"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 hom
e," 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-"
"So much in love that he would do anything for her?"
"Any at all, without question."
"So much in love that he might be blinded by jealousy?" "Driven mad by it!"
"He could be dangerous. Unpredictable… "
"Not nearly as dangerous as Lesbia." Catullus was suddenly giddy, trotting ahead of me and circling back, leaping up to swing at lamps hung from upper-story windows along the street. "Damned bitch! The Medea of the Palatine!"
"Medea was a witch, as I recall, and rather wicked."
"Only because she was 'sick at heart, wounded by cruel love,' as the playwright says. A witch, yes, and wounded-only it's me she's bewitched, and Caelius who wounded her. Medea of the Palatine! Clytemnestra-for-a-quadrans!"
"A quadrans? As cheap as that?"
"Why not? The price of admission to the Senian baths." "But Clytemnestra murdered her husband."
"Agamemnon deserved it!" He whirled like a frenzied gallus. "Medea of the Palatine! Clytemnestra-for-a-quadrans!" he chanted. "Who calls her such things?"
"I do!" said Catullus. He abruptly stopped his whirling and staggered ahead of me, gasping for breath. "I just made them up, out of my head. What do you think? I'll need some fresh invectives if I'm to get her attention again."
"You're a strange suitor, Catullus."
"I love a strange woman. Do you want to know a secret about her? Something that no else in all the world knows, not even Lesbius? I wouldn't know myself, if I hadn't spied on her one night. Do you know that giant monstrosity of a Venus in her garden?"
"I happened to notice it, yes."
"The pedestal appears to be solid, but it's not. There's a block that slides out, opening a secret compartment. It's where she keeps her trophies."
"Trophies?"
"Mementos. Keepsakes. One night in bed with her, happily dozing after hours of making love, I felt a tickling at my groin. I opened one eye to see her clipping away a bit of my pubic hair! She stole out of the room with it. I followed her to the garden. From the shadows I watched her open the pedestal and put what she had taken from me inside. Later I went back and figured out how to open the compartment, and I saw what she kept there. Poems I had sent her. Letters from her other lovers. Bits of jewelry, clippings of hair, childish gifts her brother must have given her when they were little. Her love trophies!"
He suddenly staggered against a wall and clutched his face. "I wanted to destroy it all," he whispered hoarsely. "I wanted to scoop up all her treasures and throw them on the brazier and watch them burst into flame. But I couldn't. I felt the eyes of the goddess on me. I stepped back from the pedestal and looked up at her face. I left her mementos alone. If I destroyed them, I knew she would never forgive me."
"Who would never forgive you-Venus or Lesbia?"
He looked at me with tragic eyes. "Is there any difference?"
Chapter Eighteen
The wrath ofAchilles would pale beside the wrath ofBethesda.
Her anger runs cold, not hot. It freezes rather than scalds. It is invisible, secretive, insidious. It makes itself felt not by blustering action,
but by cold, calculated inaction, by words unspoken, glances unreturned, pleas for mercy unheeded. I think Bethesda shows her anger in this passive way because she was born a slave, and remained a slave for much of her life, until I manumitted and married her to bear our daughter in freedom. Her way is the way of slaves (and the hero of Homer's Iliad): she sulks, and broods, and bides her time.
It was bad enough that I had sent Belbo home alone from Clodia's house, leaving myself without a bodyguard to cross the Palatine by night. Bad enough, too, that I eventually came home smelling of cheap wine and the rancid smoke of tavern lamps. But to have spent the night with that woman!
This was ridiculous, of course, and I said so, especially as I hadn't even seen Clodia all night.
How then did I explain the lingering smell of perfume on me?
A smarter man (or even myself, less worn out and sleepy) would have thought twice before explaining that the perfume came from a blanket that the lady in question must have put over him when he unwittingly dozed off in her garden-
That was that. I spent what little remained of the night trying to find a comfortable position on a cramped dining couch in my study. I'm used to sleeping with a warm body next to me.
I'm also used to sleeping until at least daybreak, especially after having stayed up half the night. This was not to be. It wasn't that Bethesda woke me; she simply made it impossible for me to go on sleeping. Was it really necessary to send the scrub maid to clean my study before dawn?
Once I was awake, Bethesda didn't refuse to feed me. But the millet porridge was lumpy and cold, and there was no conversation to warm it up.
After breakfast, I shooed the scrub maid from my study and shut the door. It was a good morning, I decided, to write a letter.
To my beloved son Meto, serving under the command ofGaius Julius Caesar in Gaul, from his loving father in Rome, may Fortune be with you.
I write this letter only three days after my last; Martius is gone and the Kalends of Aprilis is upon us. Much has happened in the meantime, all revolving about the murder of Dio.
Our neighbor Marcus Caelius (now our former neighbor; Clodius evicted him) has been accused of the murder of Dio, and related crimes having to do with the harassment of the Egyptian envoys, as well as a previous attempt (by poison) on Dio's life. I have been hired by friends of the prosecution to help find evidence against Caelius. My only interest is to determine who killed Dio, so that I can put this nagging affair to rest, for my own peace of mind if not for justice's sake.
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