me refuge when I need it. Caelius also drew my attention to your son Eco. A valuable man, as canny as his father, some say. Caelius and Eco both tell me not to burden you too much with my plans, and so I won't You do enough to let me sit here on a September night, sharing with me your wine and your bath, listening to a failed candidate ramble on about his misfortunes. Would you call for your slave again? I'd like some more wine.'

I realized then that the cup from which he had been drinking when I joined him was not his first; no wonder his tongue was loosened and his guard relaxed. I called for the slave, who brought fresh wine.

'Should I have him heat the water?' I asked.

'It's more than hot enough already, don't you think? I'm fairly cooked.' With that Catilina pulled himself up and sat on the edge of the tub, leaning back against the wall. Steam billowed from his flesh. Rivulets of water reflected the lamp's amber glow and made the hair on his broad chest glisten. 'Perhaps it's time to take the cool plunge.'

'There is no cool plunge tonight'

'What? A hot bath without a cool one to follow? Rather like lovemaking without the climax.'

'Blame the interrupted coitus on a small problem with my well.'

Catilina raised an eyebrow. I studied his face for a sign that he understood, but saw none.

'Until the autumn rains come, we're short of water here on the farm. The well was polluted last month.'

'Polluted?'

I hesitated, but only for an instant Since the subject had come up, why not mention Forfex and see how Catilina reacted? ‘We found a body at the bottom of the well.'

'How awful! I suppose you took your foreman to task. What was it, a goat?'

'It wasn't the body of an animal.'

He cocked his head, made a strained face and blinked several times. The wine had slowed his wits temporarily, but it also exaggerated his expressions; it was hard to tell whether he was acting or not. '"What do you mean?' he said.

'I mean it was a man we found in the well.'

'What, one of your slaves took a fall?'

'Not one of mine. A neighbour's slave. You knew the man.'

'I doubt it.'

'No, he was known to you. I know, because I was there. Forfex.'

He knitted his brow. 'The name means nothing to me.'

'You remember, my neighbour's goatherd up on the mountain. He showed us the abandoned mine.'

'Oh, yes! Of course, Forfex. But dead, you say. Fell down your well. Polluted it, you say…'

'He wasn't discovered until several days later.'

'I shouldn't like to have seen it when you pulled him out.'

I nodded. 'The body was badly bloated and decayed.'

'But you were able to recognize him, despite that?'

'Despite what?' I looked at him carefully. Did he already know the body had been missing its head?

'The decay, I mean. I've seen what happens to corpses left to nature, especially in water.'

'We were able to figure out his identity, even so.'

'What was he doing on your farm, anyway?'

'We're not sure.'

'An unpleasant fellow, that neighbour of yours. He should keep his slaves on his own property.'

'You might have an easier task convincing Gnaeus Claudius of that if you hadn't gone trespassing on his land yourself'

'That's right, I suppose I did,' said Catilina with a laugh so genuine that I could scarcely believe he was hiding anything from me. 'And I took you with me, didn't I?' He slid back into the hot water with a hiss and shut his eyes. He was quiet for so long that I almost thought he was asleep. Then, opening his eyes, he announced: 'Too hot! But no cool plunge to follow,' he mused. 'Have you had enough, Gordianus?'

'I think so. Any more and Congrio will be serving me on a platter tomorrow with an apple in my mouth.'

'Well, then, let's cool oft’ in the open air,' suggested Catilina.

'I thought I'd simply dry myself—'

'Nonsense! It's a beautiful night. On the far side of the horizon where the sun descended, the god of the warm west winds is stirring in his sleep; he dreams of spring; he sighs, and the grasses sway. Let's take a walk and let Zephyrus dry us with his gentle breath.' He rose and stepped out of the tub. 'Come, join me, Gordianus.'

'What, without getting dressed? Without even drying ourselves?'

'Oh, we'll put on our shoes. Here, I've slipped mine on already. And I'll take these towels, in case we need something to sit on.'

I stepped from the tub. With his toe, Catilina pushed my shoes towards my feet I stepped into them, bent down and drew the straps taut.

'The hallway is dim,' he said, opening the door, 'but I think I remember the way.' He walked towards the atrium. Naked and wet, my skin hot from the bath, I followed.

The moon was bright and full, like a lamp set high above the atrium. Its white light shimmered in the pool and lit the columns along one side, casting stark shadows behind them. Thinking we had reached our destination, I stopped and looked down at my naked reflection foreshortened in the black water. The pool was so still that I could see the stars reflected in it. Reflected, too, was the bemused expression on my face — which abruptly gave a start at the sound of the front door creaking open.

'Catilina!' I said. But he had already slipped outside. All I saw was a naked arm beckoning me.

'Absurd,' I murmured to myself, but followed.

Outside, as Catilina had said, a gende zephyr was stirring across the valley. The wind was warm and dry, like a caress against my naked flesh. Ahead of me I saw Catilina, his glistening body as pale and sleek as marble beneath the bright moonlight Clouds of steam rose from his wet, warm flesh, so that he seemed to walk in a mist, with bits of ragged vapour trailing from his broad shoulders and muscular legs. I looked down and saw that my own body emitted the same warm mist. Nearby the oxen lowed in their pen, and a kid bleated sleepily.

'Catilina, where are we going?' I whispered loudly. He made no answer but walked on, gesturing for me to follow.

What a strange sight we must have made. I heard a noise from the roof of the stable and saw that the slave posted to keep watch for the night was staring down at us with an odd look on his face, uncertain, I suppose, whether we were naked men or spirits wrapped in vapour.

'Master?' he called in a low, uncertain voice. I waved, which seemed to satisfy him, though he kept gazing down at us with the same baffled look.

We walked past the pens, through the vineyards, into the olive orchard. I caught up with Catilina but no longer questioned him. I was too exhilarated by the strangeness of walking naked beneath the moon, by the kiss of the zephyr on my skin, by the dazzling flight of a huge white moth across our path. "This is mad’ I said.

'Mad? What could be less mad than for a man to walk naked across the face of the earth? What could be more piously in keeping with the will of the gods who made us after their image than to show ourselves to them thus?' We reached the foot of the ridge. Gatilina pressed on, striding carefully but quickly up the steep path. 'When I was young, after a hot bath on a mild night, I used to do this in the city.'

'In Rome?'

He laughed, remembering. 'On the Palatine Hill, outside my house. Sometimes alone, sometimes with another. We would take a long walk around the block, naked and steaming, letting the wind dry us. It's delicious, isn't it? Rome is full of naked statues which offend no one's dignity; why should a naked man? You might think it would have caused a scandal, but it didn't. Would you believe that no one ever complained?'

'Had you not been so good-looking, they might have,' I said.

'You compliment me, Gordianus.' We had reached the top of the ridge. Catilina dropped the towels and stepped atop one of the tree stumps to take in the view. I looked up at his heaving chest and the muscular arms crossed over it, his flat belly, his sturdy legs and the pendulous sex between.

'You are resplendent in your nakedness, Catilina!' I said, kughing and trying to catch my breath. I gazed at him openly, and not without envy. 'Truly, like a statue on a pedestal.' I felt a little drunk, not on wine any longer but on moonlight and the peculiar novelty of being naked out of doors. The wind had dried the steam from my body, but I was covered with a fresh sheen of sweat from the exertion of the climb.

'Do you think so? My lovers have said the same thing.' He looked down at himself) as if his body were familiar but separate from him, just another of the things he owned, like a finely crafted chair or a beautiful painting. 'Impressive for a man of forty-five, I suppose.' He complimented himself without irony or false modesty, but with the matter-of-factness of a man who has inhabited a body for a long time and is neither unduly impressed nor takes it for granted.

Below us the valley slumbered. I saw no lights from the distant houses of the Claudii, and from my own house only a single lamp was visible, set outside the front door by one of the slaves who must have seen us leave the atrium. Yet how could the world sleep, when the moon was so bright? The Cassian Way was a ribbon of purest alabaster skirting the base of the mountain. The roof of the house seemed to be made of tiles that glowed with a pale blue light. And when the zephyr sighed through the olive orchard below us, the rustling leaves shimmered black and silver. An owl hooted from a nearby tree.

Catilina sighed. 'I have never stinted myself of the pleasures that my body could take, nor stinted others of the pleasures it could give. Such a simple principle by which to live, don't you think? Yet even that has been turned against me by my enemies, twisted into something ugly and depraved. You were in the city during the final days of the campaign. You must have heard how they vilified me. The same as last year, but worse. Last year Cicero and his scheming brother Quintus tasted my blood; this year nothing would satisfy them but to tear out my heart and eat it.'

Catilina drew himself up and gazed down at the valley. When I had said he looked like a statue on a pedestal, I had meant it half in jest, but half in earnest. In his marmoreal nakedness, wearing a stern face, he might have been the image of a god. Not the gods of boyhood, Mercury or Apollo; Vulcan perhaps, or more likely Jupiter, master of order and shaper of the greater destinies, gazing firmly down from Olympus.

'If you had a beard, you'd look like Jupiter,' I said.

The thought amused him. He thrust his right arm stiffly before him, palm down, and spread his fingers. 'If only I could cast lightning bolts, like Jupiter.' He gazed at the back of his hand. 'Cicero can — did you know that? Lightning bolts emanate from his fingers. A kind of lightning, anyway. He points at the mob in the Forum; sparks gather at his fingertips and flash into blue flame. He shoots shafts of lightning straight into their eyes and ears, blinding them to the truth, taming them deaf to reason.' Catilina thrust out his arm again and pointed down with his forefinger, miming the action. 'Cicero's forefinger: the Vestal Virgins must be protected from Catilina! Crack! The lightning strikes, the voters quiver with superstitious awe and revulsion. His middle finger: Catilina seduces young men! The lightning flashes, the voters grimace with distaste — and perhaps a little jealousy? His next finger: Catilina pimps for rich matrons! The voters howl in disgust. His little finger, in the name of serving Sulla, Catilina murdered good citizens and raped their wives and children! The voters tremble with loathing. And on his other hand — well, with his other hand, he's busy masturbating, isn't he?'

