' "Why does Catilina's conspiracy limp?" Please, no more riddles concerning body parts!'
'Even so, the second leg is another senator of the Cornelius clan, Gaius Cornelius Cethegus.'
'No nickname?'
'Not yet. Perhaps he's too young to have acquired one. If he did, it might be Hotheaded.'
'Young, you say, but if he's in the Senate he must be at least thirty-two.'
'Barely. Like Catilina and Lentulus, a patrician, with all the trappings. Men are different who are brought up from infancy to think so highly of themselves.'
'Yes, they are,' I agreed, thinking of Catilina's effortless poise and self-assurance, and thinking also of how an ambitious New Man like Cicero must envy and despise that natural, unaffected assumption of superiority.
'Like Lentulus, Cethegus is of the Cornelius clan, with many powerful connections by blood and ancient obligation. But he lacks Lentulus's long-suffering perseverance; he's young, impetuous, impatient, with a reputation for violence. He's not very effective in the Senate; he's not a very good orator — he itches for action, and words make him restless. He's also had a falling-out with his immediate family; he has an older brother, also in the Senate, with whom he hardly speaks. They say there was a bitter dispute over inheritance. Cethegus beHeves himself to have been slighted, not just by his family, but by the Fates.'
'An ideal candidate for revolution. He sounds sane enough, if not very charming.'
'He casts a spell nonetheless, over those who are susceptible. He appeals to well-born young men like himself who distrust rhetoric and hate the slow hand of politics, who find themselves shut out by the Optimates and who lack the money to launch successful careers but have a craving for power nonetheless.'
I picked up a twig and poked at the ground. "These are the principal conspirators?’
'Yes. Lentulus because of his perseverance, Cethegus because of his energy and daring.'
"These are the legs, you said.' I scratched two lines in the dirt. 'And Catilina is the head.' I drew a circle. 'But between legs and head there must be a trunk. Not to mention arms, hands, and feet.'
'I thought you'd had enough of physical metaphors.'
I shrugged. 'And I thought I wanted to know none of this, but I'm asking you nonetheless.'
'Very well. The trunk would be the people of Rome, of course. If Catilina could persuade them to follow him, if Lentulus and Cethegus could carry the plot forward, then the body would be powerful indeed. As for the arms and hands, there are a number of men in regular contact with Catilina and his friends — senators, equestrians, men who were once rich and now are not, men who are rich and want to be richer, as well as common citizens and freedmen. There are some who seem to be attracted by the simple excitement and danger of the enterprise, and others who seem to be fascinated by Catilina himself I suspect there are even a few high-minded idealists who think they are about to change the world.'
'Eco, you've become as jaded as your father. Perhaps they are about to change the world, though who can say if for better or worse. Names, Eco!'
He recited a lengthy list. Some of the names were familiar. Others were not. 'But you will know the names of Publius and Servius Sulla,' he said.
'The dictator's grandsons?'
'The same.'
' "How are the mighty fallen" ' I said, quoting one of Bethesda's Eastern maxims. 'Unless they land on their feet.'
"The Sullan connection runs deep. Among Catilina's most fervent adherents are the dictator's old soldiers who were settled in farming colonies up north. Most of them have fallen on hard times; they chafe at the yoke, so to speak, recalling the grand old days campaigning with their master in the East and helping him wm the civil war at home. Once all the world was at their feet; now they find themselves knee-deep in mud and manure. They think that Rome owes them better than they received. Now that their current champion, Catilina, has lost his bid to become consul, not once but twice, they may be ready to take up arms for what they want. They're busy rummaging behind ploughs to find their old armour; they're polishing their breastplates and greaves, sharpening their swords, fixing new points on their spears.'
'But can these aging veterans really stage a revolution by arms? I should imagine those old breastplates are getting a bit rusty, not to mention tight across the belly. Sulla may have once commanded the world's best army, but his soldiers must be getting a bit grey and soft.'
