Catilina's riddle rsr-3

by Steven Saylor

  'There,' said Meto, 'that would be our century, wouldn't it?'

  'Yes—’

  'Come, Papa, I want to see!'

  We moved into the milling throng that was slowly being funnelled into the Sheep Pen. 'But, Meto, there's nothing to see—'

  'No slaves here, only citizens!' said an election official posted outside the enclosure. He was looking at Belbo, who nodded and backed away.

  'But there's no need.' I protested. 'He can stay with us. We're only—'

  'For Catilina!' a voice whispered in my ear. At the same time a newly minted coin was pressed into my palm.

  I looked around and saw the face of one of the crowd workers I had recognized before, one of Crassus's henchmen. He recognized me as well.

  "The Finder! I thought you'd left Rome for good.' 'I have.'

  'And I thought you never voted.' 'I don't.'

  ‘Well, then!' He snatched the coin out of my palm.

  Without meaning to, I found that I was shuffling forwards with everyone else, hemmed in by the crowd and heading for the second aisle of the Sheep Pen. Meto was ahead of me. He was looking down at a shiny coin held between his forefinger and thumb.

  'Meto, we need to—'

  ‘But, Papa, we're almost there.'

  And so we were. Before I knew it, we were at the entrance to the voting aisle, and a bored-looking census officer holding a scroll was scmtinizing Meto. 'Family name?' he demanded wearily.

  'Gordianus,' said Meto.

  'Gordianus, Gordianus — yes, here it is. Not many of you. And which one are you — you hardly look old enough, to vote.' 'I'm sixteen,' protested Meto, 'as of yesterday.'

  'Oh, yes, so you are,' said the official, squinting at the list 'Here,

  take your tablet and stylus. And you're Gordianus, the pater?' he asked,looking up at me.

  ‘Yes. but-'

  'Here, your tablet and stylus. Next' — And so, like a sheep, I found myself being driven to the voting urn. Ahead of me Meto scribbled on his tablet. We shuffled forward. Another officer at the end of the line collected our styluses and watched us cast our ballots into the urn. As I did so, the officer gave me an odd look.

  We stepped out of the Sheep Pen, where Belbo was waiting for us. I breathed a sigh of relief, then heard a shout behind me. 'You, citizen! With the beard!' I turned around. 'Yes, you!'

  The officer had plucked my tablet from the urn and was holding it up. You've made a mistake, citizen!' he laughed. 'There's no "Nemo" in the race for consul'

  I shrugged. 'Even so, that's whom I'm voting for.'

  Meto would not say for whom he had voted, protesting that his ballot was secret, but it was obvious from the despondent look on his face when it was announced that our century had gone for Silanus. And so he received his first bitter disappointment as a voter.

  The disappointment was even more bitter for many in the crowd assembled before the Villa Publica when later that afternoon it was announced that the centuries of the Fifth Class and the free poor would not be needed to determine the outcome. Silanus and Murena had won. The Optimates had maintained their control of the consulships. For the second time in two years, Catilina had been repudiated at the polls. All around us I heard muttered curses and even cries of despair amid the general applause, and I felt a sudden tension in the air.

  Silanus and Murena appeared on the podium, along with Cicero and Antonius. Following tradition, the consuls-elect would say a few brief words to the assembled citizenry, but when Murena stepped forward to speak he was drowned out by a sudden uproar. Catilina had emerged from the gates of the Villa Publica.

  From the reaction of those around him, Catilina might have been the winner of the election, not a two-time loser. His partisans rushed to him, cheering, tearful, many of them reaching out to touch him, chanting his name in unison: 'Catilina! Catilina!' His own expression was stoic as he strode forward with his jaw set and his eyes straight ahead. From the podium, Cicero gazed down with a tight smile on his lips.

  Once Catilina. had passed, Murena and Silanus were finally able to speak. Their comments were predictably banal and were greeted by tepid applause, afterwards Cicero announced that the voting for the praetors would begin immediately. I might have actually cared enough to stay and vote for my friend Rufus, but Meto suddenly lost heart and decided he had learned enough about politics for one day. We left the crowd and made our way back through the deserted streets of the Subura.