I laughed out loud. Catilina grunted and began to laugh as well, a rich, good-natured laugh, I thought at first, until a taint of bitterness seemed to swallow it up before it had run its course.

'He has destroyed me with lies and distortions, and the mob acclaims him as the First Citizen in the land. Still, I had rather be Catilina than Cicero,' he said, studying his hand for a moment and then dropping his arm to his side. 'What about you, Gordianus?'

'What, had I rather be myself than Cicero?'

'No! Which would you choose to be: Cicero or Catilina?'

'An odd question.'

'An excellent question.'

'You're forever playing games, Catilina.'

'And you are forever avoiding them. Do you fear the element of chance? Must you always know the outcome ahead of time? Then choose to be Cicero!' He gazed down at me. Pockets of shadow obscured his eyes, but his lips had a quizzical twist. 'Do you know what I think? I think it would frighten you to be Catilina.' He jumped down from the stump. He picked up a broad towel, spread it on the ground and lay down on it, joining his hands beneath his head and gazing up at the moon.

'Lie down beside me, Gordianus.'

I hesitated.

'Come, join me. Gaze up at the face of the moon. You call your daughter Diana, don't you, after the goddess of the moon? Look up at her face with me.'

I lay down beside him, acutely aware again of my nakedness as I was bathed in bright moonlight 'Diana is short for Gordiana,' I explained.

‘Vaguely impious, even so, to call a child by a goddess's name,' said Catilina. ‘But fitting, I suppose. Diana, patron goddess of the plebeians, who inspired the Sabine women in their revolt. Diana, goddess of fertility and birth, dweller in mountains and woods, lover of all wild things. One tends to forget her in the city, just as one forgets the moon there amid so many lamps. She's stronger here. Her light bathes all the world with its glow. Lie here and worship her with me for a while.'

We lay in silence. Except for the occasional rustling of leaves and the hooting of the owl, the world was so quiet that I could hear my own heartbeat and Catilina's breathing beside me. After a while he said, 'May I speak with you frankly?'

I smiled. 'I doubt that I could stop you.'

'We seem to share the same taste in women, Gordianus. Your wife Bethesda is quite spectacular; she reminds me more than a little of my own Aurelia. Their beauty is much alike, as is their haughtiness, their mysteriousness. But it seems that we do not share the same taste in young men.'

'Apparently not.'

'Yet I can't imagine how anyone could fail to find Tongilius beautiful, even Cicero. His green eyes, the way his hair sweeps back from his forehead—'

'Tongilius is beautiful,' I acknowledged.

'Yet you do not desire him?'

'That would hardly be proper, would it, since I am your host and Tongilius is your companion?'

'Now who plays games with words, Gordianus? My point is this: if you have an eye for beauty, why do you not act on it? How can you resist?'

I laughed softly. 'First of all, Catilina, like many unusually good-looking men and women who encounter constant temptation, you seem to think such opportunities are as rampant for others as for yourself'

'Do you really underestimate yourself so ludicrously, Gordianus? Tongilius, for one, finds you quite attractive. He tells me so.'

At this I felt an unexpected and dubious quiver of gratification. 'You're joking, Catilina. Tongilius would never have told you such a thing. How could the subject have ever arisen?'

'It seems a quite natural subject to me. Unless they're talking about politics, what else do people talk about, except the relative attractiveness and desirability of other people? Indeed, what else is there to talk about?'

'Catilina, you are incorrigible.'

'No, insatiable perhaps, but eminendy corrigible. I am always ready to learn something new and to be corrected when I'm mistaken. You'd do well to follow my example, Gordianus. In this matter, as in others.'

'What matter?'

'The unreasonable restraint you show in your relationships with beautiful young men.'

'Catilina, you mustn't try to corrupt me! I'm unworthy of your efforts!'

'Nonsense, I find you entirely worthy.' 'I suppose I should be flattered?' 'No, grateful and attentive.'

I laughed deep in my throat, surprised at how much I was enjoying this banter between us. It was the spell cast by the full moon, of course, looming huge and white above us, almost close enough to touch. It was my own nakedness, and the moth which had flitted across our path, and Catilina's indisputable charm that made it possible to speak of things that never were or would be.

'Do you know what I think, Gordianus? I think we are opposites in many ways, and yet complementary. Caelius says that you have quite a reputation for extracting the truth from others, that you're something of a legend that way; men naturally want to empty their hearts to you. My gift is the same, yet different. I see into other men's hearts, into the places where they never look, and it's ‘ who tell them what resides there. Do you know what I see in your heart about this matter?'

"This matter, which fascinates you more than it does me?'

'I think not. I see inside you an extraordinary moral character, a man very much out of step with the world in which he lives. "We both know the Roman way of sexuality: power is everything; even more important than pleasure. Indeed, pleasure as an end in itself is something alien to a good Roman — decadent, Eastern, a vice of the Egyptians and the Greeks. Power rules, and power means penetration. Men possess that power, women do not. Men rule Rome and have made it what it is: an empire bent on conquering all the world, penetrating and subduing every other nation and race.'

"This seems far from the subject of lust.'

'Not at all. In such a world the natural proclivities of love are bent; pleasure bows to power. Everything is reduced to penetrating or being penetrated. How simple-minded, how much more suitable to the mechanics of your water mill than the complexities of the human spirit, but there you have it. Penetrate or be penetrated: women have no option in this matter and are thus permanently reduced to an inferior status. On the other hand, any man who submits to being penetrated by another man relinquishes his power and is thought to be no better than a woman, or at least so goes the consensus, though we all know that behind closed doors men tend to do whatever they wish, compelled more by pleasure than prestige. Thus all that gossip about Caesar in his younger days when he played catamite to King Nicomedes of Bithynia — such un-Roman behaviour! But of course

Caesar was young and virile, Nicomedes exuded an Eastern sensuality, and who really cares what they did, except a political manipulator of Cicero's stripe, who might be able to make a campaign issue of it — a matter of faulty character and judgment, they call it. Illicit sex brings down the wrath of the gods — just ask Cato — and if a Roman like Caesar allows himself to be ploughed in his youth, who knows what famines and military catastrophes might result!

'The Greeks allow for such passions, of course, but only, ostensibly, between the old and the young; it is suitable and proper for a young man to submit to his mentor, given the correct circumstances and decorum Still, you see, the balance of power depends on the role to be played. Naturally, there must always be exceptions, behind closed doors, that do not fit the model of the masterly mentor and the docile protege.

'We Romans, alas, do not even have a model to depart from. We scorn the Greeks, ridiculing their obsessions with philosophy and athletics. Lacking their time-honoured traditions, in matters of vice we are left to our own devices. Mostly, we take horrendous advantage of our slaves, male and female alike. Such passion has no honour, and is thus unfettered and untempered by any rules of dignity or decorum, much less restrained by law. The excesses of the Romans in exploiting their human tools are literally without limit. Slave girls are commonly raped against their will, slave boys are stripped of all their dignity and exploited just as rapaciously. They are treated with a degree of contempt that most men would not inflict upon a dog; indeed, a well-trained dog costs considerably more than a reasonably pretty boy or girl at the market.

'In such a world passion must invariably mean degradation for someone — or so the consensus decrees. So a man like Gordianus the Finder, this strangely moral being, finds other ways to shape his longings. Sex he must have, of course; in that way he is like every other man. But even so he is unconventional: he devotes himself to a slave woman, dotes on her beauty, indulges her haughtiness, and ultimately makes her his wife, thus elevating her rather than degrading her. His behaviour is almost a satire upon the Roman dictum to choose a wife for her status and a whore for her beauty. So far as anyone knows, he is more faithful to his wife than ninety-nine out of a hundred of his countrymen are to theirs. A love match, that rarest of Roman marriages!

'As for the pleasure to be had with young men, he will not approach the matter at all. Or rather, he skirts it. He has top much respect for them, whether citizen or slave, to blithely follow the formula that inevitably elevates one man and degrades the other. He prefers the role of chaste mentor, instead. This behaviour is rare but not unheard of; I have seen it before and recognize it in you. Gordianus does not exploit and rape his slaves. Nor does he seek out an uncertain middle ground with a companion of his own station. He teaches; he nurtures and dotes; he elevates. He makes sentimentality a fetish; his gestures are grandiose. He goes so far as to adopt a street urchin and a slave boy and to make these young men his heirs. Such an unconventional family! And while he remains exquisitely sensitive to the beauties of young men, he sees, but he does not touch. What reticence, more given to compassion than passion! He is a man out of step with a world that encourages the strong to devour the weak, that rewards cruelty and punishes kindness, that measures manhood by a man's will to dominate other men, women, children, and slaves, the more ruthlessly the better. He is a stranger fellow than ever Catilina was!'

He fell silent. We lay next to each other, equally naked beneath the bright moon. 'And Catilina,' I said, my voice strange in my ears because Catilina's words had made everything seem strange, 'how does he fit into such a world?'

'Like Gordianus, Catilina makes his own rules, to suit himself.'

We lay on the hill, musing and amusing ourselves long into the night.

As sometimes happens when the body has been heated by a bath, then cools, and then exerts itself again after an already strenuous day, I fell asleep without meaning to. Fortunately, the night remained mild and there was no morning chill. I awoke before cockcrow. The towel had been folded over me like a coverlet. Catilina was gone.

The moon was long departed. The sky was neither blue nor black but in between. The lesser stars had vanished. In the east Lucifer, the morning star, glittered just above the dark, brooding mass of Mount Argentum.

I stood, covering my nakedness with the towel and slipping on my sandals, which I had taken off during the night. I climbed slowly down the slope of the ridge, my back stiff from having slept on the hard ground.

The watcher atop the stable, yawning from his vigil, blinked his eyes wide open at the sight of me.

'My guests,' I said, 'the ones who arrived yesterday—'

'Gone already, Master. Took their horses an hour ago. Turned

towards Rome when they reached the Cassian Way.' He bit his lip. 'I was a bit worried about you when he came down from the hill alone.