'Their military leader is an old centurion named Gaius Manlius. He's the one Catilina keeps running to Faesulae to confer with. He's represented the veterans' interests for many years and become their leader. It was Manlius who headed the veterans when they came to Rome on election day to vote for Catilina, and it was Manlius who kept them from resorting to violence when Catilina lost. A bloodbath after the election would have been premature; Manlius kept discipline in the ranks. He has hair the colour of snow, but he's said to be in superb health, with shoulders like an ox and arms that can bend a steel bar. He's been drilling the veterans and secretly storing up arms.'
'Is Manlius really up to running an army?'
The conspirators down in Rome think so, though perhaps it's only another of their delusions born of despair.'
'Perhaps they're right. Sulla did have an unbeatable army, once upon a time. They fought for glory and pillage when they were young; now they'd be fighting for their fortunes and their families. Who else supports Catilina?'
'There are the women, of course.'
'Women?'
'A certain set in Rome — mostly women of high birth who have an appetite for intrigue. His enemies make out Catilina to be hardly more than a pimp for such women, connecting them with his young friends in return for jewels he can sell, or secrets about their husbands. But I suspect that many of these women — wealthy, educated, exquisitely bored — crave power no less than men and know they will never attain it in any ordinary way. Who knows what sort of promises Catilina makes to them?'
'Politicians without a future, soldiers without an army, women without power,' I said. 'Who else supports Catilina?'
Eco hesitated. 'There are hints and rumours, vague indications that there may be men far more important than Lentulus and Cethegus involved, men considerably more powerful than Catilina himself.'
'You mean Crassus?'
'Yes.'
'And Caesar?'
'Yes. But as I say, I have no evidence of their direct involvement. Yet among the conspirators it's taken for granted that they'll both support whatever Catilina decides to do.'
I shook my head. 'Believe me, Crassus is the last man who would benefit from an armed revolution. Caesar might, but only if it served his own specific ends. Still, if they're involved, or even if they only tacitly support Catilina…'
'You see how the scale of the thing changes.'
'Yes. like a trick of the eye — a low hill capped with white flowers turns out to be a distant snow-peaked mountain. No wonder Cicero is nervous and covers the city with spies.'
'Cicero always knows about everything that happens in the city, and I do mean everything — they say the consul is never taken by surprise, whether the crisis is a riot at the theatre or a slur against him in the fish market. He has a passion for gathering intelligence.'
'Or an obsession. The mark of the New Man — nobles don't need constant surveillance to feel secure about their station. And to think that it started with me, when I investigated the case of Sextus Roscius for a rising young advocate with a peculiar name. I suppose I was the first agent in Cicero's network. And now you,' I said sardonically. 'Who are the others?'
'Cicero is too clever a spymaster to let his agents know of one another's identity. Because I report to him, Marcus Caelius is the only one I'm sure of-'
'If indeed we can be sure of him'
'I think we can, unless he's even more clever than Catilina and Cicero put together. For that, Caelius would have to be a god come down in human form to play havoc among us mortals.'
'At this poin
t even that would hardly surprise me. The whole business stinks. Give me a good, honest murder any day.'
'It's the times we live in, Papa.'
'Speaking of time, how imminent is this crisis?'
'Hard to say. Like a pot on a flame, it simmers. Catilina is cautious. Cicero bides his time, waiting for his enemies to make some slip that will give him irrefutable evidence against them. In the meantime, Marcus Caelius says you've agreed to do as you did before, letting Catilina stay here if he wishes.'
'I never agreed to that.'
'You refused Cicero when he came to you in the city?' 'In so many words,' I said.
'To Cicero anything but an outright "no" means "yes", and even "no" means "maybe". He must have misunderstood. Caelius seems certain that you agreed to continue as before. Papa, do what Cicero asks of you. Catilina may not return. Or he may, and when he does you need only give him shelter. It's such a simple request. It doesn't even require you to take sides. I've cast my lot with Cicero, Papa, and you should do the same, if only by your passive assistance. In the end it will be for the good of everyone you care about.'
