EIGHTEEN
It was as if the bust of Cicero that stood on a pedestal in the foyer of Damon's home, back in Alexandria, had come to life on the Forum steps. The beefy, balding man with prominent nose and deep creases along his cheek and jaw so resembled the bust Damon had passed hundreds of times that the real Cicero now seemed familiar to him—as if Damon were seeing an old friend.
Cicero shrugged his cloak off one shoulder. He spoke to a man who Damon guessed was his servant, since he did not have on the toga worn by citizens of Rome. Cicero's waistband, Damon noticed, was purple, a color supposedly reserved for senators. When Cleopatra had dressed in purple to attend the theater, Cicero had criticized her at length. It seemed he paid no attention to his own words—or he thought himself worthy where Cleopatra was not.
Cicero pointed out several in the crowd to his servant, then turned and climbed the Forum steps, taking two at a time. When he reached the top step, he shouted, "A good day's wage for those who are interested. See my man, Tiro."
A crowd began to form around Tiro, who shouted, "No work required!"
A man dressed in rags shouted back, "You think it's not work to listen to those long-winded jackasses?" The crowd laughed, but still more joined the group.
"You, the one missing the foot. Yes, you." Tiro gestured to a lame man to come forward. "We're in need of your kind." Several beggars joined the group.
A legless man used his arms to swing his torso up the steps. "Worked for Cicero before. Decent man," he hollered to the crowd.
Tiro motioned to them all. "Follow me."
They followed him to a chamber in the courthouse. The others seemed to leave space around Artemas, who stood a head taller, but Damon had to elbow and wedge himself through the flow of Romans, just as he had at the Circus Maximus.
Damon wondered how they would all fit into this small room. Why did Tiro need so many? The room was packed. He seemed to have favored the blind, deaf, and crippled. Would he and Artemas get picked? If they weren't chosen, how would they get close enough to Cicero to learn anything useful to the Pharaoh? Damon found himself limping, then scolded himself for the deception. He'd never make a spy. He wished he hadn't agreed to this.
Cicero entered through a side door and stood at a podium. "The case you are about to hear will be painful for many of you. Who in Rome has not suffered the landlord's greed?"
Around the room men grumbled and nodded.
"My client lived in the attic of a tenement near the cattle markets. One evening, while his family slept, the roof collapsed. The rubble caught fire from a brazier that had been lit to take off the night chill. My client had been working late. He rounded the corner to see his building in flames. His whole family burned to death. His and many others." Cicero swept back his cloak. "They were killed because the landlord had hired an architect known to cut costs by using inferior materials and insufficient supports. How long are the people of Rome going to stand for this shoddy construction that takes the lives of our people?"
The grumbling grew louder. The man next to Damon thumped his crutch on the floor. Even Damon found himself swept up in the passion of Cicero's speech. How dare the wealthy get richer at the cost of human life?
"Will you join me in battle against them?"
The group shouted agreement. Damon joined them, raising a fist and shouting, "We are with you." Artemas glared at him.
"Good. I want the jury to see how high rents force ten into a space meant for two. 1 want them to understand that when a building crumbles, hundreds are injured and homeless. You will show them. You will fill the galleries. Together we will put a stop to the human sacrifice. Are we one?"
"Yes!"
"Many of you already have afflictions. Good. Those of you who need a little something extra, see Tiro. He will provide you with bandages and crutches."
What? What was this? Had Damon heard right? He looked to where Cicero had gestured. Tiro stood behind a pile of soiled bandages. A dozen crutches leaned against the wall behind him.
Cicero raised his fist. "You are crusaders against injustice!"
How had he let himself be fooled so easily? Cicero didn't care about the poor. Damon whispered to Artemas, "I'll not put on some filthy bandage and pretend I've been injured."
"But how else do you expect to get close to him? You want those horses, don't you?"
"But this is all a sham!"