I went up to check on you, and you seemed all right. Sleeping like

a stone. Did I do right not to wake you?' I nodded dully and went into the house.

Bethesda was asleep, but stirred when I slid my body next to hers. 'You smell like wine,' she murmured, with an edge to her voice. 'Where have you been all night? If this were Rome, I would think you had been with another woman.'

'Absurd,' I said. 'No chance of that happening here.'

I closed my eyes and slept till noon.

XXXI

That night on the ridge with Catilina was one of the last moments of calm before the deluge.

September continued dry and mild. The first days of October turned leaves to gold and quickened the harvests. With the puzzle of the mill solved, I gave myself over to running the farm again, and the work continued at a busy pace. I busied myself with small matters to distract me from the looming crises of hay and water, and from Meto's continuing coolness towards me.

Catilina visited once again in September and three times in October. On each occasion he brought other companions besides Tongilius, but there were never more than five or six. These men were large and armed: bodyguards. Bethesda did not care for the look of them, but they slept in the stable and ate the same fare as the slaves without complaint, and Catilina never stayed for more than a night.

On each succeeding visit Catilina became less communicative and more distant. I sensed in this the reticence ofa man increasingly distracted and pressed for time. He would arrive late in the day and leave early in the morning. He did not haunt the atrium or go walking naked under moonlight, but took to his bed soon after dinner and rose at dawn. I was seldom alone with him for even a moment; we shared no more revelations about the anguish of his defeat or the obscure geometries of desire.-

He did not even spare the time to revisit the water mill, though I offered to show it to him more than once. I had found it necessary to rebuild some parts of the mechanism to match better with Catilina's solution, and once the general design had been altered, Aratus also suggested a few minor adjustments to the overall scheme. This work was done in desultory fashion, in bits and pieces as the more pressing work of the farm allowed. By late October it was virtually finished, though its true utility could be confirmed and measured only when the stream once again rose high enough to drive the wheel. I looked to the skies every morning and night, hoping for rain.

It was on a day near the end of October that I decided to show Claudia the mill. It was Claudia who had told me of her cousin Lucius's intention to build such a mill; without her, I would never have known. I sent a message that she should meet me on the ridgetop at midday, suggesting we share a simple meal and telling her I had something to show her.

I brought cheese, bread, and apples. Claudia brought honey cakes and wine, and the greatest delicacy of all: a jug of fresh water. I told her that the honey cakes were sweet and the wine delicious, but that it was the fresh water from her well that ravished my palate.

'Has it grown that serious, your shortage?' she said.

'Yes. We're able to collect some water from the trickle in the stream; once the silt settles, it's good enough to drink, but there's hardly enough to quench the thirst of every slave and animal. Then there's a tiny spring that comes out of the ridge. That, too, is low; an urn placed under it is only half full by the end of the day. So to water the stronger animals we still use the well, though it loosens their bowels. Fortunately, there are still a few tall urns of water that were drawn before the well was polluted — I've set them aside as if they were filled with silver. And there's plenty of wine, but sometimes a man must have water to drink.'

'I suppose the well water is good enough for washing,' said Claudia.

'Aratus advises against it. Still, we use it sparingly with sponges and strigils. The well is low anyway, thanks to the lack of rain. Instead of immersing herself in a hot tub of water, Bethesda dabs herself with scented oils. She's normally as fastidious as a cat; unable to preen, she pouts. I'm afraid we've all become rather tawdry. This tunic I'm wearing could use a good washing.'

'Alas, I wish I could spare you more water myself, but my own well is dangerously low, or so my foreman says. Enjoy the water I've brought — drink up, and see if it won't make you drunk,' she laughed. 'Where is young Meto, by the way?'

'Busy, I suppose. He preferred not to come.'

'Oh, but I haven't seen him in so long; hardly at all since his birthday. Well, I won't press you about it,' she said, reading the look on my face. "Though I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he's less than happy here. I've told you before that you belong in the city, and the same is even truer for Meto. Not everyone was meant to be a farmer, especially when the city can offer such a full, rich life. Ah, but I said I wouldn't press the matter, and here I am giving unsolicited advice like the bossiest Roman matron who ever lived!'

We ate for a while in silence. It was a magnificent autumn day, the air crisp, the sky cloudless. The landscape below us was arrayed with subtle shades of ochre, grey, and evergreen. Slender plumes of smoke from the farms all around, from bread ovens and burning piles of leaves, rose straight into the air like white pillars. From the valley below, the lowing of the animals and the calling of slaves carried across the crystalline air.

'Was there ever such a day as this in the city?' I said quiedy.

'You have a point there,' said Claudia, who looked down on the scene with a placid smile. 'But your messenger said that you had something to show me.'

'So I do, as soon as we've finished eating.'

'I'm done,' she said, popping her plump fingers into her mouth to clean the morsels of honey cake. "Though you mustn't leave your apple half-eaten.'

'We have more apples than we can eat.'

'But it's such a waste!'

I laughed. 'I shall feed it to the pigs on our way down.'

'Down?'

'To the stream'

'Oh, Gordianus — are you going to show me the water mill?' She wore a strange expression. 'I am'

'I've seen you building it, you know. I can't help but notice it whenever I'm up here on the ridge. The building is quite handsome.'

I shrugged. 'It was made from bits of other buildings. It's no temple, but I suppose it doesn't pain the eye to look at it.' 'It's charming!'

'Perhaps. More important is what's inside. The mechanism actually works.'

‘Then it's finished?'

'As finished as it can be, without a stream to move it'

We rose from our respective stumps and gathered up the slim remains of our meal. I glanced towards the Cassian Way, as I always did whenever I was leaving the ridgetop. I noticed two horsemen coming up from the south. There was nothing remarkable in that, but even so, I felt a bit uneasy as we stepped down the path, and I kept glancing towards the road even after the brush and trees had blocked it from view.

Claudia was quite impressed; indeed, her enthusiasm was so extreme as to appear a bit forced, especially considering that she seemed to have no understanding of the mechanism at all. She asked the purpose of this gear and that shaft in such a way that it was clear that no explanation would suffice. When I summoned slaves to push the wheel and set the grinding blocks in motion, she gave a start and her smile cracked. 'Oh, dear!' she said. 'Like horrible, huge, gnashing teeth! like being in a Titan's jaw!' Deep down she did not like the mill very much, I thought, and she felt uncomfortable being near it. I ascribed this to her class and its deep conservatism, which distrusts all innovations, whether social or mechanical. Her cousin Publius had put it quite eloquently when I had told him that the mill could be to his benefit: 'What would I want it for? I have slaves to grind my meal!' I had hoped Claudia would be more receptive, but in some ways she was no different from her cousins.

The gears were in full motion when a voice called out, 'Magnificent, Papa!'

I turned and saw Eco standing in the doorway, with Belbo behind him — the two riders I had seen on the highway.

I laughed in happy surprise and stepped forward to embrace Eco. Meanwhile the slaves ceased their labour and the gears ground slowly to a halt Claudia smiled crookedly, then jumped as one of the gears made a loud popping noise.

'It's nothing,' I said, but the only way to calm her was to get her out of the mill house. I ushered everyone out of the door and onto the rocky stream bank. Eco wanted to see the mechanism demonstrated again, but I nodded discreetly towards Claudia to indicate that we should defer to our guest 'Perhaps later,' I said. 'Drive the slaves too hard and one of them is likely to injure himself'

'But how did you solve the problems you were having? Don't tell me: inspiration came to you in a dream! Just as it has so many times when you've been faced with a mystery that seemed to have no answer.'

'Not this time. As a matter of fact, a mutual acquaintance suggested the solution.'

'An acquaintance?'

'An occasional guest.' I indicated Claudia with a twitch of my jaw.

'Ah!' Eco understood the need for secrecy and nodded. 'That man from the city.'

'The very one. But we mustn't ignore today's guest,' I said. Eco acknowledged Claudia with a bow of his head.

'Oh, Eco, how lovely to see you,' crooned Claudia. Our brief conversation had given her time to recover her composure. 'What news from the city?'

'Actually…' Eco looked uncertain. I could tell in a glance that news from the city was precisely the reason he had come to visit me, but what he had to say was not for other ears. He blinked and I saw that he had quickly calculated how much he could say without saying too much. 'Actually, that's why I'm here. The atmosphere has been tense and unsettled in Rome all summer — as I suppose you must already know.'

'Oh, yes, my cousins have been predicting trouble ever since the election,' said Claudia.

"Then your cousins could find work as soothsayers,' said Eco. It was a facetious comment, but Claudia was not amused. The mill had set her on edge.

'There's talk in the city of armed revolution,' he went on. 'Cicero has got the Senate to vote him emergency powers — what they call the Extreme Decree in Defence of the State.'

'Ah, yes, the decree our ancestors created sixty years ago to get rid of that rabble-rouser Gaius Gracchus,' said Claudia with a bit of relish.

I nodded gravely. 'Gaius Gracchus was killed by a mob in the street while the laws against murder were temporarily suspended. Is that what they're planning for Catilina?'

'Nobody knows,' said Eco. "The decree is vague. Essentially it gives the consuls powers over life and death that would otherwise have to be granted by the people's Assembly — power to raise an army and send it to battle, and the right to apply what they call unlimited force against citizens in order to protect the state.'

'In other words, the Optimates in the Senate have circumvented any moderating influence that might have been wielded by the people's Assembly,' I said.

'And why not?' said Claudia. 'When the state's security is threatened, there must be recourse to extreme decrees. It's only a pity that such power should rail to a New Man like Cicero, who hardly deserves the honour and whose family background could scarcely have prepared him for the responsibility.'

'However that may be,' said Eco 'everyone knows Cicero's fellow consul Antonius is useless. If anything, he's in sympathy with Catilina. ‘ Which means everything falls on Cicero's shoulders.'

'Or into his lap,' I said.

Eco nodded. 'At this moment, in theory at least, Cicero has more power than any man since Sulla was dictator.'