'I'm surprised at you, Eco, advising me to put everyone on this farm in danger because it will somehow make them safer in the long run.'
"The course of the future is already set. You said it yourself) Papa: you can't completely avoid danger, any more than you can give up your search for the truth.'
'What about my search for justice? Where does that stand in the midst of all this confusion? How will I know it, even if I find it?'
To this he had no answer, or at least no opportunity to give one, for at the moment a strangely garbed visitor strode over the crest of the hill behind us. We both looked around and drew back in surprise. 'What in the name of Hercules!' I said, while Eco threw back his head and laughed.
Diana marched down the grassy slope with as pompous a gait as Cicero had ever affected, her chin held high. Her haughtiness was compromised by a few awkward missteps; the sandals she wore were much too big for her tiny feet. Wrapped around her and dragging on the grass behind was a thin coverlet from her bed, tucked and folded in imitation of a toga.
'It's my birthday!' she announced. 'Now it's my turn to put on a toga and take a walk.'
'Your birthday is not until tomorrow,' I said. 'As for a toga — well, you're nowhere near sixteen. Besides that—'
I was saved from delivering a lesson on the hard facts of male and female by the appearance of Meto above the crest of the hill, who bore down on his sister, glowering. 'My sandals, you little harpy!' he snapped. He grabbed her by the shoulders, lifted her out of the sandals, and set her down again. He didn't shove or pinch her, but his grip was not gentle. As her bare feet struck the grass, Diana started to cry.
Meto paid her no attention as he slipped the sandals onto his feet. Then he shot me a dark look, turned around, and disappeared over the crest of the hill.
The makeshift toga came apart and fell to the ground. Diana, dressed in her tunic, clenched her little fists and cried, striking such a shrill pitch that I put my fingers in my ears. Eco scrambled to his feet and ran to comfort her.
Where was justice, indeed?
XXIX
It had perhaps been a mistake to exclude Meto from my conversation with Eco; on the other hand, his childish behaviour with Diana seemed to contradict his own insistence that he was as grown-up as his brother. I brooded over this for the rest of the day, while Meto brooded over being slighted. Eco brooded over the appearance of Forfex, and his father's stubbornness; Menenia brooded over her husband's disquiet. Bethesda brooded over the general atmosphere of unhappiness on the farm. Ironically, once she stopped crying, Diana recovered her good humour at once. The general uneasiness seemed to confuse her, but it did not quench her spirits.
Diana'sbirthday passed without any outward unpleasantness. Congrio once again outdid himself. If our spirits were ill at ease, our bellies had no cause for complaint. Menenia had gone shopping in the markets at Rome, and Diana was showered with little gifts — a blue ribbon for her hair, a wooden comb, a blue and yellow scarf like the one Menenia had bought for herself on Meto's toga day, which Diana had coveted. As if to shut away our anxieties, we concentrated all our attention on Diana, who accepted this outpouring of affection as if it were no less than her due for the accomplishment of turning seven years old.
Eco returned to Rome the next day.
The few remaining days of the month of Sextilis passed quickly. In the blinking of an eye we were well into September. It was a busy time on the farm, with much tending to crops and preparations for the harvest. The long days afforded time to deal with the endless repairs and improvements that had accumulated in the winter and been put off through the busy spring and summer. Every day there was more work than could be accomplished before sundown. No longer did I while away my days on the ridgetop or in my library; instead I plunged wholeheartedly into the operation of the farm. Rather than feeling burdened by this ongoing labour, I felt liberated by it. Confronted by the mysteries of Nemo and Forfex and unable to resolve them, uneasy over Eco's involvement in the plots and counterplots afoot in Rome and yet unable to affect his fortunes, I found escape in the simple, physical exhaustion of working myself to the limit each day and falling into a dreamless sleep at night. The slaves seemed uncertain of what to think of a master who drove himself so hard; I can scarcely imagine that Lucius Claudius ever did so much as pick a single olive from a tree. By sheer energy I believe I finally began to earn Aratus's grudging respect, and by working beside him day by day, seeing how he handled the daily crises and the slaves in his charge, I finally began to trust both his judgment and his loyalty.
