We made our way to the trailhead we had found before. I had thought it might be impossible to find it amid the dark, dripping underbrush, but we rode straight to it, so easily that I thought the hand of a god must have guided us. We dismounted and slid between the trunk of the oak and the great boulder, not without difficulty, for a bundle of apples and bread was strapped to Meto's back and a bulky roll of blankets was strapped to mine. We pulled our horses after us. As I had expected, the little clearing beyond, hidden from the highway, was filled with horses tethered to tree trunks, rocks and branches.
There was a burst of lightning. The bright white glare pierced the naked branches and shone like flames in the horses' eyes. They snorted, josded one another, stamped their hooves. The thunder pealed above us. The horses threw back their heads and whinnied.
I counted them. There were nine.
The floor of the little clearing was stony, and instead of taming to a morass of mud it had become a veritable pond. The horses stood in water above their hooves. My own feet were completely submerged. The reason for so much water was clear enough. The broken path that led up the mountainside had become a runnel. I looked at the rushing water and the mud and rocks on either side of the sluice and shook my head. 'Impassable,' I said.
'But Catilina and his men must have hiked up it,' said Meto.
‘We're burdened with these heavy apples and cumbersome blankets—'
Meto adjusted the load strapped to his back and leaped up the steep, watery path, as surefooted as a fawn. 'Come on, Papal It's not as hard as it looks.'
'Old bones break more easily than young ones,' I grumbled. 'And old feet have a harder time finding their balance.' But I was talking to myself, for Meto had disappeared ahead of me. I raised my knees and put one foot ahead of the other, trying to negotiate a safe way up the slippery rocks and sliding mud.
What had I been thinking when I set out? The answer was simple: I had not been thinking at all. The excitement of the assault on my house had rattled my mind. The elation of not being murdered in my home had blotted out all memory of the agony of my previous ascent up the old pathway. If it had been difficult before — overgrown, rugged, absurdly steep — it was made twice as difficult by the rain, and the burdens we carried doubled the difficulty again. My heart pounded. My feet turned to lead — not only heavy and unresponsive, but clumsy, slipping on loosened pebbles and sliding on treacherous mud. I began to realize that the ascent was not only strenuous but perilous. It was a very real possibility that I could slip and fall down the runnel out of control for a very long way. If I broke my back, would Bethesda be scolding or sympathetic?
The descent would be even more dangerous, I realized, then pushed the thought from my mind. Meanwhile, Meto scurried ahead of me, as agile as a goat and as impervious to the water as a duck.
At last we came to the first opening, where the path joined with the last of the road from Gnaeus's house, and a footpath continued up the mountain. The muddy open space was well-trampled, offering evidence of Catilina's passage.
I shrugged and stretched my shoulders, which ached from the strain of the blankets and the climb. 'The question now,' I said, 'is whether he turned right or left.'
Meto was taken aback. 'Right, of course, up to the mine.'
'Do you think so? A secret connection between Gnaeus and Catilina might begin to explain a few things. The murder of Forfex, for example.'
'How could there be a link?'
'I don't know, and I'm too cold and wet and tired to think it through. But what if Catilina eluded his pursuers, not with the point of reaching the cave, but making his way to Gnaeus's house unseen?'
Meto shook his head. I thought that he rolled his eyes as well, but in the darkness I couldn't be sure.
He appeared to be correct, however, and my suspicions were unfounded, for on the road that led to Gnaeus's house there were no signs of footsteps in the mud. We turned back and headed up the path to the mine.
We heard the roar of the waterfall long before we came to it A glimpse of the cascade through the trees showed that the stream was greatly swollen. The stone steps leading upwards, sharp-edged and slick with rain, were like a treacherous test posed by an ill-humoured god. With the blanket strapped to my back, I had to take each step as slowly and cautiously as an old cripple.
Meto reached the top long before I did. I finally took the last step and came up behind him. When he looked back at me, for the first time that night I saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes.