'Then Cicero finally has what he wants,' I said. 'Sole ruler of Rome!'

'Well, if he can rid us of Catilina once and for all, then he deserves the post,' said Claudia. 'What other news, Eco?'

'Rumours of war. Catilina's general, Manlius, has openly mobilized his troops up in Faesulae. There's also talk of slave revolts, instigated by Catilina, of course. One in Apulia, another in Capua—'

'Capua? Where Spartacus started his uprising!' said Claudia, her eyes widening.

Eco nodded. 'All gladiatorial schools throughout Italy have been ordered to lock away their weapons and disperse their gladiators to other farms in chains. That was one of Cicero's first acts under the Extreme Decree.'

'To stir up memories of Spartacus!' I said ruefully. It was a clever move, to keep the people frightened and to solidify his support. The terror and chaos of the Spartacan revolt was fresh in everyone's memory. Thus, in a time of declared crisis, who could possibly be against breaking up the gladiator schools — even if they were in no way involved, and the only reason to draw attention to them at all was to stir up panic? At the same time, the association served to identify the impeccably patrician Catilina with a rebellious Thracian slave. I began to see what Catilina meant when he spoke of Cicero and his thunderbolts.

'Meanwhile, charges have been brought against Catilina.'

'Again? What sort of charges?'I said.

'Something more serious than bribery or embezzlement. One of the Optimates has indicted him under the Plautian Law against political violence.'

'And Catilina's response?'

'Uncharacteristically meek. He's voluntarily placed himself under house arrest at the home of a friend. That means he won't be leaving Rome.' Eco looked at me meaningfully.

'Good,' I said, automatically, as one shakes one's hands after washing them. The news disturbed me more than I cared to admit, but my own involvement might at last be over.

'Good!' echoed Claudia. 'Perhaps the whole matter can be settled without bloodshed. If Catilina can be tried and sent into exile, maybe his band of rabble will dissolve back into the mud. Cut off the head and the body withers!'

'Odd,' I said. 'I was thinking of the same metaphor.'

Claudia left us shortly afterwards, saying she would have to share the news with her cousins and learn if they had news of their own. Once we were alone, at his insistence, I showed Eco the mechanism of the water mill, but it seemed to me that the intricacies of what was happening in Rome were far more complex and, in spite of my aversion, fascinating.

That night, after dinner, we gathered in the atrium. The night was cool, but the sky was clear. At the turning of the seasons the fountain had been drained and a brazier put in its place. We sat in a circle around the fire. Meto joined us. I had made a point of asking him to stay and listen, but it had not been appreciated; the look on his face indicated that he found my efforts to include him merely condescending. Bethesda joined us after putting Diana to bed. The mood of impending crisis had penetrated even her catlike composure to pique her curiosity.

"This is the situation,' said Eco. "The Senate is raising an army to send against Manlius up in Faesulae, to join battle in Etruria or at least to keep Manlius from marching on Rome. In Rome the garrison has been put on alert, with extra night watches set all over the city. Catilina is under house arrest, but his fellow conspirators are all free; Cicero has no evidence against them There may or may not be an uprising in the city. There may or may not be a battle or several battles between the Senate's forces and those of Manlius. There may or may not be other uprisings elsewhere in Italy.'

'Is the Senate really in danger?' said Meto.

He asked the question of Eco and seemed disappointed when Eco deferred to me. 'Everywhere in Italy there is poverty, indebtedness, and forced enslavement due to bankruptcy,' I said. 'Our family has been favoured by Fortune, not to mention the will of Lucius Claudius, to rise rather than fall in the world at such a time, but all around us simple citizens starve, while proud nobles find themselves dispossessed and unable to rise again. The few possess great wealth and power, which they dispense in stingy increments to the many who struggle to survive. The corruption of those in power is naked for all to see. Men long for change, and know that they will never have it so long as the Optimates maintain their unshakable grip on the Senate. Can Catilina and his allies ignite a general revolution? Obviously the Senate believes it is possible, or else they would never have voted the Extreme Decree to give the consul extraordinary powers.' I spread my hands before the flames. 'How Cicero must relish the grave honour his colleagues have bestowed upon him! Was their gesture of faith in him spontaneous, I wonder, or did Cicero pull a few strings to manage the vote?'

'Yes, Papa,' admitted Eco, flinching at the sarcasm in my voice, 'you can be sure that Cicero lobbied hard for the passage of the Extreme Decree. The cooperation of the Senate was helped along by the anonymous letters that Cicero introduced into the debate.'

'Letters? You haven't mentioned these before.'

'No? I suppose I was watching my tongue around Claudia. On the evening before Cicero requested that the Senate pass the Extreme Decree, he was paid a visit by several distinguished citizens, among them Crassus. They came knocking on his door at midnight, demanding that his slaves rouse Cicero from his bed. It seems that each of these men had received anonymous letters that night, warning of impending bloodshed.'

'How did these letters arrive?'

'By a messenger whose face was hidden. He handed the rolled letters to the doorkeepers and departed without a word. The letter to Crassus addressed him by name, but was unsigned. It read: "In a few days all the rich and powerful men of Rome shall be slaughtered. Flee while you can! This warning is a favour to you, from a friend. Do not ignore it." '

'And Crassus brought this letter to Cicero?'

'Yes, as did several others, who had received them the same night. Well, you can see that such a letter put Crassus in a compromising position. He's under suspicion already for his past associations with Catilina as well as his own shady political dealings. There are those who think he's a part of this conspiracy, perhaps even one of the powers behind it. To avert suspicion, he brought the letter to Cicero at once, disavowing any knowledge of its origin or the impending bloodshed of which it gave warning.'

'But these letters were unsigned?'

'Anonymous, yes. Of course everyone assumes they came from someone close to Catilina.'

'Which is exactly what they're meant to assume.'

'But who else could have sent them?' said Eco.

'Who, indeed? Who would stand to profit by stirring up panic among the powerful, while at the same time ascertaining the position of a man like Crassus? And it was largely due to this incident that Cicero was able to convince the Senate to pass the Extreme Decree?'

"That, along with word that Manlius was about to put his army into the field.'

'Knowledge of which came from—'

'From Cicero and his informers. And of course there were the rumours of planned slave uprisings—' 'Rumours, you say, not reports?'

Eco looked into the fire for a long moment. 'Papa, are you arguing that Cicero might have sent those anonymous letters himself? That he's creating a panic on purpose?'

'I make no argument. I merely posit questions and doubts — like the consul himself'

XXXII

October ended with gusty winds from the north and a lowering pearl-grey sky. The Kalends of November dawned cold and bleak, with streaks of rain that never amounted to a storm, but seemed to fall from the sky one at a time, like tears, with all the niggardliness of the gods when they deign to weep.

So it continued until the eighth day of November. Twilight dawned and the day never grew brighter. A mass of rolling black clouds gathered to the north. High winds swept through the valley. The animals were gathered into the stable. The Cassian Way was almost deserted, except for a few shivering bands of slaves driven by men on horseback.

Except for a few excursions to look after the beasts and make sure that doors had been secured and loose implements had been put away, everyone stayed indoors. Diana was bored and out of sorts; when the thunder came, it frightened her and made her even more intractable. Her mother was endlessly understanding and comforting — with Diana. With everyone else she was in a foul mood all day.

Meto shut himself away in his narrow little room. I walked in on him unannounced and saw a scroll of Thucydides open on a table and his metal soldiers spread on the floor in battle array. When I smiled and asked what combat he was re-enacting, he acted embarrassed and resentful and pushed the soldiers against the wall.

The least good fortune that such a miserable day could bring would be a skyful of rain, I thought. All through the day I stepped from time to time into the little walled garden off my library to watch the sky. Beginning at a point halfway to the peak, Mount Argentum was lost in a hazy black mantle of clouds, lit now and again with growing bolts of lightning. It must have been raining madly up on the mountain, but down in the valley there were only wind and darkness.

The rain finally began after sundown, if indeed there was a sundown on such a day when the sun had never shown itself. It began with a quiet pelting against the tiled roof, then grew to a steady torrent. We discovered a few new leaks in the roof; with all the relish of a general too long away from battle, Bethesda sent the kitchen slaves to fetch pots and pans to catch the dribbles. Diana abruptly recovered her good spirits; she opened a shuttered window and gazed out at the rain with squealing delight. Even Meto’s mood was lightened. He came into my study to return the scroll of Thucydides, and we talked for a while about the Spartans and the Persians. I said a quiet prayer of gratitude to the gods for opening the sky at last.

Having been restless and kept indoors all day, we were wide-awake that night. We had been smelling the scent of Congrio's cooking all day and received the meal with enthusiasm Afterwards I asked Meto to read to us aloud. Herodotus, with his accounts of strange lands and customs, seemed a good choice.

The hour grew later and later, but no one seemed inclined to sleep. The rain poured down.

I had set a watchman that night, as I did every night. Unable to post himself on the roof of the stable, his place was in the loft, where he could keep watch from the little shuttered windows. He, too, was wakeful that night. When the men turned off the Cassian Way and rode towards the farm, he saw them

Above the din of the rain, no one heard the banging on the door. It was only when the slave began to shout and struggle with the latch, knocking the doors against the bar, that we noticed the commotion. Bethesda was apprehensive at once; a few bad experiences in Rome had made her wary of nocturnal visitors. Her agitation communicated itself to Diana, who squirmed on her lap. Meto set down the scroll and rushed with me to the atrium. We kept beneath the colonnade to avoid the pelting rain. I opened the peephole and looked out.

The slave was pointing wildly towards the highway and shouting. The rain suddenly came down in a rush, and I couldn't make out a single word.

We unbarred the door. The slave rushed in, soaked with rain, his bedraggled hair streaming. 'Men!' he said hoarsely. 'Coming from the highway! A whole army of them on horseback!'

He exaggerated. Thirty men do not make an army, but they do make an intimidating sight when seen rushing towards you in the darkness, wrapped in black cloaks. The pounding hooves joined the din of the rain and rose above it, like a constant peal of thunder drawing closer. The horsemen were less than a hundred feet away.

