"I finally left the baths and headed back to her house. On the way I recognized her litter outside the house of one of the Metelli. She was just leaving, with her daughter. The two of them were stepping out the door. Before I could turn, she saw me. It was hard to read her face. It always has been. A face unlike any other, except one. Do you suppose that Lesbia and Lesbius can read each other at a glance? Like looking in a mirror? The rest of us study their faces for hours and still can't be sure what's behind them. Something about her eyes—like a poem in a foreign tongue. But more perfect than any poem. More painful.
"She invited me into her litter. 'To go where?' I said. 'Home. I'm expecting a man to bring me some news,' she said. I suppose she meant you? 'I don't want to go there if there'll be someone else,' I told her. She paused for a long time, looking at me. Finally she said, 'Metella can stay here with her cousins a while longer. You and I will go to the horti.'
"That was a mistake, of course. On a warm day like this, with all the naked toads jumping about in the water and leering at her while Lesbia leered back at them. Did she flirt with them merely to hurt me? Or do I flatter myself? At least Chrysis wasn't there to fetch the comeliest toad into her tent, which is their usual game. She invited me to her upcoming party. She was very polite. 'You must have some new poems you can read for us, something inspired by your travels.' As if I was an acquaintance she could call on to entertain her admirers. But do you know what?" He smiled grimly. "It so happens that I do have a new poem, and I will be reading it at her party. Something to fit the theme of the Great Mother festival. I suppose you'll be there."
"Me? I haven't been invited. Strange, isn't it, considering that I'm her new lover and all."
"Don't needle me, Finder. I've been pricked enough for one day. At sundown she decided it was time to leave the horti, just when I'd made up my mind to say what I needed to say to her. She had to pick up Metella, she said, and she was expecting her brother tonight. 'You're welcome to come along,' she said—as if I could stomach being with both of them at once. I told her I'd walk back into town by myself."
"But you ended up outside her door again."
"Like a moth to a flame, except that this flame freezes instead of burns."
The serving slave suddenly appeared and at Catullus's insistence poured fresh wine into our cups. I sampled it and was tempted to spit it out, but Catullus drank without complaint.
"So, what exactly happened at the baths today?" he said. "At the horti, when I told Lesbia I'd been at the Senian baths, she was suddenly all ears, pressing me for everything I'd seen of that ridiculous chase. She knew what it was about, didn't she? But she was as tight-lipped as you."
No wonder Clodia hadn't bothered to wake me when she came in, I thought. From Catullus and then from Barnabas she had probably heard more than enough details about the botched capture of Licinius and the pyxis. Or had she been too eager to be with her brother to bother with the hireling's report?
"You know about charges pending against Marcus Caelius?" I said.
"It's all I've heard about since I got back to Rome. They say he's up to his neck in it this time."
"Your Lesbia and Lesbius have a hand in the prosecution. Not officially, but they're eager to gather evidence against him on a particular charge of attempted murder."
"So I've heard. Is that what she's hired you for?"
"Yes."
"Then it's come to that, between her and Caelius. I've loved them both. The glittering Venus of Roman society, the petulant Adonis. Who could be surprised when the two of them decided to love each other and turn the country bumpkin from Verona out of their beds? Those two together, without me — that was more than I could stand." The wine was beginning to slur his speech. "It was better when her husband was still alive. Good old Quintus Metellus Celer, the stodgy goat. She was faithful to me then! But after Celer died, she became her own woman, and everyone else's woman as well. Even that was better than having her choose a favorite and shut me out altogether. But then she picked Caelius and I became just another of her multitude of used-up lovers. This tavern is full of the wretches. I could point out a dozen men who've had her. I thought a year away would dull the pain. But the wound still bleeds, and I still crave the knife that cut me."
"She doesn't love Caelius anymore," I said. "He rejected her, as far as I can tell. She's bitter. She's determined to see him destroyed, obsessed with it, if that's any comfort to you."