I tried to delegate as much responsibility as I could to Meto, thinking to assuage his complaints of being slighted, but whatever tasks I gave him ended up half-done. He was growing bored with the farm, I feared, or else had decided to shirk any task his father might give him, simply out of spite. The more I tried to include him in the running of the place, the more the rift between us seemed to widen. He became increasingly inscrutable to me.
My relations with Bethesda, however, entered a delightfully mellow phase. She has always loved hot weather, for it reminds her of her youth in Alexandria, and as the long summer wore on into September she became more and more her essential, sensual self. She took to leaving out the pins and combs from her hair and wearing it down, in long tresses that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. There was more silver amid the black than there had been in past summers, but to me these silver strands were like the rippling face of the moon reflected in black water. My own newfound physicality seemed to please her; she liked the smell of sweat on my body, and the hardness of my arms after a day of strenuous work. Often, when I went to bed thinking I was completely exhausted, she would prove to me that there was indeed a measure of strength left in my body. She would summon it up and take it from me, leaving me limp and covered with a fresh sheen of sweat, drained of all anxiety and empty of every appetite, motionless, thoughtless, utterly at the mercy of Morpheus.
The stream continued to dwindle, and the water from the well remained impure, but Aratus expressed the opinion that we would last until the rains came in the autumn; as head of the household I was advised to pray to the gods to avert a dry autumn. As for the shortage of hay, which would loom large in the coming winter, I asked Claudia if I could purchase a quantity from her; unfortunately, she said, she had none to spare. To ask any of the other Claudii for help was, of course, out of the question. Other farmers in the region were not yet ready to sell their own private stocks, uncertain whether they had a surplus or not and preferring to wait until it was truly needed, when they could get a better price for it. I would have to solve the hay shortage when the time came; hopefully I would have the money on hand to buy what I needed, rather than see my livestock perish or face premature slaughter.
Though by comparison with these problems it was a minor complaint, I continued to be thwarted by the wate
r mill. Aratus had no solution. I even invited Meto to help, but perhaps he detected the suppressed scepticism in my voice, for he exhibited an extreme disinterest. The failure of the mill would not have mattered so much if I had not begun the labour in memory of Lucius Claudius. Nor did it help that I had told Publius Claudius across the stream about it and had even invited him to share in its use. I hated to think of the wicked fool laughing smugly at my failure and passing the tale to his cousins Manius and Gnaeus behind my back.
On the morning of the Ides of September, I took a trip into the nearest village. We were constructing a new stone wall along one side of the stable, and I needed to hire a few extra labourers for the day. There was a market in the village where this could be done. I might have sent Aratus alone on the errand, but given the ugly events that had transpired on the farm that summer, I wanted to see for myself where any hired labourers came from and look them over before letting them on my property.
Aratus and I left on horseback early in the morning and returned a few hours later, leading a band of six workers on foot. They were slaves, but not shackled; these were trusted men, lent out by their masters for a fee. I would have preferred to use freedmen, but the man who ran the labour market in the village said that they had grown scarce in recent years. In hard times freedmen tend to give up the one thing they own, selling themselves back into slavery just to keep from starving.
As we turned off the Cassian Way, Aratus rode up beside me. 'Visitors, Master,' he said.
Sure enough, two strange horses stood tethered outside the stable, a dot of black and a dot of white against the wall. I left the slaves to Aratus and rode ahead. Meto had been in charge of the farm in my absence; I had made a point of conferring the responsibility on him, thinking it might help salve his pride. But when I reached the house he was not in sight, nor did he come when I called. The slave who was on watch — since the finding of Forfex, I had always kept watchers posted — scurried across the pitched roof of the stable and jumped to the ground.
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