Artemas rolled his eyes. "What did you expect? Don't you see that this is just one way to show the jury the truth?"
Damon folded his arms across his chest. "I won't do it."
"All right, have it your way. Sitting in a courtroom for days won't really help us learn anything about Cicero anyhow." Artemas raised his hand and shouted, "Excuse me?"
"Yes, you." Cicero pointed to Artemas.
"How long do you expect this trial to last?"
Now what was Artemas up to? They'd be found out, for sure. What did the Romans do to spies? Damon thought of the Circus Maximus—the juggler—and shuddered.
"You should receive several days' pay At least three. Those of you with natural afflictions can leave your names with Tiro. We will use you again. Crippling injuries go a long way in the courtroom." Cicero headed toward the door with a wave to the crowd.
Artemas raised his voice. "I'm afraid my friend and I can't spare that much time. We are going to Caesar, you see."
Cicero stopped midstride and turned. "Then let me speak with you before you go. Come."
Cleopatra was right, Damon thought. Cicero must be obsessed with Caesar to agree to meet with them, two young men he had never seen before.
Artemas and Damon followed Cicero through the marble corridor to a small chamber, bare except for a desk and a few chairs. Cicero was the first to speak. "There has been little news out of Spain."
"Yes, so we understand," Damon replied. "My father is there. I go to tell him of my mother's death. He serves Caesar."
"1 will double the wage you would receive in the court if you send me word of how the battle goes in Spain."
Artemas stroked his chin with one hand. "What kind of news are you hoping for?"
Cicero looked sharply at Artemas. "What are you suggesting?"
"It's common knowledge you have no allegiance to Caesar. Will you use our information against him?" So, Damon thought, Artemas is expecting an honest answer. I'd sooner believe a viper.
"I swear allegiance to no man. My allegiance is to the Republic." Cicero put his foot up on the chair, tightening the leather straps of his sandal. "I only desire news on which way the battle goes."
Artemas kept Cicero squarely in front of him like the hunter who never turns his back on the beast. "It is said that Cleopatra has many men following Caesar's progress. Perhaps you should ask her how the battle goes."
"The Egyptian sorceress? She will be the downfall of the Republic." Cicero was doing nothing to hide his distrust of Cleopatra—but if such thoughts were treasonous, all of Rome would be arrested. "I am a man of honor: I will not humble myself by begging that pagan for information."
Damon laughed, then coughed behind one fist to cover the sound. When both Artemas and Cicero looked at him, he asked, "How is it that a man of honor deceives a jury?"
"Ah, that." Cicero waved it away as if he were fanning an annoying insect from in front of his face. 'That is merely throwing dust in the jurymen's eyes. It is the lawyer's calling."
"You are good at this?" Damon asked.
"I am the best."
"I shall remember to protect my eyes."
Cicero smiled. "Your ears as well, son. Especially your ears."
Damon could not help but smile in return. Cicero's voice was deep with resonance, soothing as a balm. How could he protect his ears against it? And something more—Cicero had called him son. Did he need to be someone's son so badly he was willing to be charmed by an enemy of his Pharaoh?
Artemas crossed his arms stubbornly. "I'll not betray Caesar."
Cicero shrugged. "I only ask ne
ws of the battle, no more."
Damon believed him. He knew he shouldn't. There was dust in the air, and Cicero was throwing it. But Damon knew that information was power, and the first to know could strut his importance. Cicero was someone who liked to strut, Damon was sure. This was not about Caesar—at least, not this time.
"How would we send word?" Artemas asked cautiously.
"Messenger. Tiro will supply you with funds, and extra for your trouble. Now, I'm afraid I am late for court." Cicero left without waiting for their answer. Did he read men so well that he knew they would send word? If so, he must also know they would choose those words carefully And that first their Pharaoh, Cleopatra, would hear.
"What are we going to do?" Damon asked Artemas after Cicero had left.
"I won't provide him with so much as a breath to use against Caesar—or Cleopatra."