'Catilina?' shouted Meto.

'I can't tell,' I said.

'Papa, should we bar the doors?'

I nodded and pulled the rain-sodden slave inside. We slammed the door and dropped the bar, towards what end, I wasn't sure. It was meant to keep out sneak thieves and burglars, not an armed force. Armed men could easily force the doors to the library or the kitchen. But it would buy us time to find out who they were and what they wanted. At the other end of the atrium, beyond the curtain of rain, I saw Bethesda standing erect with Diana in her arms, both of them staring back with huge eyes.

The banging at the door came so swiftly and so loudly that I bolted backwards and almost tripped. Meto seized my elbow and steadied me. I pressed my eye to the peephole.

'Catilina?' whispered Meto.

'I don't think so.' I could hardly see their faces for the darkness and the shadow of their cowls. The man at the door banged again, not with his fist but with something hard that resonated through the wood — the pommel of a dagger.

'Escaped slaves?' said Meto. I turned my head and saw that he was looking at me with fear in his eyes. I put my hand on his shoulder and drew him closer to me. What had I done, to bring my family to such a place? In the city one might always hope to flee, to raise a call to neighbours, to hide amid the jumble of walls and rooftops. The farmhouse and the fields around it suddenly seemed to me a very naked place, open and indefensible. I had my slaves, but what protection were they against a band of armed horsemen?

The banging resumed. I put my mouth to the peephole. 'Who are you? What do you want?'

One of the men who remained on horseback, the leader, I supposed, gestured to the man at the door to stop his banging. 'We want the man you're hiding here!' he shouted.

'What man? Whom do you want?' I felt a stab of relief. It was all some bizarre mistake, I thought.

'Catilina!' the man shouted. 'Bring him to us!'

'Papa?' Meto looked at me, confused.

I shook my head. 'Catilina isn't here,' I shouted.

'Catilina is here!'

'Papa, what is he talking about?'

'I don't know.' I looked at Bethesda, who stood as stiff as a statue while Diana clung to her neck and hid her face. I put my mouth to the peephole. 'Who sent you?'

In answer the banging began again. From somewhere outside I heard shouting and screams. I looked through the peephole. Beyond the men on horseback, I saw a confusion of cloaked figures running in and out of the stable.

In the next instant I heard a crashing noise of splintered wood from within the house. I swung around. Bethesda looked towards the hallway to the library and screamed. She clutched Diana more closely to her breast, while Diana struggled in a panic. The men were within the house.

I ran through the atrium, knocking over the brazier. Bethesda clutched at me, and Meto pressed against my back. Aratus appeared from somewhere, his face a mask of confusion and fear. There was another crash from the kitchen, and Congrio came running towards the centre of the house, bellowing in fright.

A bolt of lightning splintered just above the house, casting everything into stark light and shadow. The thunderbolt followed without a pause, a booming blast that seemed to shake the floor. It quieted into a crackling rumble that rolled around the house like a giant grinding stone. Above the din of the rain I heard the noise of tables overturned, the clatter of metal pans knocked across the floor, the crash of breaking pottery. From either side of us, men poured into the atrium, bearing long daggers in their fists. We shrank back while they rushed to the front doors, unbolted them, and swung them open.

The leader jumped down from his horse. Mud and water splashed about his feet. He drew his dagger and came towards the house, taking high steps to pull his feet clear of the sucking mud. He was so tall that he had to stoop to enter the doorway.

He walked past the overturned brazier, kicking it out of his way. 'Gordianus the Finder?' he said, shouting to make himself heard above the rain and the continual crashing and clatter inside the house. Diana began to wail.

I stood as tall as I could and pulled Bethesda closer. Meto moved from behind me to stand by my side. 'I am Gordianus,' I said. 'Who are you, and what do you want?'

Because of his cowl I could see only the lower half of his race. He grinned broadly. 'We want the wily fox we've run to earth. Where is he?'

'If you mean Catilina, he isn't here,' said Meto, his voice cracking slightly.

'Don't He to me, little boy.' 'I'm not a boy!'

The man laughed. I recognized the laugh, if not the man; it was the laughter of exhilaration that comes when men give themselves over to pillage and plunder, the cruel, barking laughter that comes at the climax of a chase or in the thick of battle. It turned my heart to ice.

Men continued to swirl around us, their daggers flashing amid the raindrops. A few had pushed back their hoods. They were mostly young and clean-shaven, with glittering eyes and tightly pressed Ups. A few faces were vaguely familiar. Where had I seen them before?

Meto pressed his lips to my ear. 'Cicero's bodyguards!' he hissed. "That day in the Forum—'

'What are you whispering about?' the man bellowed. 'Where have you hidden him?'

'Catilina isn't here,' I said.

'Nonsense! We know this place is his refuge. We've followed him all the way from Rome. The fool thought he could slip away unseen! We've come to take him back — one way or another.'

'He isn't here. Not in the house, anyway. Perhaps the stable—'

'We've already searched the stable! Now hand him over!'

One of his companions ran up and spoke in his ear.

'Impossible!' he shouted. "They're hiding him somewhere.'

'But there were at least ten men in his party,' said the other in a strained voice. "They couldn't hide ten men and ten horses in a house like this—’

'Ten men and nine horses,' said the leader. ‘You forget the one we found riderless on the road.' He turned towards me. 'For hours we've chased him. He had a good lead when we started, but soon we were nipping at his heels. Never mind that the night's as black as pitch and as wet as a lake. Up the road a bit there was a break in the clouds, just one tiny hole, and we caught a glimpse of them under starlight ahead of us, like ants in the pass between the mountain and the ridge. Then the hole in the sky closed and blackness swallowed them. By the time we caught up with them, they'd vanished — except for a lone horse, wandering on the road without a rider. Was it Catilina he threw? Is that why they stopped here, thinking they'd be safe and we would pass them by? Where is he? Hand him over!'

The man was shouting, but the desperation in his voice made me feel safer than when he had laughed. He was no longer a huntsman caught up in the ecstasy of the kill, liable to do anything; he was a bedraggled, drenched pursuer whose game had eluded him. He was furious, but also miserable. Weariness was catching up with him.

It was his weariness I sought to play on, echoing it with my own voice. 'Catilina never stopped here tonight. Don't you think I'd tell you if he had? Have I not been as loyal to the consul as you have? If you know my name, and if you also know that Catilina has taken refuge here in the past, then you must also know the part I've played for Cicero. What will he think when he learns of the mess you've made of my home, of the fright you've given my family? Catilina isn't here, I tell you! We haven't seen his face for many days. He's given you the slip. If you hope to catch him, you'd better set out on the Cassian Way at once.'

The man stamped his feet and shook — with rage, I thought, then realized he was shivering from the cold. He pushed back his cowl and roughed his sopping hair with his hands. Despite his height, he was quite young.

The tumult in the house had gradually quieted. The party of men began to gather around us in the atrium, waiting for whatever was to come next.

The leader looked at me from under his brows. 'Catilina's henchmen tried to murder the consul yesterday morning. They came to Cicero's house at daybreak, pretending to make a social call, thinking they could fool the slaves into letting them inside and then fall on him with daggers. But the consul was warned ahead of time and wouldn't let them in.'

If only I could be so lucky at keeping armed men out of my house, I thought, but bit my tongue.

'Today Cicero convened the Senate in the Temple of Jupiter and exposed all the details of Catilina's crimes against the state — such a speech, they say, it threatened to shake the temple apart! Catilina huddled in a corner with his confederates while every senator with a shred of patriotism shunned him. Whenever he tried to speak, they shouted him down. He saw the fate in store for him. Tonight the scared rabbit bounded from his hole.'

'You called him a fox before,' grumbled Meto, as surly to the stranger as he had ever been to me. I sucked in a breath and held it.

'Did I? Well, no matter. He'll be skinned soon enough, and a rabbit's pelt is as fine as a fox's.' He turned to his companion. ‘You searched all the buildings? Circled the pens?'

The man nodded. 'No sign of them, not even fresh hoofprints in the mud.'

The man pulled the hood over his head again and gestured for the others to return to their horses. 'Quickly!' he said.

He pulled his cloak around him and looked at me gravely. 'If Catilina shouldr eturn, give him no more food and shelter. The time for pretences is over. Catilina is as good as dead, and so are all his followers. No one could have said it more eloquently than Cicero did today to the Senate, right in front of Catilina: "The time of punishment is at hand. Alive or dead, we will set them aflame upon the altar of the gods, in retribution without end!"'

'No, no, no!' said Bethesda. 'You are not going out, either of you! Are you mad?'

Shortly after the men had left, and once we could see that they had turned onto the Cassian Way heading north, Meto and I began to get ready to go out into the night. We were of one mind and one intent, and had both come to the same conclusion without speaking of it; it felt good to be in accord with my son again. That good feeling went a long way towards mollifying the shock of what had just happened.

Bethesda, however, was not mollified. She stood with her hand on Diana's shoulder, pressing the child against her. 'Take off that heavy tunic, husband! Meto, put away that cloak! Where do you think you're going?'

'If Catilina and his party were seen at the pass between the ridge and the mountain—' said Meto, ignoring her.

'Then suddenly vanished—' I said.

'And then one of their horses was found riderless—'

'They must have taken refuge somewhere off the road.'

That open space concealed behind the big rock — would it be large enough to conceal nine horses?' said Meto.

'I think so. We'll know soon enough.'

'You cannot invite him to come here!' said Bethesda firmly. 'What if his pursuers give up the chase and turn back? If they should return and find him here — you heard what the man said: give him no more food and shelter. Think of your daughter!' She pressed Diana more tightly to her.

'Food!' said Meto. 'I almost forgot. What can we take to them?' 'I forbid it!' said Bethesda.

"Wife, think of handsome Catilina and the beautiful Tongilius. Would you have them wither to skin and bones for want of a few bites from Congrio's kitchen?'