"Comfort? To know that another man truly got inside her, made her care enough to feel pain when he turned away, made her ache enough to want to destroy him? Me she dismissed with a flick of her wrist—no more scraps for the dog! Caelius deserts her and she goes crazy. Where's the comfort in that?"
"The desire for destruction is mutual, at least according to Lesbia. That's what the incident at the baths was about. Caelius's friend Licinius was there to deliver poison to some ofher slaves, because Caelius thought he could bribe them to murder their mistress."
"Murder Clodia?" Catullus was startled enough, or drunk enough to forget the pseudonym. "No, Caelius would never do that. I don't believe it."
"She claims he tested the poison on a slave first, and watched the man die before his eyes."
"I can believe that. Caelius could kill a slave without a twinge of guilt. But I can't believe that he would use the same poison on her."
"Not even out of desperation? The charges against him are serious. He'll be ruined for life if he's found guilty. Humiliated, forgotten, exiled from Rome."
"Exiled from Rome—I know that loneliness." Catullus stared into his cup.
"To save himself, don't you believe that Caelius would destroy your Lesbia?"
"Destroy Lesbia? No, not her. Never." "Perhaps he never loved her quite as you did."
"None of them ever loved her as I did." Catullus stared bleakly into the crowd, then stiffened. "Hades!" he whispered. "Look who just came in."
I squinted through the haze at three newcomers who stood near the entrance, searching the room for a place to sit. "Marcus Caelius himself," I said. "Accompanied, if I'm not mistaken, by his friends Asicius and Licinius."
Caelius saw Catullus. His face registered simple surprise, followed by a lightning flash of emotion. Then a mask fell into place, which lifted for only an instant to show his confusion when he saw me. He hesitated, then gestured for his companions to follow as he approached us.
"Catullus!" he said, flashing a sardonic grin. "How long have you been back?"
"A few days."
"And you haven't come to call on me? My feelings are hurt."
"Actually, I did drop by your place," said Catullus. "Your old place. The neighbors said Clodius had kicked you out and put the building up for sale. They said I'd find you back at your father's hovel on the Quirinal
Hill."
"You should drop by." Caelius's smile never wavered.
"The Quirinal is a little out of my usual orbit. Besides, I shouldn't think that your father's house would be a suitable place for entertaining guests in your accustomed style."
"I don't know what you mean."
"The wine, the singing, the whores, the inventive sleeping arrangements. I can't see your papa approving."
"All that's behind me now," said Caelius.
"At least until after your trial. Then you may have to leave every-thing behind whether you want to or not."
The mask almost cracked. "I mean to say that I've seen fit to put aside some of the more boisterous habits of my youth, and to sever some of my more questionable associations. Perhaps you were right not to come calling on me after all, Catullus. One does have to hold to certain standards when inviting a guest into the house of one's father. It was thoughtful of you to spare me the embarrassment of shutting the door in your face."
There was a long pause, during which Catullus swirled the dregs in his cup and watched them spin, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "I think," he finally said, in a hard, low voice that made me hold my breath, "that for you to insult
me in that way, Marcus Caelius—"
Caelius stiffened, as did his friends.
"For you to have insulted me in that fashion," Catullus went on, "by which I mean building an argument out of complicated sentences by logical steps—well, what I think about that, Marcus Caelius, is that you haven't drunk enough wine tonight!"
Caelius's face went blank, then he laughed. "Not nearly enough. And for you to do such a sloppy job of insulting me, Gaius Catullus, I think you must have already had far too much to drink!"
"I can't argue with that," said Catullus, grinning and swallowing the dregs.
"No matter," said Caelius. "The night's still young. Plenty of time for me to get stinking drunk, and for you to sober up."
"I take it that you know my friend here, Gratidianus," said Catullus.
"Gordianus," I corrected him. "Yes, Marcus Caelius and I are acquainted. We used to be neighbors."
"And a few times our paths have crossed in the courts," added Caelius. "Though never quite as they are crossing now."
I shrugged. "I'm not sure I—"
"But isn't it true, Gordianus, that a certain lady has hired you, and not for the purpose that she usually hires men?"
