A Mist of Prophecies rsr-9

by Steven Saylor

  "I'm being presumptuous. Forgive me. I should go."

  She turned away from me. Had I offended her? Embarrassed her? I hoped for one more exchange of glances before I left the room, one more look from her troubled blue eyes, but she kept her face averted.

  Rupa led me into the hallway, and I passed from the world lit by Cassandra's presence into the world of boiled cabbage and barking dogs. At the front door, where a Molossian mastiff was tethered to a post, Rupa abruptly turned back, giving me no sign at all, not even a nod. I felt a prickle of envy. He was returning to Cassandra.

  I walked home alone, feeling a touch of light-headedness, but of a different sort than I had felt before; a similar sensation but curiously pleasant. As I passed down the Street of Copper Pots, the clanking of so much metal seemed to echo the muddle in my own head. An unexpected brush with beauty makes a man feel happy, and carefree, and foolish.

  "You will no longer spend your idle hours loitering in the Forum. Too dangerous!"

  So declared Bethesda that night in the dining room off the garden. On my safe return, she had met me with an icy stare and spoken hardly a word, but her display of anger was only a show. Hieronymus drew me aside and informed me in a whisper that she had been frantic and close to tears when he and Davus returned to the house without me.

  Confronted with Bethesda's decree, I sighed, and unable to think of a rebuttal, picked up my wine cup instead. If I argued that I would always take Davus along to protect me, she would only point out that Davus had failed to do so that very afternoon.

  Already outmaneuvered, I soon found myself outnumbered. "Mother's right," said Diana. "Davus does his best to look after you, Papa…" She gave her husband a melting look and patted his hand. He stopped chewing for a moment and actually blushed. Then she turned her stern gaze back to me. — "But even Davus can't be responsible if you're going to start fainting and wandering off in a daze-"

  "I didn't wander off! I was carried off by a pair of friendly strangers to a safe place."

  "But, Papa, you might as easily have been carried off by strangers who weren't so friendly. Those two might have robbed and murdered you and thrown your body in the Tiber, and we'd never have known what became of you."

  "Daughter, you tempt the Fates!" Bethesda tore off a bit of flat bread and threw it over her shoulder to distract any malicious (and presumably hungry) spirits who might be listening.

  Hieronymus cleared his throat and came to my rescue by changing the subject. "I was quite shocked by that harangue from Marcus Caelius today. Not only what he said-that was radical enough-but how he said it, baiting Trebonius and the Senate in such an open fashion."

  "Yes, now that Marc Antony's left Italy to join Caesar, Caelius has grown considerably bolder." I stole a glance at Bethesda, who seemed more interested in the flat bread in her hand. Politics bored her.

  "He very nearly spoke ill of Caesar himself," said Hieronymus.

  "He never spoke Caesar's name," I pointed out.

  "To be sure," admitted Hieronymus, "but his insinuation was clear. Caesar was once the champion of the common people, but now he's their enemy. Once he stood against Pompey and the so-called Best People, but now he's shown himself to be just another politician in the service of the rich."

  "Which means that the people need a new champion," I said.

  "And Marcus Caelius is offering himself for that role."

  I nodded. "For a newcomer to the city, Hieronymus, you're a shrewd judge of Roman politics."

  "Politics here are different from politics in Massilia. All this rabble-rousing and rioting would never have been tolerated there. But politicians are the same everywhere. They have a nose for power. They can smell it the way a hungry man can smell bread. When they see an unclaimed loaf, they rush to seize it for their own. That's what Caelius is doing. He looks around and sees that a great many people are greatly unhappy, and he moves to make himself their champion."

  "It's been done before," I pointed out, "by Catilina, by Clodius, by Caesar himself. But I don't see how Caelius can accomplish anything except to get himself killed-as Catilina and Clodius did. His problem is simple: he doesn't have an army."

  "Perhaps he means to get himself one."

  I had been about to take a sip of wine but stopped short. "What an idea, Hieronymus! A third army vying for control of the world?" I shook my head. "Ridiculous, of course. Caelius has a little military experience, but not nearly enough to challenge either Caesar or Pompey."