Apparently my facetiousness struck the right note. Bethesda wavered and softened. 'We have some bread that was baked this morning,' she said begrudgingly. 'And there are plenty of apples—'

'I'll fetch them,' said Meto.

Bethesda pursed her lips. "The men will be cold and wet. A dry blanket or two…'

'There are blankets on our bed,' I said.

'Not those! We have others that are worn and need mending. Here, I'll get them myself' And so Bethesda was suborned into helping with our mission.

We avoided the open road that went out to the Cassian Way, and cut across fields and orchards instead. The ground was muddy and grew rocky and uneven along the foot of the ridge. I feared that one of our horses might stumble in the muck and break a leg, but we reached the highway without mishap. The hard, flat paving stones of the Cassian Way, spangled with falling raindrops, clattered beneath the horses' hooves. There is nothing so well made and impervious to the elements as a good Roman road.

We made our way to the trailhead we had found before. I had thought it might be impossible to find it amid the dark, dripping underbrush, but we rode straight to it, so easily that I thought the hand of a god must have guided us. We dismounted and slid between the trunk of the oak and the great boulder, not without difficulty, for a bundle of apples and bread was strapped to Meto's back and a bulky roll of blankets was strapped to mine. We pulled our horses after us. As I had expected, the little clearing beyond, hidden from the highway, was filled with horses tethered to tree trunks, rocks and branches.

There was a burst of lightning. The bright white glare pierced the naked branches and shone like flames in the horses' eyes. They snorted, josded one another, stamped their hooves. The thunder pealed above us. The horses threw back their heads and whinnied.

I counted them. There were nine.

The floor of the little clearing was stony, and instead of taming to a morass of mud it had become a veritable pond. The horses stood in water above their hooves. My own feet were completely submerged. The reason for so much water was clear enough. The broken path that led up the mountainside had become a runnel. I looked at the rushing water and the mud and rocks on either side of the sluice and shook my head. 'Impassable,' I said.

'But Catilina and his men must have hiked up it,' said Meto.

‘We're burdened with these heavy apples and cumbersome blankets—'

Meto adjusted the load strapped to his back and leaped up the steep, watery path, as surefooted as a fawn. 'Come on, Papal It's not as hard as it looks.'

'Old bones break more easily than young ones,' I grumbled. 'And old feet have a harder time finding their balance.' But I was talking to myself, for Meto had disappeared ahead of me. I raised my knees and put one foot ahead of the other, trying to negotiate a safe way up the slippery rocks and sliding mud.

What had I been thinking when I set out? The answer was simple: I had not been thinking at all. The excitement of the assault on my house had rattled my mind. The elation of not being murdered in my home had blotted out all memory of the agony of my previous ascent up the old pathway. If it had been difficult before — overgrown, rugged, absurdly steep — it was made twice as difficult by the rain, and the burdens we carried doubled the difficulty again. My heart pounded. My feet turned to lead — not only heavy and unresponsive, but clumsy, slipping on loosened pebbles and sliding on treacherous mud. I began to realize that the ascent was not only strenuous but perilous. It was a very real possibility that I could slip and fall down the runnel out of control for a very long way. If I broke my back, would Bethesda be scolding or sympathetic?

The descent would be even more dangerous, I realized, then pushed the thought from my mind. Meanwhile, Meto scurried ahead of me, as agile as a goat and as impervious to the water as a duck.

At last we came to the first opening, where the path joined with the last of the road from Gnaeus's house, and a footpath continued up the mountain. The muddy open space was well-trampled, offering evidence of Catilina's passage.

I shrugged and stretched my shoulders, which ached from the strain of the blankets and the climb. 'The question now,' I said, 'is whether he turned right or left.'

Meto was taken aback. 'Right, of course, up to the mine.'

'Do you think so? A secret connection between Gnaeus and Catilina might begin to explain a few things. The murder of Forfex, for example.'

'How could there be a link?'

'I don't know, and I'm too cold and wet and tired to think it through. But what if Catilina eluded his pursuers, not with the point of reaching the cave, but making his way to Gnaeus's house unseen?'

Meto shook his head. I thought that he rolled his eyes as well, but in the darkness I couldn't be sure.

He appeared to be correct, however, and my suspicions were unfounded, for on the road that led to Gnaeus's house there were no signs of footsteps in the mud. We turned back and headed up the path to the mine.

We heard the roar of the waterfall long before we came to it A glimpse of the cascade through the trees showed that the stream was greatly swollen. The stone steps leading upwards, sharp-edged and slick with rain, were like a treacherous test posed by an ill-humoured god. With the blanket strapped to my back, I had to take each step as slowly and cautiously as an old cripple.

Meto reached the top long before I did. I finally took the last step and came up behind him. When he looked back at me, for the first time that night I saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

The prospect was enough to make any man quail. The streambed, which had been almost dry when we had crossed it before, was a rushing torrent of water, thigh-deep. Only a few feet to our left, it reached the fells and poured over the precipice with a hollow roar.

Meto stared at the stream and bit his Hp.

I have always had an aversion to water. I am a poor swimmer. Once, down at Cumae, I had a nasty experience trying to negotiate my way into a sea cave. I would prefer a trial by fire to a trial by water any day. But on this night I had no choice.

For once, while Meto hung back, I stepped forward.

'Papa, be careful!'

His advice was well given. The stream pulled at my ankles. The stone bed, carved by rushing water, was smooth and sinuous, marked by deep pockets and abrupt ridges. I moved forward, feeling the way with my feet.

'Here, Meto, take my hand'

He stayed on the bank, looking at me dubiously.

'Here, we'll be stronger if we cross together.'

He hesitated. I saw that he was not doubtful of my judgment but of his own courage.

Perhaps we should turn back, I thought, looking into the black, rushing water pocked with raindrops. We had begun the journey on an impulse. A reaction against Cicero's brutish bodyguards had driven us towards Catilina, for no real purpose. We owed him nothing; we were not obliged to bring him blankets and food, certainly not at the peril of our own lives. And yet Meto and I had both, without question, made the decision to set out. I had endured the misery and danger of the ascent, and I was loath to turn back now.

I held out my hand to Meto, half-wishing he would refuse to take it. If he came to harm, I would never be able to bear it. He hesitated a moment longer, then gripped my wrist and stepped into the cold water.

We crossed at a diagonal, cutting against the flow. I felt the way with my feet and warned him of each irregularity. Midway across, the flow suddenly became more powerful, and I staggered a bit Meto tightened his grip. I stared at the slick, black face of the stream, thinking that my lifelong apprehension about water must have been a message from the Fates. They had seen into the future and knew that my end would come from water, and so they had given me a fear of it as fair warning. My heart beat very fast.

Something struck my leg. I looked down and saw a skull, washed down from the mountainside. It spun about for a moment, trapped in an eddy made by my leg, then was caught by the rushing stream. I watched it bob madly on the water and then go plummeting over the falls.

'Papa!' said Meto anxiously.

My feet had become heavier than ever. I was tired, I told myself, but in fact my feet felt rooted to the spot, as if they had melded with the stone. I swallowed hard and struggled to move my toes. At last my foot lifted and crept along the rock, like a timid fish.

Somehow, at last, we gained the other side. Meto loosened his grip on my wrist but not before I felt the trembling in his fingers. My hands were shaking, too.

While we were crossing the stream, I had forgotten the rain and the cold, but once we were safe I felt the full measure of my misery. I was weary, wet and shivering. And there was still a long, steep ascent before us. But there was no turning back; I would not cross the stream again until I had to.

We pressed on and came to the switchbacks. Up and up we trudged, doubling back and forth as we gained the ascent. At last we came to the long uphill slope that wended back into a hidden fold in the mountainside. Here the rain diminished to a drizzle, and our footsteps made a grating noise on the loosened pebbles. As we approached the opening to the mine, so hidden in darkness that I could only guess at it, I whispered to Meto to quiet his footsteps.

But the warning was too late.

XXXIII

It is a peculiar experience to see a spear come hurtling out of the darkness, heading straight for a spot on the bridge of your nose midway between your eyes. One does not even apprehend the approaching object as a spear — the angle does not permit it, for one sees only a sparkling, whirling point illuminated by a flicker of starlight piercing the shredded clouds. And yet one knows enough to duck — at once!

As I dropped to my knees, I could see that it was indeed a spear — I glimpsed both the sharpened tip and the long shaft behind it. It made a shrill, whistling noise as it passed over my head, followed by a low thud. Something seemed to strike my back with a jarring, shuddering blow; I could make no sense of it. Beside me, Meto shrieked. My heart, completely frozen, suddenly gave a jolt and started beating again. I thought he had been struck, then caught a glimpse of his face and saw his fear was all for me. We dropped to our knees together and scrambled towards the low scrub. The bushes trembled wildly at our assault and pelted us with raindrops.

I tried to change direction and swung around, only to find that I was entangled somehow in the bushes. It made no sense, until I realized the spear had pierced the roll of blankets strapped to my back and was stuck fast, its shaft pointing above my head.

I was as good as wounded, unable to manoeuvre. Meto lurched beside me, trying awkwardly to get a grip on the spear, still thinking that I was hurt.

'Friends!' I called, hoping the word could travel faster than the next spear.

There was a moment of silence, then a flash of lightning cracked

open the sky and struck the mountainside. By the garish glare I saw the spearman, crouching on a shielded crag of rock above the entrance to the mine, his arm poised to hurl a second shaft. Below him, at the mouth of the mine itself, stood Catilina. His arm was raised, his mouth open.

'Stop!' he shouted.

The lightning died and the world turned black. I flinched. The command had come too late, I thought. The spear was already on its way. Not even Catilina, with all his cleverness, could snatch a spear from its flight.

A huge, booming peal of thunder jolted the mountainside, so overwhelming that I could not tell if I was struck by the spear or not. I huddled, hands over my head. A moment later a hand touched my shoulder. I looked up. Distant lightning cast a pale, flickering light across the smiling face of Catilina.

'Gordianus! You look a fright,' he said gently. 'Come in out of the rain.'