  Back at Eco's house, Bethesda noticed that Meto seemed unusually withdrawn and pensive. She attributed this to the natural depression that comes the day after a big event such as a toga party, but I knew that Meto's disappointment sprang from something deeper than that.

  XXII

  We dined informally that evening, with everyone raiding the kitchen for leftovers from the day before. The heat of the day cast the whole household into a mood of easy lassitude. The slaves went sluggishly about their errands, and even Bethesda was too hot to reprimand them. The sun itself seemed lazy, and took an unusually long time to set beyond the horizon. The sky deepened to a rich, dark blue. Meto withdrew to his room to be alone. Diana snuggled against her mother and dozed on our sleeping couch. Eco and Menenia retired to another room at the back of the house to do whatever it is that young newlyweds do to amuse themselves on long, sultry summer evenings. I was left alone again in the garden, which suited my mood.

  The first handful of stars were beginning to sparkle in the heavens when Belbo announced that there was a caller outside the front door.

  'For Eco?' I asked, thinking he would hardly care to be disturbed at the moment.

  'No, he's come to see you, Master. But I don't like the looks of

  it.’

  'Why is that, Belbo?'

  'Too many bodyguards, for one thing — one for every finger at least — and they're all carrying big daggers in their hands, not even sheathed.'

  My heartbeat sped up a bit What in Jupiter's name had I done now? Why could I not be left in peace? 'Who is this visitor, Belbo?'

  'I'm not sure. He doesn't give a name, and he stands back among his bodyguards so that I can't see him properly. His toga has purple on it, though.'

  'Yes?' I pursed my lips, puzzled.

  'And he's armed himself. Or at least he's wearing armour. I can see what looks like a breastplate underneath his toga—'

  'I see. Yes, Belbo, I suppose I had better see this visitor. But ask him to leave his bodyguards outside. He has nothing to fear in this house.'

  Belbo withdrew. A few moments later I was joined in the garden by Marcus Tullius Cicero.

  'Gordianus!' he said, giving me a warm, lingering look as if I were a long-lost friend, or perhaps an undecided voter. 'Such a long time since I've seen you!'

  'Not so very long. You saw me yesterday on the path to the Arx.'

  'I wouldn't count that, would you, given the circumstances? If I was brusque or distant yesterday — well, you understand. I was unable to acknowledge you as I should and will acknowledge you when all this is over.'

  ' "All this?"'

  'You know what I mean.' 'Do I?'

  'Gordianus!' he said in a sweetly chiding tone. 'Difficult as always.'

  'What is it you want, Cicero?' 'And so very curt!'

  'I'm not an orator, like you. I have to say what I mean.'

  'Oh, Gordianus! You must still be very weary after the hard journey down from your beautiful farm. You must feel out of sorts here, away from the fields and the lowing oxen. I know how the rigors of the Forum wear on a man — believe me, I know! — not to mention the ordeal of election day. But this election went rather well, don't you think?'

  'For those who won.'

  'Today Rome won. If things had gone otherwise, we'd have all been the losers, yourself included.’

  'There were plenty of citzens outside the Villa Publica who seemed to think otherwise.'

  'Yes, there are riots going on even now in scattered parts of the city; you're wise to have retired early and shut
tered your windows. Catilina's supporters crave any excuse to turn to violence and looting.'

  'Perhaps they're overcome with hopelessness and frustration.'

  'Surely you don't sympathize with that rabble, Gordianus! A clever man like you, and now a man of property, as well? I'm very proud of that, you know, helping you inherit what was rightfully yours. The gods and Lucius Claudius decreed that you should move up in this world, and I was happy to do my part. Most men get what they deserve in this world, in the long run.'

  'Do they?'

  'Take my brother Quintus, for example. Elected praetor this afternoon, following in my footsteps!' 'How did Rufus fare?’

  'He won a praetorship as well, and good for him!' Cicero's smile did not seem entirely insincere. He could afford to be generous. 'And Gaius Julius Caesar?'

  Cicero did not smile. 'He, too, won a praetorship. But then, no one can say he didn't earn it, one way or another, though he may be a long time paying off the debt. But you were there, weren't you? I thought I glimpsed you in the crowd.'

  'We left early. My son Meto wanted to see the voting. After a while he had seen enough.'