"You aren't worthy of kissing her middle finger," said Catullus, no longer friendly. "You certainly aren't worthy of insulting her."
Licinius, who had been peering at me, suddenly spoke up. "Wait, now I remember where I've seen this man before. He was there today, at the baths, when I—"
"Shut up, Licinius," growled Caelius.
"It isn't true, is it, Caelius?" Catullus leaned forward earnestly, his mood having shifted in the blink ofan eye. "It isn't true, what Gratidianus tells me—you wouldn't actually do her harm, would you? Not to her. Not for any reason. And certainly not by —"
"Shut up, Catullus," I said, clenching my teeth.
"Say, 1 recognize him, too!" Asicius stepped closer, peering at me. "He's the one who was hiding in the shadows across the street from your old apartment on the Palatine, Caelius, on the night that we took care of the old—"
"Shut up, Asicius!" cried Caelius, loudly enough to startle the gamblers next to us. One of them scratched his throw, sending the dice flying onto the floor—a bad omen which caused some of the players to vacate the table at once, whereupon those who remained began to shout accusations of bad faith at the quitters.
Catullus stood, a little unsteadily. "Are you looking for a place to sit, Caelius? Here, take my seat. The Salacious Tavern just became a little too salacious for even my tastes. Are you coming, Gratidianus?"
"Gordianus," I said under my breath, getting to my feet. Asicius and Licinius shoved past me and sat on the bench. As I stepped by him, Caelius seized my arm and put his mouth to my ear. "You're mistaken, you know. I didn't kill Dio, I swear."
"That's only one of the charges against you, Marcus Caelius."
He gripped my arm painfully hard and kept his voice low. "But you're only concerned with Dio, aren't you? You want to put his spirit to rest, because you knew him in Alexandria back in the old days." His handsome face was no longer nonchalant. A reckless, desperate man, Clodius had called him. I looked into his eyes and saw fear.
"How do you know these things, Marcus Caelius? How do you know about Dio and me, and about Clodia hiring me?"
"Never mind. What matters is that you're mistaken. It wasn't me. I didn't kill the old Egyptian. I swear to you by the shades of my ancestors!"
"And your friend Asicius?"
"He didn't kill Dio, either."
"Who did?"
"I don't know. But it wasn't me."
"And the night of the murder—where had you been with Asicius, before I saw you? What were the two of you up to? Tell me that, and swear by your ancestors."
"That's more than I can tell you."
"But still not enough."
Caelius squeezed my arm. "Gordianus—"
"Gratidianus!" said Catullus, seizing my other arm. Caelius released
me and I found myself being pulled toward the entrance, my head reeling from the stench of oil smoke and cheap wine.
Behind me I heard a stranger cry out, "By Venus! I wager everything and put my trust in the goddess of love!" Then a clatter of dice, and then the same voice, exultant amid groans of defeat: "The Venus Throw! The Venus Throw! It conquers all!"
Out in the street I breathed the fresh air and looked up at a clear sky spangled with stars. "Why such a rush to get me out of that place?"
"I couldn't leave you behind to tell them everything I'd just told you . . . about her."
"I wouldn't have done that. And please, stop calling me Gratidianus. My name—"
"I know what you call yourself. But for me you'll always have another name, the one I give you. Just as she has another name. In case I should write a poem about you."
"I can't imagine what sort of poem that would be."
"No?
Gratidianus thinks he's clever, and he must be, because Lesbia loves him, far better than Catullus and all his clan—"
"Stop, Catullus. You're too drunk to know what you're saying." "A man is never too drunk to make a poem."
"Just too drunk to make sense. I think I'd better find my way home." I looked up the alley. Beyond the lurid glow cast by the phallic lamp above the door, the way was swallowed up by an unreassuring darkness.
"I'll walk you home," offered Catullus.
A drunken poet for a bodyguard! What would happen if Caelius and his friends decided to come after us? "Quickly then. Do you know another route? Where no one would think to follow?"
"I know every path leading to and from the Salacious Tavern. Follow
me."
