Catilina's riddle rsr-3

by Steven Saylor

  'Do my words make sense to you, Gordianus? Do you hear the urgency in my voice? Will you not continue to render the single favour I ask of you, to play host to Catilina when he desires it? Do this for the good of Rome. Do this for the sake of your children.'

  When I didn't answer, Cicero sighed and slumped his shoulders. Was he acting, or was he genuinely weary? And why could I not tell for certain — I, who possessed such a sharp, unforgiving eye for pretence?

  "Think on it, Gordianus. When you go back to that lovely, peaceful farm, think on it and remember that Rome is still here, in terrible danger. And if Rome burns, never doubt that the conflagration will spread across the countryside.' He lowered his face, thickening the fold of fat in his neck. He studied me for a long moment, but I had nothing to say. 'I won't see you face to face again, not until the crisis is resolved. Marcus Caelius will be my messenger, as before. It was a risk, coming to see you here tonight, but my watchers tell me that Catilina's eyes are elsewhere this evening, and Caelius told me that you were wavering, and I hoped that I might prevail upon your better judgment if I could speak to you man to man.' He turned away. The stiff folds of his toga rusded softly in the still, warm air of the garden.

  'I’ll go now. There are many calls I must pay tonight before I sleep. No one is safe with Catilina's rabble rioting in the streets, but I can't let that deter me. I know my duty to Rome; I only wish it were as easy and simple as yours.' With that he departed.

  I sat on a bench by the fountain. The sky was dark and the stars were bright overhead. The moon had begun to rise, its silver light glinting across the tiled roof of the portico. 'You may come out now, Meto,' I said softly.

  He stepped from behind the curtain to his room and into the shadows of the portico.

  'Did Bethesda hear?' I said.

  'No. I could hear her snoring now arid then through the wall.' He stepped into the moonlight. He was wearing only his loincloth. It occurred to me that he was of an age to begin wearing more clothing about the house.

  'Good. Eco and Menenia seem to be asleep, or else too busy to have paid any attention to voices from the garden. Only you and I know of Cicero's visit.'

  'How did you know I was listening? I was so careful not to make the curtain move.'

  'Yes, but the big toe on your left foot showed beneath the curtain's edge. A bit of starlight glinted on your toenail. In the wrong circumstances such carelessness could be fatal.'

  'Do you think Cicero noticed?' he asked.

  I had to laugh. 'I don't think so. Otherwise he'd have summoned his bodyguards from outside and you'd have been full of daggers before I could've said a word.'

  Meto looked alarmed, then sceptical.

  'Well, what do you think of our esteemed consul, Meto?'

  He hesitated for a moment. ‘I think Cicero is a windbag.'

  I smiled. 'So do I, but that doesn't mean he's not telling the truth.'

  'Will you do what he wants, then?' I was so long in answering that Meto asked again, will you, Papa?' 'I only wish I knew.'

  XXIII

  After the election we spent five more days in Rome. I enjoyed myself more than I thought I would, strolling about the seven hills, seeing old friends, savouring the delicacies of the food vendors in the markets, observing the comings and goings of every sort of man and woman through the streets of the Subura and feeling swallowed up by the never-ending pulse of life in the great city.

  Not all was pleasure. One morning, while Bethesda browsed in the shops on the Street of the Silversmiths, I consulted with the advocate who was defending my rights to the stream against Publius Claudius's challenge. His name was Volumenus, and his office was on the second floor of a squat, ugly brick building just a stone's throw from the Forum. The whole building was populated by lawyers and breathed the musty smell of old parchment. The walls of Volumenus's cramped little office were covered with scrolls in pigeonholes. He was rather like a scroll himself, tall and straight with a long face and a very dry manner.

  No progress had been made towards having the matter of my water rights heard by the courts, he told me, though he assured me he was doing all he could on my behalf

  'Why must it take so long?' I complained. 'When the Claudii challenged my inheritance of the farm, that was surely a more complicated matter, but Cicero managed to have the case settled in a matter of days, not months or years.'