  'Ah, the duties of fatherhood. My own son is only two, but already quite an orator! His lungs are stronger than mine!'

  'I doubt that, Cicero. But tell me, why are you here? Don't misunderstand, it's not that I'm unhappy to be paid a visit by the consul of Rome, or that I object to having his bodyguard camped outside my door — I'm deeply honoured, of course. But you say there are mobs in the street. Surely the danger—'

  'I care nothing about danger. You should know that already, Gordianus. Didn't I defy Sulla himself at the very outset of my career? You were there, you saw how I stood up to his tyranny. Do you think I would allow a disorganized rabble to prevent me from going about my duties as consul? Never!'

  'Yet there must be something you fear, to make you wear such heavy armour, to surround yourself with so many bodyguards, everywhere you go.'

  'Armour frees a man from fear. As for my bodyguards, they are all fine young men of the equestrian class. They follow me because they love me, as they love Rome. Yes, certainly there is danger. There always is, when a man stands up for what is right — you know that. But a true Roman sets his eyes on his course and is not swayed from it, either by a rabble with sticks and stones or by conspirators with torches and daggers.'

  'Evenso, I thought you had deemed it best that you and I shouldn't see each other openly; so Marcus Caelius indicated. Should I take it that your coming here tonight signals an end to our feigned estrangement?'

  'Not… exactly,' he said.

  'But the crisis, if there ever was a crisis, is over.'

  'Not so long as certain parties still threaten the state—'

  'But Catilina is finished. You've bested him again. He won't be able to run for consul a third time — he's too much in debt. His allies will desert him now, and so will his friends with money. Two losses in a row mean no more coins left to press into the sweaty palms of the voters. Catilina is finished.'

  'You're mistaken, Gordianus. The enemy of Rome is not finished. Not yet.' In Cicero's eyes I saw a predatory gleam. 'What is more dangerous in the woods than a boar, Gordianus?'

  'Please, not a riddle, like Catilina!'

  'A wounded boar. Today Catilina was wounded, but he's far from finished. His resources are greater than you imagine. His "allies", as you call them, are more dangerous than you know. You're right, after today hell be cut off from the more legitimate sources of finance, but it's steel that he's counting on now, not silver.'

  'Cicero, you must not ask me for another favour’ I said wearily. 'Why not? Do you not love the farm I secured for you?' 'Cicero, gratitude can go only so far.'

  'I'm not talking about gratitude, Gordianus. I appeal not to your sense of obligation but of self-interest. If Catilina isn't stopped, you're exactly the sort of landowner who stands to suffer most.'

  'Cicero—' I shook my head and held up my hand.

  'And you love your family, don't you? Think of them, and their future.'

  'That's precisely what I am thinking of!' I checked myself and lowered my voice. 'I'm tired of putting them in danger. And I'm very tired of being threatened and intimidated.'

  "The threat comes from Catilina.'

  'Does it?’

  Cicero wrinkled his brow, finally perceiving that while he spoke in vague generalities, I was referring to something quite specific. 'What do you mean?'

  'I mean the headless body that was left in my stable when I failed to respond to Caelius's demands quickly enough.'

  'Ah, yes, the headless body. Caelius told me you said something about this to him yesterday, but he didn't know what you were talking about, and neither do I. It must have been something thought up by Catilina—'

  'But if Catilina was responsible, and Caelius poses as his agent, then why didn't Caelius know about it?'.

  ‘Because, I suppose…' Cicero frowned.

  'Or could it be that Caelius knows things that he doesn't tell you? In that case, how can you really trust him? And if you can't trust him, then neither can I!'

  Cicero thought for a long moment before he answered. 'Gordianus, I understand your concern in this matter'—'

  'Or perhaps it's Catilina who doesn't trust Caelius. Could that be it? Could it be that Caelius's pretence of loyalty has failed to fool Catilina, who knows that Caelius is your spy, not his? That would mean that Catilina knows that I'm your agent, as well. That puts my family in even graver danger.'

  'Clearly, Gordianus, these are deep waters. But there is no way to stay afloat unless you kick! Do nothing and you'll sink — well aU sink! The state is a life raft. I am steering that raft. The rudder has been entrusted to me. Catilina will set fire to it if he isn't stopped, dooming us all. I must do whatever I can to keep it afloat. But I need your help. I am reaching out to pull you aboard, if only you'll give me your hand.'