The prospect was enough to make any man quail. The streambed, which had been almost dry when we had crossed it before, was a rushing torrent of water, thigh-deep. Only a few feet to our left, it reached the fells and poured over the precipice with a hollow roar.
Meto stared at the stream and bit his Hp.
I have always had an aversion to water. I am a poor swimmer. Once, down at Cumae, I had a nasty experience trying to negotiate my way into a sea cave. I would prefer a trial by fire to a trial by water any day. But on this night I had no choice.
For once, while Meto hung back, I stepped forward.
'Papa, be careful!'
His advice was well given. The stream pulled at my ankles. The stone bed, carved by rushing water, was smooth and sinuous, marked by deep pockets and abrupt ridges. I moved forward, feeling the way with my feet.
'Here, Meto, take my hand'
He stayed on the bank, looking at me dubiously.
'Here, we'll be stronger if we cross together.'
He hesitated. I saw that he was not doubtful of my judgment but of his own courage.
Perhaps we should turn back, I thought, looking into the black, rushing water pocked with raindrops. We had begun the journey on an impulse. A reaction against Cicero's brutish bodyguards had driven us towards Catilina, for no real purpose. We owed him nothing; we were not obliged to bring him blankets and food, certainly not at the peril of our own lives. And yet Meto and I had both, without question, made the decision to set out. I had endured the misery and danger of the ascent, and I was loath to turn back now.
I held out my hand to Meto, half-wishing he would refuse to take it. If he came to harm, I would never be able to bear it. He hesitated a moment longer, then gripped my wrist and stepped into the cold water.
We crossed at a diagonal, cutting against the flow. I felt the way with my feet and warned him of each irregularity. Midway across, the flow suddenly became more powerful, and I staggered a bit Meto tightened his grip. I stared at the slick, black face of the stream, thinking that my lifelong apprehension about water must have been a message from the Fates. They had seen into the future and knew that my end would come from water, and so they had given me a fear of it as fair warning. My heart beat very fast.
Something struck my leg. I looked down and saw a skull, washed down from the mountainside. It spun about for a moment, trapped in an eddy made by my leg, then was caught by the rushing stream. I watched it bob madly on the water and then go plummeting over the falls.
'Papa!' said Meto anxiously.
My feet had become heavier than ever. I was tired, I told myself, but in fact my feet felt rooted to the spot, as if they had melded with the stone. I swallowed hard and struggled to move my toes. At last my foot lifted and crept along the rock, like a timid fish.
Somehow, at last, we gained the other side. Meto loosened his grip on my wrist but not before I felt the trembling in his fingers. My hands were shaking, too.
While we were crossing the stream, I had forgotten the rain and the cold, but once we were safe I felt the full measure of my misery. I was weary, wet and shivering. And there was still a long, steep ascent before us. But there was no turning back; I would not cross the stream again until I had to.
We pressed on and came to the switchbacks. Up and up we trudged, doubling back and forth as we gained the ascent. At last we came to the long uphill slope that wended back into a hidden fold in the mountainside. Here the rain diminished to a drizzle, and our footsteps mad
e a grating noise on the loosened pebbles. As we approached the opening to the mine, so hidden in darkness that I could only guess at it, I whispered to Meto to quiet his footsteps.
But the warning was too late.
XXXIII
It is a peculiar experience to see a spear come hurtling out of the darkness, heading straight for a spot on the bridge of your nose midway between your eyes. One does not even apprehend the approaching object as a spear — the angle does not permit it, for one sees only a sparkling, whirling point illuminated by a flicker of starlight piercing the shredded clouds. And yet one knows enough to duck — at once!
As I dropped to my knees, I could see that it was indeed a spear — I glimpsed both the sharpened tip and the long shaft behind it. It made a shrill, whistling noise as it passed over my head, followed by a low thud. Something seemed to strike my back with a jarring, shuddering blow; I could make no sense of it. Beside me, Meto shrieked. My heart, completely frozen, suddenly gave a jolt and started beating again. I thought he had been struck, then caught a glimpse of his face and saw his fear was all for me. We dropped to our knees together and scrambled towards the low scrub. The bushes trembled wildly at our assault and pelted us with raindrops.