On the other side of the wall that had been built to keep out goats and children, the interior of the mine was dark. A small fire had been kindled, but most of its light seemed to be swallowed up by jealous shadows. This was their kingdom, and the light was an intruder.

Catilina crouched and warmed his hands over the flames. 'Fortunately, we were able to find some scraps of wood. When we run out, I wouldn't advise pulling down any supports for firewood, though; the roof might fall in on us. The smoke presents no problem — whoever built the mine was smart enough to drill narrow shafts for ventilation. Crassus was a fool to pass up this property. I told him it was well worth the investment. But he said he'd dealt with this branch of the Claudii before and didn't care to deal with them ever again.' He stared into the flames. 'Well, what more is there to say about Crassus? He has abandoned me now.'

'Look, Lucius, they've brought bread,' said Tongilius, crouching down beside him. 'And apples — we can spit them and roast them over the fire for something hot to eat! And a roll of blankets. The inner ones are almost dry.'

The others in Catilina's party hung back in the shadows. Some were men I had seen before, when they had stayed in my stable overnight. Others were strangers. Some appeared to doze, while the open eyes of their companions glinted in the firelight. They looked older than

Meto, but considerably younger than Catilina or myself. All were heavily armed. They took turns keeping watch outside the mine.

'I don't think you're in any danger of being discovered, at least not tonight,' I said. 'No goatherds are out on a night like this, and the men who pursued you from Rome are gone. After they ransacked my house looking for you, they moved on, heading north.'

'Unless they followed you here,' said Catilina. There was no accusation or suspicion in his voice, only a pragmatic shrug. 'I haven't come this far to be slain in a hole by Cicero's bodyguards, not if I can help it. As long as we're here, we'll keep watch.'

Tongilius handed him an apple spitted on a spear. Catilina smiled. 'Food! Blankets! Did you bring a tub of hot water with you as well?'

‘Would you believe that I forgot?'

'By Hercules, too bad! How delicious it would be on such a night to settle down into a steaming tub with you and while away the hours till dawn.'

Meto brightened. 'We could go back to the house—' I stiffened. Catilina noticed and shook his head. "That would be neither practical nor safe, Meto. Too dangerous for you and your family. Too dangerous for me, as well. No, I think I can never go back to your house now, not until this crisis is settled. I wonder how they knew to look for me there? Do you think Marcus Caelius betrayed me?'

He saw the look on my face, then looked at Meto, whose guilty expression was even more pronounced. Catilina pursed his lips and a shadow of doubt crossed his face. 'It was Caelius, then. It must have been. But you didn't betray me to the men pursuing me; you guessed that I was here, but you didn't tell. Did you?' He looked uneasily towards the mouth of the mine.

'No, Catilina. We came here in secret.'

He sighed and studied the flames that danced beneath his spitted apple. 'Forgive me. These last few days have dealt me quite a blow. Men whom I thought my friends have turned their backs on me. Men whom I never thought to fear have wished me dead to my face. Cicero! May his eyes rot!'

'May his tongue turn black!' said Tongilius, with a vehemence I had never seen in him before. He picked up one of the apples and hurled it against a nearby wall, where it exploded against the stone.

'His tongue is already black,' said Catilina, 'as we know from having heard the offal that flowed from his mouth today.'

'Then let it be eaten by worms!' shouted Tongilius, who clenched his fists and began to pace. There was not room enough for his anger; after a moment he went to the wall and pulled himself over with a single bound.

'The rain will cool him off,' said Catilina, whose eyes had never left the fire.

'My son Eco was here a few days ago,' I said. 'He told me that you were under voluntary house arrest, pending charges under the Plautian Law. Why have you left Rome? What has happened?'

Catilina raised his eyes from the fire. By some trick of the flames his face appeared to be both amused and grim. 'The world has come apart at its seams and is quickly unravelling.'

'Another riddle?'

'No. For you, Gordianus, I shall bite my tongue and speak without devices. Your son Eco told you that I was under house arrest. What else did he tell you?'

"That Cicero persuaded the Senate to pass something called the Extreme Decree in Defence of the State.'

'Yes, the same tool their grandfathers used to get rid of Gaius Gracchus. I suppose I should be flattered. Of course, every bit of evidence that Cicero put forward was fabricated.'

'How?'

'He told them that I planned to massacre half the Senate on the twenty-eighth day of October. For proof he brought forth anonymous letters that had been received by certain parties warning them to flee the city. What sort of proof is that? Do you know who I think wrote those letters? Cicero's oh-so-clever secretary, Tiro, taking dictation from his master. The vile little toad.'

'Speak no ill of Tiro to me, Catilina. I have fond memories of him, from the days when he helped me investigate the case of Sextus Roscius.'

'That was years ago! Since then he's grown as corrupt as his master. Slaves follow the course of the man who owns them, you know that'

'Never mind; you say the letters originated with Cicero himself' 'Do you think I wrote them? Or some hand-wringer among my supporters, wanting to secretly alert a few friends before I set loose a bloodbath? Nonsense! The whole concoction was devised by Cicero for two purposes: to create hysteria and fear among the senators, who are always ready to believe someone is out to murder them — as they should rightly fear — and to test those who received the anonymous letters. Crassus was among them. I had thought I could count on him — if not on his overt support, then at least on his discretion — but when presented with the opportunity to turn his back on me he took it. To keep himself out of trouble, to separate his fortunes from mine, he went directly to Cicero to report the warning in the letter. Surely he must have known it came from the consul himself! What a farce, the two of them playacting for the benefit of the Senate! How could a man as proud as Crassus allow Cicero to manipulate him in such a manner? Don't worry, he'll take his revenge on the New Man from Arpinum in his own way, sooner or later.

'To keep the senators in a state of hysteria, Cicero made more shocking revelations, all based on his supposedly infallible network of spies and informers. First he claimed that on a particular day — the twenty-seventh day of October — my colleague Manlius would take up arms in Faesulae. What of it? Manlius has been training the Sullan veterans for months, and there's nothing illegal in that. But sure enough, on the very day that Cicero had predicted, one of the senators reads aloud a letter that he's received, saying that Manlius and his soldiers have taken up arms and begun to fight To fight whom, where? It's all nonsense, but Cicero nods sagely and the senators swallow hard. He predicted it, and it came true. The letter proves it. A letter, do you see? Another piece of Tiro's handiwork, taking dictation straight from Cicero's lips.

'And then came Cicero's outrageous accusation that I was planning a surprise attack on the town ofPraeneste on the Kalends of November. To fend it off Cicero called out the garrison ofRome — how convenient that Praeneste is so close to the south. No attack materialized; not surprising, since none was planned, and even if one had been planned, announcing knowledge of a secret attack ahead of time by definition prevents the possibility. Puffing himself up like a frog, the consul declares himself the saviour of Praeneste — when the whole affair was a fantasy! What a mighty general, able to foresee and forestall attacks that were never to take place!

'No tactic is too low. He issued orders to break up the gladiator farms across Italy — as if I were the instigator of a slave uprising! He offered huge rewards to anyone who would come forward and betray the so-called conspiracy — for slaves, freedom and a hundred thousand sesterces; for free men, two hundred thousand sesterces and a full pardon! So far, no one has come forward to claim these glittering prizes. Such silence is merely proof of the fear these monsters inspire in their minions, says Cicero — ignoring the obvious point that there is no plot to betray!'

Catilina shook his head. 'When one of his lackeys brought charges against me, using the Plautian Law, I thought it best to simply submit, to make a show of cooperation. My enemies have subjected me to so many spurious trials that one more hardly casts fear in my heart. Not that I didn't manage to have a bit of fun at Cicero's expense.' Lit by the flames, I thought I saw a mischievous smile on his lips.

'What do you mean?'

'Why, I went straight to Cicero and offered to put myself into his custody! If I must be under house arrest, I said, let it be in the house of the consul himself — where else might I be more closely watched and kept from my nefarious plotting? What a quandary that posed for Cicero! If I was such an immediate menace, it would seem to be his duty to take me into custody; on the other hand, how could he continue to rant about my mad schemes if he had me safely under his own roof? It didn't suit his purpose, so he turned down my offer. Even so, he managed to twist matters to his own advantage. Not being safe in the same city with me, he said, how could he be safe having me in his house? I would murder him and his whole family if I had the chance, with my bare hands if I had to. Others turned down my offer as well, either because they were afraid to associate with me or were afraid for their lives. When I finally put myself into the charge of Marcus Metellus, as impartial a man as I could imagine, Cicero said I was merely taking refuge with one of my supporters. Poor Metellus! Now I've given him the slip, and everyone will think the worst of him.'

'Why did you flee the city?' said Meto.

'Because today, before the Senate, Cicero said that he would see me dead — as bluntly as that! I have no reason to doubt him I fled for my life.'

"The men Cicero sent after you tell another story,' I said. 'They say you sent men to murder Cicero, yesterday morning.'

'The men Cicero sent after me will murder me if they catch me!'

'But what they say — is it true?' said Meto.

'Another lie!' He heaved a weary sigh. 'Cicero claims that two nights ago I slipped out of Meteflus's house and attended a secret meeting where I hatched a plan to assassinate him. Supposedly two of my friends — Gaius Cornelius and Lucius Vargunteius — were to show up at his door, pretending to make a morning visit, get inside and stab him. As if either of them would commit such an act, without hope of escape or of being able to show just cause to the Senate! But Cicero is clever; in the middle of the night he sends for certain senators who still doubt his rantings. Come at once to my house, he tells them. What can it be, they wonder, to rouse us from our sleep? When they arrive, lamps are lit everywhere and the house is full of armed guards. You see how he sets the stage for exploiting their credulity by resorting to such cheap melodrama? He tells them that an informant has just arrived with terrible information: Catilina and his conspirators have been meeting that very night at a house in the Street of the Scythemakers, plotting his murder. The agents will be Gaius Cornelius and Lucius Vargunteius, known associates of Catilina and notorious troublemakers. Just watch, he says, they will arrive in the morning, bent on bloodshed. You will be my witnesses.