  The corner ofVolumenus's mouth twitched slightly. "Then perhaps you would prefer to have Cicero handle all your legal affairs,' he said wryly. 'Oh, or is he too busy for that? Really, I'm doing all I can. Yes, if I happened to be one of the most powerful politicians in Rome,

  then I'm sure I could arrange for the courts to expedite this matter, but I'm only an honest advocate—' 'I understand.'

  'No, really, if you think you can get the mighty Cicero to take over this case, you're more than welcome—'

  "That was a special favour. If you tell me that you're doing all you can—'

  'Oh, but Cicero could do more, I'm sure, and better, and more quickly—'

  I eventually managed to smooth his ruffled feathers before I left. I stepped back onto the street feeling not so much dissatisfied with his efforts as reminded of just how great a debt I owed to Cicero. Without his assistance and his powerful connections, the question of my inheritance, if not settled against me outright, could easily have been held up in the courts for years while I stayed in Rome and watched my beard turn grey.

  On the evening of our seventh day in Rome we packed for the trip home, and set out early the next morning.

  We arrived at the farm late in the afternoon, stiff and dusty. Diana leaped from the wagon at once and ran from pen to pen to give a hug and kiss to her favourite lambs and kids. Meto, his energy pent up all day, hiked at once to the ridgetop. Bethesda set about seeing how much damage the household slaves had done in her absence, and then, having perfunctorily scolded them, went to her jewellery box in our bedroom and deposited her new acquisitions.

  I withdrew to my study and consulted with Aratus over what had transpired in my absence, which was little enough. The stream had dwindled even more, which he assured me was normal for the season. 'I would hardly bother to mention it,' he said, 'except that there might be a problem with the well…'

  "What sort of problem?' I asked.

  'The taste of the water is off. I noticed yesterday. Perhaps a cat managed to squeeze through the iron grate, or perhaps some burrowing animal dug through the wall of the shaft, fell into the water and drowned.'

  'You mean there's a dead animal in the well?'

  'I suspect as much. The taste of the water, as I said—'

  'What have you done about it?'

  From the way he tilted his head back I could tell I was speaking too harshly. 'The first thing to do in such a case is to lift off the grate, lower a bucket or a hook, and try to lift out the carcass. Dead bodies float, after all—' 'Did you do this?'

  'I did. But we were unable to lift anything. At one point the hook became trapped. It took two men to pull it free. It may be that some stones have become dislodged. It could even be that a considerable portion of the wall has fallen in. If that is the case, the foul taste could have been introduced when the dislodgment took place — a burrowing animal may have been crushed or drowned, you see. If the damage is extensive — and that any damage at all has occurred is only a supposition — this could be rather serious. Major repairs to the well would prevent it from being used, and with the stream running so low…'

  'How will we know whether it's damaged or not?'

  'Someone will have to go down into the well.'

  'Why wasn't this done yesterday? Or this morning? Meanwhile, the dead ferret or weasel or whatever just keeps rotting away, poisoning the water.'

  He folded his hands and lowered his eyes. 'Yesterday, by the time our efforts to use the hook had failed, it was too dark to send anyone down into the shaft. This morning there were storm clouds approaching from the west, and it seemed to me th
at it was more important to bring the bales of hay from the north field into the barn, to prevent them from getting wet'

  "There were bales of hay sitting outside? I thought all the hay had been brought in already.'

  'It had, Master, but a few days ago I ordered the men to take the hay back out into the sun. The bales that were not lost to the blight may yet succumb, but this might be prevented by exposing the hay to the hot sunlight.'

  I shook my head, dubious of his judgment once again. 'And did it rain this morning?'

  He twisted his mouth. 'No. But the clouds were quite dark and threatening, and we did hear thunder nearby. Even if the slaves had not been occupied with the hay, I would have hesitated to send a man down into the well with a storm threatening, considering the danger. I know how you value your slaves, Master, and I would not squander them.'

  'Very well,' I said glumly. 'Is there still time to send someone down into the well before it gets dark?'

  'I was about to do that when you arrived, Master.'