Damon had been ready to collect payment from Tiro and send Cicero news of progress in Munda. All because of one word^son. Artemas had kept his head. Cicero was not to be trusted. He was a man who created illusions. And a lie was still a lie, whether you liked to call it dust in the eyes or not.
NINETEEN
Damon breathed deep the incense Cleopatra burned. It smelled of Egypt. It smelled of home. He missed home.
"Cicero has a voice that would charm the snake." Cleopatra clapped her hands. Charmion appeared with wine.
Damon plucked a fig from the platter of dried fruits. "He told me to protect my ears."
"And well you should."
Artemas refused the wine. "I don't trust him."
"Then you are wiser than Caesar himself." Cleopatra sent a lotus blossom, floating in a bowl, spinning with a flick of her finger. "Caesar is too forgiving. His trust will be his downfall. Did you hear what he said of Cicero? That it is better to have extended the frontiers of the mind than to have pushed back the boundaries of the Republic. He put Cicero above himself!" Cleopatra shook her head. "I owe you horses."
Artemas knelt before Cleopatra. "But we have learned nothing."
"You will have your horses." Cleopatra signaled a servant. "You found out as much as any of my paid spies. It is as I suspected. Cicero watches Caesar closely."
The world watches Caesar closely, Damon thought. Why should Cicero be any different?
Damon cleared his throat and looked at Artemas. They had agreed that Artemas should warn her of the real danger even if it angered her. Now was the time.
Artemas stood and bowed his head. "I fear you have more to fear from Cicero than Caesar does, O Great One. Cicero's dislike for you goes beyond rational thought. It seems personal. He blames you for all that is wrong with Caesar."
"Cicero can't harm me. It is Caesar I worry about."
"I thought you should know."
"I appreciate your candor. Not many would say so."
"If you don't want to give us the horses now, I would understand."
"You have earned them. Even more so with your honesty. But I do ask you one more favor."
Artemas was on one knee in an instant. "Anything, my Pharaoh."
"Take this to Caesar." She handed him a scroll, sealed with the royal emblem. "Trust it to no one else—his hands or none."
Artemas took the scroll and held it to his heart.
Damon realized this meant Artemas would see the great Caesar himself. Artemas would ride like a man possessed. How would Damon keep up?
Cleopatra held out both hands. Cupped in the palm of each hand was a small stone. "An amulet, for your safety"
Damon felt the warmth of the stone that must have come from her own hand. The Great One's own heat. He closed his hand around the amulet and felt it radiate. He opened his hand again to study it. The small oval turquoise was carved with the Eye of Horus, the wadjet eye. He felt its protection just as surely as he had felt the heat. He bowed to Cleopatra and remained with his forehead to the limestone floor even after her scent of lavender had left the room.
TWENTY
At the first milestone they came to, Artemas reined in his horse. The horse, energized by the early morning chill, pranced in an arc around the column. Although the distance in miles to many towns was carved into the stone, the mileage to Munda was not. Damon was glad. He knew it must be more than a thousand miles. To see that number etched in stone might make him reconsider the journey ahead.
They kept a good pace all morning. By noon they found themselves at the thirtieth-mile marker, facing the mouth of a gaping hole in the hill before them. The horses pranced backward and sidestepped.
Damon struggled to keep his mount still. "What do you make of it?" he asked Artemas.
"It must be part of the road. Look how the stones fit together. It's paved right on through."
"It's dark in there. I can't see to the other side." Damon squinted into the darkness. "How do we know the earth doesn't just open up, with the Devourer waiting at the bottom?"
"The road leads here. It must go through."
Damon heard tortured creaking coming from the mouth of the gaping hole in the earth. Had he conjured the Devourer by speaking his name? A dull thud, like the heartbeat of a giant beast, came steadily. Damon's horse backed farther away from the dark opening.