'And lo, the next morning, Cornelius and Vargunteius duly arrive at Cicero's house. They bang on the door; the slaves refuse to admit them. They bang more, demanding to see the consul. The slaves hang from the windows and pour abuse on them; Cornelius and Vargunteius become abusive in turn. Bodyguards appear and show flashes of steel; Cornelius and Vargunteius turn on their heels and flee.

'Cicero's prediction has come true. The witnesses see it all. But what have they seen? Two men, already in a precarious position because of their association with me, who arrived at Cicero's door — not with the intention of killing him, but because they were roused from their beds by a summons from an anonymous caller, who said that if they valued their lives they had better go at once to the consul's house! Yes, it was Cicero who engineered the whole episode! Everything appeared just as Cicero wished, for of course Cornelius and Vargunteius arrived in an agitated state, fearful and not knowing what to expect, and when they encountered abuse they quickly became abusive and threatening in return. They were duped into playing the part of frustrated assassins, and never knew it until Cicero's speech in the Senate today, when he announced his absurd story of having survived a murder plot and gestured to his so-called reputable witnesses, who all nodded their heads in agreement! The man is a monster. The man is a genius,' said Catilina bitterly.

'You see, when he first used the trick of saying his life was in jeopardy back in the summer, when he tried to postpone the elections a second time, no one believed him; his exaggerated bodyguard and the breastplate beneath his toga were too absurd. This time he came up with a wilier and more subtle trick. When he told his tale to the Senate today, I could hardly believe my ears. I had no rejoinder. Only afterwards did I speak with Cornelius and Vargunteius and see through his deception. There was no plot to murder Cicero. Oh, not that I would mind seeing him dead. Few things would please me more—'

'Nothing would make me happier,' said Tongilius, who quietly reappeared in the glow of the fire. His cloak was wet, and beads of water clung to his ruffled hair. 'The storm shows no signs of stopping; it's raining harder than ever. The sky is aflame with lightning. Here, your apple is seared enough, Lucius. Time to pull it from the fire. Don't eat it too soon, though, or you'll burn your tongue. Would that I could set Cicero's tongue aflame!' He looked into the darkness of the tunnel and laughed aloud at the image in his mind. Did the look of cruelty on his face enhance his beauty or mar it? His laughter was brief; he began to pace, unable to keep still.

.'Tongilius has his own reasons to be bitter,' said Catilina in a low voice. 'Cicero hasn't hesitated to bandy his name about, calling him my catamite. Curious, how sexless creatures like Cicero love to exploit the very details of intimacy which they claim to find so repulsive. Everyone knows that Cicero despises his wife, and he married offhis poor daughter before she was thirteen! Hardly a lover of women; hardly a lover at all. Yet he holds up Tongilius for ridicule without the least quiver of shame. Shameless, sexless; the cavities in Cicero's character where those qualities should be are filled with arrogance and spite.'

'What happened today in the Senate, Catilina?' I said.

'I received word that Cicero planned to deliver a speech against me. I could hardly stay away, could I? I thought I could defend myself and show him up for a fool. That was my hubris, I suppose, thinking myself his match with words; now the gods have punished me for it.

'There was no formal speech. Cicero shouted; I shouted; the senators shouted me down. I found myself abandoned and sitting almost alone, except for a handful of those closest to me. I think you cannot know the shame of that, Gordianus, to be shunned by your colleagues in such a manner. I implored them to remember my name — Lucius Sergius Catilina. A Sergius was there at the side of Aeneas when he fled from burning Troy and made his way to Italy. We have been among the most respected families in Rome since her very beginnings. And who is Cicero? Who ever heard of the Tullius family from Arpinum, a town with one tavern and two pigsties? An interloper, an intruder, hardly better than a foreigner! An immigrant — that's what I called him to his face!'

'Strong words, Catilina.'

'Hardly strong enough, considering that he was threatening my life! "Why is such a man still alive?" — he said those very words to the Senate. He brought up instances in the distant past when the Senate put reformers to death, and mocked those present, saying they lacked the moral fibre to do the same. He noted the laws that prevent a consul or the Senate from executing a citizen, and declared that I stood outside those laws, a rebel and not a citizen any longer. He was inciting them to murder me! Failing that, he would see me exiled, along with all my supporters. Take your vermin and go, he said. Rid Rome of your pestilence and leave us in peace. Over and over, he made it clear that my choice was to flee the city or be murdered.

'Of course he couldn't resist repeating the most vicious and painful lies about me one more time, to my face and before all my colleagues. Again, the sneering allusions to my sexual depravity; again, the horrible insinuation that I killed my son. He intended to provoke me, to make me lose my head. I hate to admit that he succeeded. I began by calmly denying every charge he made, and ended by shouting at the top of my lungs — shouting to be heard above the jeering of my colleagues.

‘When Cicero insinuated that all his enemies should be herded into a segregated camp, I could stand no more. "Let every man's political views be written on his brow for all to see!" said Cicero. "Why?" I said. "Will it make it easier for you to choose which heads to lop off?"'

'At that, the inside of the chamber roared like the ocean in a storm But Cicero has trained his voice to carry above any noise that man or nature can contrive. "The time for punishment has come," he shouted. "The enemies of Jupiter, in whose temple we convene, will be rounded up and laid to sacrifice on his altar. We shall set them aflame, dead or alive — dead or alive!"

"There was such an uproar I was afraid for my life. I rose from my seat, put on the most brazen face I could manage, and strode towards the doors. "I am surrounded by foes," I shouted. "I am hounded to desperation. But I tell you this: if you raise a fire to consume me, I will put it out — not with water, but with demolition!" '

His voice was shaking with emotion. His eyes glittered. I had never seen him so stripped of his composure. Tongilius knelt beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. We were silent for a long time. The flame needed to be rekindled, but no one moved.

At last I spoke. 'Are you telling me, Catilina, that you are completely innocent of conspiracy? That your secretive comings and goings, your alliance with all the discontents of the city, your military link with Manlius — that these things exist only in Cicero's feverish imaginings? Are you telling me that you have no intention of bringing down the state?'

His eyes reflected the firelight but somehow seemed to sparkle from within. 'I claim no false innocence. But I do say that my enemies have manipulated me into a position where no other option is open to me. I have always worked within the political system of the Roman state. I have suffered the indignities of spurious trials, I have made endless compromises with men like Caesar and Crassus; I have submitted myself to electoral campaigns of ferocious ugliness. Twice I have run for consul; twice the Optimates have engineered my defeat. No one can say that I looked to violent action until no legitimate recourse remained. The Republic is a shambles, a tottering pile of bricks about to fall, with the Optimates standing jealously on top. Who will bring it down? Who will pick up the pieces and refashion it to their choosing? Why should it not be me, and why should I not use whatever tools are called for?

'Yes, for some time I have contemplated the possibility of violence, but to say that I have a plot afoot is absurd. I have met in secret with friends; I have consulted with Manlius about the readiness and loyalty of his troops. Call it conspiracy if you want, but so far it has remained a vague expression of a shared will for creating a change, with no consensus about how to do it. Manlius is eager to use his veterans. Lentulus favours inciting slaves to revolt, an insanity I utterly reject. Cethegus, always hotheaded, would resort to burning Rome.' He shook his head. 'Do you know what my dream is? I think of those ancient revolts of the plebeians, when to claim their rights they banded together and simply walked out of Rome, leaving the patricians to cope for themselves and ultimately to seek compromise. If I could draw all the discontented to me — the poor, the indebted, the powerless — and bring the Optimates to their knees without shedding a drop of blood, I would do it. But that is only a sentimental folly; the Optimates will never give up a shred of their power. The leaders of a peaceful withdrawal would be massacred and their followers enslaved.

'It's Cicero who has forced matters to a crisis. Where there was no evidence of a plot, he invented evidence. Where my colleagues and I have procrastinated, he has forced us to take a stand. He has set the stakes; he must die, or we must die, and there can be no middle ground. He provokes a premature conflict, for his own purposes. He thinks that if he can destroy us now, during his term as consul, he will have achieved true greatness; the people will love him, the Optimates will kiss his feet, he will be the saviour of Rome.

‘Yet even now I waver. From his speech, from his repeated demands that I go into exile, I wonder if Cicero would be satisfied with that. Would that sate his appetite for exercising power? Would that be a great enough achievement for the New Man from Arpinum, to have saved Rome from a conspiracy that never existed and to have driven a dangerous rebel into exile before he ever had a chance to rebel!'

'Will you go into exile, then?' said Meto, drawing closer to the fire. 'Or will you take up arms?'

'Exile…' said Catilina, not as an answer but as if he were testing the quality of the word. 'Before I left Rome, I dispatched letters to several men of rank — former consuls, patricians, magistrates. I told them that I was leaving for Massilia, on the southern coast of Gaul — not as a guilty man fleeing justice, but as a lover of peace eager to avoid civil strife and no longer able to defend myself against persecution and trumped-up charges. I could go to Massilia — if they allow it, if they don't block the passes to Gaul. To take up arms — I'm not ready, I'm still uncertain. Cicero has pressed the crisis to his own advantage; he has made a fugitive of me against my will. He wants me to take desperate action, and in doing so, stumble.'

'And what of your wife?' I said.

He turned his face so that the fire no longer lit it. 'Aurelia and her daughter I commended to the care of Quintus Catulus. He is one of the staunchest of the Optimates, but an honest man. She'll be safe with him, whatever happens; he will not harm her, and no one could ever accuse him of colluding with me.'

The storm grew worse. The wind howled outside the mine like a screaming chorus of lemures. Thunderbolts pounded the mountain and made it shudder like the belly of a drum. Water poured down the steep slopes in great sheets, carrying uprooted trees and rocky debris. Bethesda would be mad with worry, I thought, and felt a pang of dread. In such a storm, even the clogged pursuers of Catilina might have turned back. What if they had sought shelter in my home and found me gone? Spinning out the consequences of such thoughts kept me far from sleep.