  "Unless those two finish each other off," said Diana. "Who's to say that one or the other must return alive from Greece? Word could reach Rome tomorrow that Caesar and Pompey are both dead. Who would take control of Rome then?"

  I put down my cup. "By Hercules! Sometimes, Daughter, you see what I can't see, even though it's right before me. You're right. A gambler like Caelius doesn't go through life thinking of all the ways he might fail. He narrows his thoughts until he can perceive the one path by which he might succeed, then bends all his will toward that path, heedless of the odds against him. If he loses, he loses everything. But if he wins…"

  "He wins the world," said Hieronymus.

  VIII

  On the day after I called on Terentia and Fulvia, I rose early, taking care not to disturb Bethesda, ate a light break fast, then called Mopsus and Androcles to come and help me put on my best toga again. The wool was a bit dusty from my outing the previous day. After it was properly draped about me, I stood very still while Mopsus gave it a good brushing.

  Androcles stood to one side. "You missed a spot," he said.

  "I did not!" said Mopsus.

  "Yes, you did. Right there, along the bottom."

  "I don't see anything."

  "That's because you're blind."

  "I am not!"

  "Did I say blind? I meant to say stupid."

  I clapped my hands. "Boys, stop your squabbling! Mopsus, get back to work."

  Mopsus began brushing again.

  "You missed another spot," said Androcles.

  "Are you deaf? The master told you to shut up. Didn't you hear him?"

  "He said no such thing! He told you to get back to work."

  I took the ivory brush from Mopsus and gave Androcles a sound smack on the head. He gave a cry and reached up to rub the spot. Mopsus clutched his sides and brayed like a donkey. I gave him a smack as well.

  Satisfied that I was presentable, I told the boys to wake Davus if he was not yet up and to dress him. Meanwhile, I looked in on Bethesda. She was still sleeping, but fitfully, tossing and muttering as if in the grip of a fever. I felt her brow, but it was cool. Was she suffering physical discomfort, or simply in the throes of a nightmare? I decided not to wake her. Sleep was her only respite from the malady that had been plaguing her.

  Davus was waiting for me in the garden, looking rather cramped in his toga. We left the house and set out on the rim road along the crest of the Palatine Hill.

  It was a fine morning, already warm but not yet hot. Golden sunlight slanted through a towering yew tree near my house. Birds sang and flitted amid the branches. A little farther on, I paused to take in a view of the Forum below and the hills beyond. To the right I could see the shallow valley of the Subura, crowded with ugly tenements. More to the center and farther away, atop the Pincian Hill, I saw flashes of sunlight on the tile roof of Pompey's grand house, now deserted and awaiting its master's return. To the left, above the Capitoline Hill, a lone eagle was circling the Temple of Jupiter. Beyond the Capitoline I caught a glimpse of the Tiber, a gold ribbon lit by the sun, with wharves and markets along its banks. In a single, sweeping view I saw a microcosm of the whole world-palaces and slums, the dwellings of prostitutes and Vestal Virgins, temples where the gods were worshipped and markets where slaves were sold.

  "What a remarkable city!" I said aloud. Davus responded with a nod. For good or ill, Rome was the center of the world. In spite of all the world's troubles and my own-my crushing debts, my rupture with Meto, Bethesda's mys
terious ailment, the murder of Cassandra-such a view on such a morning could still inspire me with that curious sense of hope that young men feel when they rise and greet the world on a sunny summer morning and anything seems possible.

  "Where are we going, Father-in-Law?"

  "Today, Davus, I intend to pay a visit to Marc Antony's wife-and perhaps to his mistress, as well."

  I had never met Antonia and knew her only by reputation. She was Antony's first cousin and his second wife; his first had been Fadia, the daughter of a wealthy freedman. That marriage-for love, people said-had scandalized Antony's family; even though Fadia brought him a handsome dowry, she had been his social inferior. But Fadia died young, and Antony's second marriage had done much to repair his reputation among the Roman aristocracy. Antonia was handsome, well-to-do, and Antony's exact social equal. But she also shared his weakness for adultery. While Antony had scandalized all Italy in the last year by traveling about with his mistress, the actress Cytheris, Antonia had been carrying on with Cicero's dissolute son-in-law Dolabella. According to the chin-waggers in the Forum, the only bond still holding Antony and Antonia together in marriage was their six-year-old daughter.