Damon was about to turn and flee when two oxen came into the light. They slowly plodded forward, pulling a wagon. The driver flicked a whip back and forth in time with the beat of the hooves on the stone.
The driver guided the oxen to a stop by the side of the road near a statue of Mercury. The old man climbed down from his perch and searched the ground, prodding it with his whip handle until he loosened a small stone. He tossed it onto a large pile of stones in front of the statue.
The driver saluted Damon and Artemas. "You might want to add a stone to the Mercury heap. Protector of travelers, you know. Never hurts to have a bit of luck."
Artemas nodded. "How goes the road ahead?"
"Never seen a tunnel, I wager."
"A tunnel?"
"Army dug right through the hill. You can't say the Romans don't build their roads straight. Paved all the way through too."
"How deep?" Damon asked.
"It doesn't go down. Just think of it as a road with a canopy." The driver pulled himself up onto the wagon. "May Mercury be at your heels." The wagon began to move.
"How far to the nearest inn?" Artemas shouted over the creaking of the wheels.
The driver cupped his hand to his ear. "Eh?"
"The nearest inn?"
"The fourth stone."
Damon and Artemas watched the man's back until he disappeared from view. Then it couldn't be avoided. They turned to the gaping hole. Damon was sure they were entering a tomb. So many lined the roads—could this be one with a gateway to the otherworld?
Artemas gathered in his horse's reins. "I'll go first. If I slip out of sight, turn and run for it. Don't worry about the horse's feet on the stone. Just go for all she's got."
Artemas entered the tunnel. Damon followed. It was dark, but he could still see the outline of Artemas in front of him. The clopping hooves echoed, making it sound as if a dozen horses had come in with them.
"I can't understand why this isn't marked on the map." Artemas's voice boomed in the narrow space. It sounded oddly hollow, as if it were coming from the walls instead of from Artemas.
Damon's eyes began to adjust to the dim light. He could make out the walls of the tunnel and the ceiling overhead, covered in moss. He prodded his horse on with his heels to her belly, but the mare ignored him and only reluctantly moved forward. "You don't suppose that old man was..."
"Who?" Artemas turned to look over his shoulder, resting his hand on his horse's rump.
"Nobody." Damon shrugged. He was a man of science, by Thoth. Why was he thinking about demons? He wasn't a little boy afraid of the dark. Why did he feel like one? He'd escaped a vortex, even a shark attack. He squared his shoulders and rode on.
Light struck the sides of the tunnel. The horses picked up their pace.
The sunlight seemed brighter when they emerged. Damon and Artemas looked all around them, marveling at the light on the leaves.
"I believe I'm starving," Artemas said over his shoulder.
Damon trotted to catch up. "The next stone is up ahead, only three miles to go."
The two rode in the sunshine, hungry and tired. Damon's legs were sore. He wondered how well he would be able to walk when he finally got off his fat mare.
When they rounded a wide bend in the road, Damon saw the inn ahead. He was surprised at how crowded it appeared. Several wagons were pulled up in front.
"Must be good food here," Damon said. "It looks busy."
Artemas leaned forward. "Soldiers."
Damon and Artemas brought their horses to a stop between two chariots. Several soldiers milled around a wagon. They all wore red cloaks. The plumes on their helmets were of the same red. They were Roman.
As Artemas and Damon led their horses to the water trough, Damon smelled something all too familiar. Artemas must have smelled it, too. But either he didn't know what he was smelling or he was too taken with the soldiers to put it together. Damon suspected the latter.
"Any news from Caesar and Spain?" Artemas asked the soldier nearest him.
"The battle continues at Munda. Caesar has pushed the enemy back."
"Even outnumbered, Caesar triumphs."
"Yes, but we lost many men." The soldier pointed to the wagon. "We carry news to the magistrate, and a wounded man to his family on the way."
"My friend here is a physician," Artemas said.
"His wound worsens. The doctor in Munda dressed it, but the dressing should be changed." The soldier looked at Damon hopefully.
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