He led me on a circuitous route, slipping between warehouses set so close that I had to walk sideways to get through, picking a way around trash heaps where rats scurried and squeaked, and finally ascending a steep footpath up the western slope of the Palatine. It seemed a good route for avoiding assassins, but rather treacherous for a man who had been drinking as much as Catullus. I expected him to fall and break his neck at any moment, taking me with him, but he attacked the climb with only an occasional misstep. The climb seemed to sober him. His lungs were certainly strong enough. While I labored for breath, he had plenty left over to give vent to his thoughts.
"If only we could all become eunuchs!" he declared. "What man wouldn't be happier?"
"I suppose we could become eunuchs, if we wanted."
"Ha! The act is harder than you might think. I know, I've seen it with my own eyes. While I was in Bithynia, I took a journey to the ruins of old Troy, to find the place where my brother's buried. So far from home! On the way back a stranger asked me if I'd like to see the initiation rites of the galli. He wanted money, of course. Took me to a temple on the slopes of Mount Ida. The priests wanted money, too. I felt quite the gawking tourist, dropping coins into all those eager hands, just another crass, thrill-seeking Roman looking for a taste of the 'real' East. They took me to a room so smoky with incense I could hardly see, and so loud with flutes and tambourines I thought I'd go deaf. The rite was under way. The galli chanted and whirled in a weird dance, like fingers of the goddess keeping time. The young initiate had worked himself into a frenzy, naked, covered with sweat, undulating with the music. Someone put a shard of broken pottery into his hand—'Samian pottery,' the guide whispered in my ear, 'the only kind sure to avoid a putrid wound.' While I watched, the fellow turned himself into a gallus before my eyes. All by himself—no one helped him. It was quite a thing to see. Afterward, when the blood was running down his legs and he couldn't stand any longer, the others swarmed around him, swaying, chanting, shrieking. The guide sniggered and poked me in the ribs and made a show of covering his balls. I ran out of the place in a panic."
Catullus fell silent for a while. We reached the top of the path and entered the maze of dark, silent streets.
"Imagine the freedom," Catullus whispered. "To leave the appetites of the flesh behind."
"The
galli have appetites," I said. "They eat like men."
"Yes, but a man eats and is done with it. The craving I'm talking about feeds on itself. The more it's fed, the hungrier it grows."
"A Roman controls his appetites, not vice versa."
"Then perhaps we aren't Romans any longer. Show me a man in Rome who's larger than his appetites."
I thought about this while we made our way through the winding, deep-shadowed streets.
"But even castration can't guarantee an end to passion," Catullus resumed. "Look at Trygonion!" "What about him?"
"Don't you know where his name comes from? The famous epitaph by Philodemus?"
"Should I recognize that name?"
"Barbarian! Philodemus of Gadera. Probably the greatest living poet of the Greek tongue."
"Oh, that Philodemus. An epitaph, you say?"
"Written years and years ago for a dead gallus called Trygonion. Can you follow the Greek?"
"I'll translate in my head."
"Very well:
Here lies that tender creature of ladylike limbs,
Trygonion, prince of the sex-numb emasculates,
Beloved of the Great Mother, Cybele,
He alone of the galli was seduced by a woman.
Holy earth, give to this headstone a pillow
Of budding white violets.
"That old poem is how our Trygonion got his name. I don't remember what he was called before, something Phrygian and unpronounceable. One time, teasing him about his weakness for Lesbia, I called him our little Trygonion, the gallus who fell for a woman. The name stuck to Trygonion the way Trygonion sticks to Lesbia. I think of him whenever I consider castrating myself. It might do no good, you see. A useless gesture. Sometimes passion is stronger than flesh. Love can last beyond death, and in some rare instances a man's weakness for beauty can even outlive his testicles."
"Trygonion is that devoted to Lesbia?"
"He suffers as I suffer, but with one great difference."
"Which is?"
"Trygonion suffers without hope." "And you?"
"While a man still has his balls, he has hope!" Catullus laughed his peculiar, barking laugh. "Even slaves have hope, as long as they have their balls. But a gallus in love with a beautiful woman—"
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