  I went out to the well with Aratus, where a group of slaves was already gathered. They had made a kind of harness out of rope and had tied it to a much longer rope. One of the men would put himself into the harness while the others lowered him down.

  Meto joined us, smiling and red-cheeked from his climb up to the ridge and back. When I explained what was happening, he immediately volunteered to go down into the well himself.

  'No, Meto.'

  'But why not, Papa? I'm the perfect size, I'm agile and I'm not heavy.'

  'Don't be foolish, Meto.'

  'But, Papa, I think it would be interesting.'

  'Meto, don't be ridiculous.' I lowered my voice. 'It's far too dangerous. I wouldn't even consider allowing you to do it. That's—' I caught myself. I had almost said; 'That's what the slaves are for,' then realized how the words would strike his ears.

  Then, in the next instant, I realized how the sentiment struck my own ears. Had I really grown so callous towards the men I owned? I had inherited a farm; along with it, had I also inherited the contemptuous attitudes of slave owners like Publius Claudius or dead Cato? Use a human tool until it breaks, says Cato in his book, and then discard it for a new one. I had always despised men like Crassus, who attached no value at all to the lives of slaves, only to their utility. And yet, I thought, give a man a farm and watch him turn into a little Cato; give him mines and property and sailing ships and he becomes a little Crassus, no doubt I had turned away from Cicero precisely because it seemed to me that he had become the very thing he had once despised. But perhaps such a course is inevitable in life — wealth necessarily makes a man greedy, success makes him vain, and even the least measure of power makes him careless of others. Could I say I was any different?

  These thoughts flashed through my head like a bolt of lightning. ‘You can't go down into the well, Meto, because I'm going down myself' The words surprised me almost as much as they did Meto.

  'Oh, Papa, now who's being foolish?' he protested. 'I should go. I'm so much younger and more supple.' The slaves, meanwhile, looked at us in frank astonishment.

  Aratus laid a hand on each of our shoulders and took us aside. 'Master, I would advise you against doing such a thing. Much too dangerous. That's what the slaves are for. If you take on such a task, you'll only confuse them.'

  "The slaves are here to do as I tell them, or in my absence, as Meto tells them,' I corrected him. 'And while I'm down in the well, it's Meto who will make sure that you oversee them properly, Aratus.'

  He grimaced. 'Master, if you were to be hurt — may the gods forbid such a tragedy! — the slaves would be liable for terrible punishments. For their sake, I ask you to let one of them perform this task.'

  'No, Aratus, I've made up my mind. Don't contradict me again. Now, how does this harness fit?'

  Did I hope to prove something by this escapade? If I wanted to demonstrate that I was not like every other slave owner, I could hardly have chosen a less thoughtful way to show it, for the slaves were anxious and miserable. If I needed to prove to myself that I was still young enough to face danger without flinching, I should have looked in a mirror to bring myself back to reality. Perhaps I thought to earn Meto's renewed respect, when in fact I was once again shunting aside his assertion of his own manhood. I acted on a wild impulse, and only later I thought, Ibis seems the sort of mad thing that Catilina might do!

  Aratus, looking glummer than I had ever seen him, oversaw the mechanics of the operation, testing the ropes and fitting the harness over my shoulders. Meto, looking disappointed, was left with little to do. The slaves removed the iron grate from the well and then winced as I climbed into the breach. I was handed a torch. The slaves formed a line and took up the rope, then fed it towards me hand over hand. As I descended step by step, the edge of the well rose and the sky shrank to a round hole above me.

  It was not as hard as I had thought it would be. I simply walked backwards down the side of the well, carefully placing one foot behind the other. The rope stayed taut, steadying my weight. Above me I could see Aratus and Meto peering down at me, both of them frowning and blinking at the bits of ash that rose from my burning torch.

  'Master, be careful!' Aratus moaned.

  'Yes, Papa, do be careful,' echoed Meto.

  The hole above grew smaller and smaller, until it was the size of a small plate. 'More rope?' called Aratus.

  I glanced over my shoulder. I still could not see the water. 'Yes, more rope.'