  It was her shrieking I heard from within when a hulking slave opened the door at Antonia's house. A moment later, beyond the slave, a tiny naked figure streaked by, followed by a stooped, hobbling nurse unable keep up with her charge. "I will not! I will not!" the little girl cried, then screamed again. Is there anything so ear-piercing as the scream of a six-year-old girl? I covered my ears. The girl dashed off.

  Before the door slave could ask our names or business, Antonia herself appeared, following after the child and the nurse. It was early in the day, so I was not surprised to see her wearing only a simple yellow stola without jewelry, and with her hair undressed, hanging down almost to her waist. With or without adornment, she was a beautiful woman. I thought of poor, plain Tullia, and wondered if the rumors about Dolabella and Antonia were true.

  She looked past the door slave at Davus and me, put her hands on her hips, and raised an eyebrow. "Are you from my husband?"

  "No. My name-"

  She narrowed her eyes. "From Dolabella?"

  "No."

  "Then what business have you got knocking on my door at such an early hour? No, wait-I know you from somewhere, don't I? Ah, yes, you're the one who buried Cassandra."

  "I am."

  "Gordianus, isn't it? The so-called Finder? I've heard of you from my husband. You've got the son who goes about with Caesar, taking his dictation. Dictation from the dictator!" She uttered a crude laugh. I winced at this reference to Meto.

  Before I could answer, the naked child came racing by in the opposite direction. Antonia stooped down, captured her, and held her wriggling until the nurse arrived. As the screaming child was led off, Antonia shook her head. "She's as willful as her father. The little monster inherited his temperament. And my looks, don't you think? Juno help the man who marries her!" She saw the nonplused expression on my face and laughed. Then her smile faded. "I suppose you're here to talk about Cassandra. Come along, then. There's a nice spot of sun in the garden, and peacocks to amuse us."

  There were indeed peacocks in the garden, three of them, all strutting about with their fans in full display. Chairs were brought, along with pitchers of water and wine. Antonia had not yet taken her break fast; she told the serving slave to bring enough for all three of us. When I saw the plate of delicacies he delivered, I let out a gasp. I had not seen a date stuffed with almond paste in months; the plate was heaped with them. It seemed that the shortages that plagued ordinary citizens did not affect the household of Caesar's right-hand man.

  Davus gobbled up a date. He licked his fingertips and was about to reach for another when I stopped him with a look.

  Antonia laughed. "Let the big fellow eat his fill. I have more dates and figs and olives than I know what to do with. Before he left to join Caesar, my husband spent months traveling all over Italy-with that strum pet of his, for all the world to gawk at-and he did a very good job of gathering provisions. Rather like a squirrel gathering acorns for the winter. Ostensibly his mission was to cow the locals and impose great Caesar's will, but he was really just extorting everyone. He's a pirate at heart, you know. A lying, drinking, whoring pirate." She snapped her fingers and pointed to her empty cup. The slave poured a measure of wine. Antonia put it to her lips before he could add an equal measure of water.

  "My husband won't last, you know. His days are numbered. I don't think Caesar much liked the way Antony ran Italy in his absence, parading about with his whore, bleeding the countryside, getting stinking drunk, and generally making a spectacle of himself. Once Caesar's disposed of Pompey, he'll come back to run the show himself. If they haven't been disposed of already, he'll deal in short order with this insurrection that Milo and Marcus Caelius are hatching. He won't need a drunken bully to do it for him. Antony shall simply be an embarrassment to him." She narrowed her eyes. "I should have divorced him before he left Italy. That would have been the smart thing to do. But perhaps, if I'm lucky, the gods will make me a widow soon enough and spare me the bother. Anything can happen on a battlefield, they say."

  She paused in her tirade to drain her cup, then continued. "I only married him because my mother wanted me to. 'What a stroke of fortune!' she said. 'Fadia, that awful creature he married, is dead; and now's our chance to rehabilitate your dear cousin, and you're just the one to do it. The whole family is counting on you. You always got along so well as children.' Ha! I remember him pulling my hair. And I remember kicking him in the shins. If only I'd kicked him a bit higher up, hard enough to crack his eggs, I'd have done everyone a favor. What's the matter, big fellow? Don't you care for the pickled figs?"