  'What a lovely metaphor. Such fluid rhetoric—'

  'Gordianus! You try my patience!' I had angered him at last. I could impugn his courage and satirize his pompous demeanour and he remained aloof, but he would not stand for me to beHtde the mastery of his tongue. 'Whether you like it or not, whether or not you understand its importance, you must continue to do what I ask of you. Catilina is too vicious a threat for me to bow to your apathy.'

  'Is he so vicious, really? Under my roof I sometimes thought he seemed more sentimental than seditious.'

  'Gordianus, you cannot be so naive!' Suddenly his smile returned. 'Oh, I begin to see the problem. You like Catilina! But of course, we have all liked Catilina at one time or another, everyone has, and eventually, inevitably, to their regret. Ask the shade of his murdered brother-in-law, or the shade of his murdered son, or the miserable families of the young men and women he's corrupted. Before he destroys his victims, Catilina must always make sure that they like him.

  'Oh, Gordianus, I know that you find your old friend Cicero a bit pompous and vain; you always have. You have a sharp, unforgiving eye for anything pretentious — that's one of your gifts — and I confess that in my success I have grown perhaps a bit too overbearing and self-important. You see through the veils of men's vanity. How can you not see through Catilina at once? Could it be that his conceit is so enormous, so monstrous, that you simply can't perceive it, the way that a man who looks at the sea cannot see a drop of water? Has he seduced you, Gordianus?'

  'You're talking nonsense, Cicero. But at least your metaphors are consistent — you have me completely at sea.'

  He paused and looked at me shrewdly. When he lowered his head that way, the thick fold of fat in his neck pressed up against his chin like a pillow, and his eyes seemed to recede into the puffiness of his cheeks. I thought of how he had looked when I first met him — thin, almost frail, with a neck that seemed barely sturdy enough to hold up his broad-browed head. His girth had grown with his ambition.

  'Oh, I can imagine how he went to work on you, Gordianus. Catili
na can see into other men's hearts. He senses their needs and desires, and he plays on that knowledge like a piper. Tell me if I hit the mark. He sees at once how to flatter you — he compliments your farm and family. He takes note of your unorthodox household, senses you have a soft spot for the disenfranchised and dispossessed, and so he tells you he is a man of the people, too, and wants to shake things up at Rome to give the wretched masses a better chance in life. He rails against the unfairness of the Optimates and their devious ways — never mind that Catilina would be an Optimate himself if he hadn't squandered his reputation along with his fortune and earned the disdain of every decent man in the Senate. Having insinuated himself into your personal life and warmed you with his politics, especially tailored to suit your own, he then confides some personal secret to you and you alone, letting you see that he trusts you implicitly, that you are very special to him.'

  I thought of Catilina's confession regarding the Vestal Fabia and felt a prickle of discomfort.

  'Catilina will tell you whatever you want to hear. Catilina will be your special confidant, Catilina will cast his spell over you with your eyes wide open, if you let him. I admit it: Catilina is channing. For years I thought so myself, until I saw through him.

  'While I, alas, am utterly without charm. Don'tyou think I know this? You have shown your hostility to me very clearly tonight, Gordianus. You find me irritating and overbearing, and you wish I would simply go away. I annoy you. I have no charm, and I never have had; I was born without it and it cannot be counterfeited. That's precisely why I must rely on rhetoric and persuasion — clumsy tools next to the natural charm of a man like Catilina, who is halfway to winning an argument before he says a word, thanks to that handsome face and that endearing, irresistible, infuriating smile of his. Beside him I must seem very crude and shrill. But think, Gordianus! What is the value of charm if it hides the ugly truth? I speak that ugly truth and you wrinkle your nose. Catilina smiles and murmurs pretty lies and you find him intriguing. Gordianus, you know better!'

  What can be worse, for a man of my age, than to begin to doubt his own judgment? Had Catilina cast a spell over me, made me dull and dreamy? Or was it Cicero who was practising his own wicked magic, using what he knew of Catilina and of me to find the exact words that would disconcert me and bend me to his will?