  I descended step by step and kept peering over my shoulder until at last the circle of water glistened beneath me, flashing like liquid fire where it was lit by the ruddy torchlight and as black as obsidian where it was covered by the shadow of my body. There appeared to be something smooth and pale in the water, like a large stone showing just above the surface. The walls all around were undamaged. The closer I got, the harder it became to twist my neck far enough around to see the water.

  I descended until I was just above the surface. 'Keep the rope taut!' I called.

  'Yes, Master!' cried Aratus, his voice echoing down the shaft. His face was a dark spot amid the small circle of bright light above.

  I intended to turn over, taking small steps until I faced the water. I had almost succeeded when my foot encountered a loose stone in the wall. With a splash, my legs swung downwards.

  The slaves holding the rope were not ready for the sudden tug. The rope went slack for just an instant and I slipped into the water up to my neck. The rope went taut again, pulling my shoulders above the surface. Water splashed my face. I sputtered and coughed.

  I had managed to keep the torch above the water. The fiery light caught on the jagged stone walls and the splashing water, creating a jumbled array of light and shadow all around. With my free arm I thrashed about for something to hold on to. There was a large object in the water with me, lodged stiffly between opposite walls of the well. It gave way as I clutched at it, then it began to bob alongside me. It was cold and fleshy to the touch. I shuddered and felt my bile rise.

  I cried out — not a scream of terror but a sharp yelping cry such as a dog makes when its tail is stepped on. Echoing up to the mouth of the well, it must have sounded quite hideous. The slaves above heard it and panicked. The rope jerked hard at my shoulders and I began to rise against my will.

  I cried out for them to stop, but perhaps the well twisted my words and they thought I was crying for help. I clutched at the thing in the water, repulsed by it but not afraid of it. The weight of it held me down. The slaves pulled harder, sending a hot stab of pain through my back, but I held fast to the thing in the water. I thought I understood what I had seen, but I had to be sure.

  The slaves pulled so hard that I began to rise out of the water, bringing the thing with me. I clutched it with both hands, keeping hold of the torch as well so that its flame flickered close to my face. Before the agony in my shoulders compelled me to release the thing, letting the heavy weight slip back into the water, I was sure of
what I had seen.

  From somewhere above I heard Aratus cry, 'Heave!' I surged upwards so swiftly that the torch slipped from my hand. It bounced off my foot and twirled flaming into the water, where it expired in an explosion of steam.

  Heaving and straining, the slaves lifted me up, like a deus ex machina on a stage. I careened from side to side in the darkness, legs flailing, shoulders banging against the walls. I hardly felt the pain and the jarring in my teeth. My head was too full of the thing I had seen in the water.

  It was a body. And it had no head.

  Part Three

  Conundrum

  XXIV

  Darkness had fallen by the time the body was removed from the well.

  On the first attempt, a slave was lowered into the shaft carrying with him a second rope, which he harnessed around the corpse's shoulders. The shivering slave was pulled up, looking queasy and pale, and then the body. The sight of the naked, bloated, headless corpse emerging from the well was so grotesque that several of the slaves cried out in horror and loosened their grip on the rope. The rope escaped, sliding like prickling fire through the hands of those who tried to hold it, whipping through the air like a mad serpent. From deep inside the well came the sound of a great splash. An instant later the end of the rope followed the body down the shaft, like a snake disappearing into its hole with a contemptuous nick of its tail.

  This disaster unnerved the more superstitious of the slaves. I heard voices all around me whisper the word 'lemur'. Looking about in the uncertain light of dusk, I couldn't tell which of the slaves had said it. They all looked equally frightened. It was as if the word had been whispered by the warm, dry breeze itself.

  It was then that I realized that the well had been doubly poisoned. First, by the pollution of the corpse's bloated, decaying flesh. Then again by the very fact of its presence in the well. The slaves would consider the spot unholy now. They would shun the place, avoid any errands that sent them there, avert their eyes when they passed, perhaps refuse even to drink from it again, fearing it was haunted by the dead man's shade.