  Davus, caught with his mouth full, finished chewing and swallowed. "I prefer the dates," he said.

  "As you wish. More dates!" she called to the slave. "And a bit more wine for me. To the brim! That's better. Where was I?" She looked at me crossly. "You're all alike, you men. Worthless. I'd divorce my cousin and marry Dolabella, but he's no better. I'd only be spoiling my own amusement. 'Good lovers make bad husbands,' as the saying goes. Poor Tullia! That stupid girl worships him. She has no idea; she must be blind and deaf. Dolabella treats her with utter contempt. I'd say she deserves it, the little fool, but didn't the gods curse her enough already by giving her that lout Cicero for a father? And Dolabella's no more promising than Antony in the long run. He's made a complete mess of the naval command Caesar gave him. He's likely to end up like wretched Curio, with his head on a stick-of no use to me whatsoever if that happens. Ah, well… but you didn't come here to talk about me, did you?"

  She gave me a sidelong, heavy-lidded look. I began to suspect she had taken her first cup of wine even before we arrived. I had found her rather good-looking earlier, and her candor refreshing; but with every word she spoke and with each sip of wine she became more and more unattractive, until her vivacity seemed merely vulgar. A weakness for wine was her cousin's vice. Perhaps it ran in the family.

  "I came here to talk about Cassandra," I said quietly.

  "Ah, yes, Cassandra. Well, she never fooled me. Not for an instant."

  I felt a prickling across the back of my neck, a premonition of something unpleasant. But I had come to seek the truth, after all, or at least Antonia's version of it. "What do you mean?"

  "All that folderol, swooning and sputtering and rolling her eyes back in her head. Oh, she was very convincing, I'll grant her that."

  "You're talking about her fits of prophecy?"

  Antonia made a rude exhalation. "Prophecy! That's what she wanted everyone to believe. Well, I didn't fall for it. Oh, perhaps a little, at first. I'll admit I was curious. Who wasn't? Everyone was talking about her and how she'd been invited into some of the best homes in Rome because of her 'gift.' My dear husband himself was convinced of it. After Caesar, he was the first man in Rome to know about Curio's death; yet when he went to Fulvi
a to give her the bad news, Fulvia already knew because Cassandra had told her. Now that was a bit uncanny, I confess." She suddenly looked thoughtful, as if reconsidering her earlier judgment. Then she shook her head. "But no, the woman was mostly a fake. Perhaps not entirely. Perhaps there was a tiny bit of truth to this notion that she had a gift for prophecy. I'll say that she was nine parts a fake and one part genuine. What do you say to that?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Didn't you know the truth about her, Finder? You buried her."

  "If I knew everything about Cassandra already, believe me, I wouldn't be sitting here now."

  Antonia perceived an insult and bristled, then smiled. "It's all coming back to me now, the things my husband told me about you and your dictation-loving son. You're awfully impertinent, aren't you? My husband admires that in common people." She sighed. "It's a holdover from his younger days when he was married to that daughter of a freedman, Fadia. He comes from one of the best families in Rome, yet he's always had a taste for mucking in the dirt. I suppose it gives him a certain advantage when it comes to endearing himself to the soldiers under his command. They appreciate the common touch. And no one is more common than my husband when he's in his cups, belching and farting and fondling that actress. Cytheris! Do you know where he first saw her? Performing some lewd mime after dinner one night at the house of Volumnius the banker. From that moment on, the two of them commenced to make fools of themselves from one end of Italy to the other. He even wanted to take her along with him when he left Italy to join Caesar. Can you imagine? I told him not to be an idiot. 'Caesar's locked in a life-or-death struggle to make himself master of the world, and you're going to show up at his headquarters with your plaything in tow, both of you reeking of wine and perfume? Do you know what Caesar's going to tell you? "For Jupiter's sake, Antony, put away your sword for once in your life, and get rid of that whore!" ' "

  She had strayed a long way from the subject of Cassandra. I cleared my throat.