I tried to change direction and swung around, only to find that I was entangled somehow in the bushes. It made no sense, until I realized the spear had pierced the roll of blankets strapped to my back and was stuck fast, its shaft pointing above my head.
I was as good as wounded, unable to manoeuvre. Meto lurched beside me, trying awkwardly to get a grip on the spear, still thinking that I was hurt.
'Friends!' I called, hoping the word could travel faster than the next spear.
There was a moment of silence, then a flash of lightning cracked
open the sky and struck the mountainside. By the garish glare I saw the spearman, crouching on a shielded crag of rock above the entrance to the mine, his arm poised to hurl a second shaft. Below him, at the mouth of the mine itself, stood Catilina. His arm was raised, his mouth open.
'Stop!' he shouted.
The lightning died and the world turned black. I flinched. The command had come too late, I thought. The spear was already on its way. Not even Catilina, with all his cleverness, could snatch a spear from its flight.
A huge, booming peal of thunder jolted the mountainside, so overwhelming that I could not tell if I was struck by the spear or not. I huddled, hands over my head. A moment later a hand touched my shoulder. I looked up. Distant lightning cast a pale, flickering light across the smiling face of Catilina.
'Gordianus! You look a fright,' he said gently. 'Come in out of the rain.'
On the other side of the wall that had been built to keep out goats and children, the interior of the mine was dark. A small fire had been kindled, but most of its light seemed to be swallowed up by jealous shadows. This was their kingdom, and the light was an intruder.
Catilina crouched and warmed his hands over the flames. 'Fortunately, we were able to find some scraps of wood. When we run out, I wouldn't advise pulling down any supports for firewood, though; the roof might fall in on us. The smoke presents no problem — whoever built the mine was smart enough to drill narrow shafts for ventilation. Crassus was a fool to pass up this property. I told him it was well worth the investment. But he said he'd dealt with this branch of the Claudii before and didn't care to deal with them ever again.' He stared into the flames. 'Well, what more is there to say about Crassus? He has abandoned me now.'
'Look, Lucius, they've brought bread,' said Tongilius, crouching down beside him. 'And apples — we can spit them and roast them over the fire for something hot to eat! And a roll of blankets. The inner ones are almost dry.'
The others in Catilina's party hung back in the shadows. Some were men I had seen before, when they had stayed in my stable overnight. Others were strangers. Some appeared to doze, while the open eyes of their companions glinted in the firelight. They looked older than
Meto, but considerably younger than Catilina or myself. All were heavily armed. They took turns keeping watch outside the mine.
'I don't think you're in any danger of being discovered, at least not tonight,' I said. 'No goatherds are out on a night like this, and the men who pursued you from Rome are gone. After they ransacked my house looking for you, they moved on, heading north.'
'Unless they followed you here,' said Catilina. There was no accusation or suspicion in his voice, only a pragmatic shrug. 'I haven't come this far to be slain in a hole by Cicero's bodyguards, not if I can help it. As long as we're here, we'll keep watch.'
Tongilius handed him an apple spitted on a spear. Catilina smiled. 'Food! Blankets! Did you bring a tub of hot water with you as well?'
‘Would you believe that I forgot?'
'By Hercules, too bad! How delicious it would be on such a night to settle down into a steaming tub with you and while away the hours till dawn.'
Meto brightened. 'We could go back to the house—' I stiffened. Catilina noticed and shook his head. "That would be neither practical nor safe, Meto. Too dangerous for you and your family. Too dangerous for me, as well. No, I think I can never go back to your house now, not until this crisis is settled. I wonder how they knew to look for me there? Do you think Marcus Caelius betrayed me?'
He saw the look on my face, then looked at Meto, whose guilty expression was even more pronounced. Catilina pursed his lips and a shadow of doubt crossed his face. 'It was Caelius, then. It must have been. But you didn't betray me to the men pursuing me; you guessed that I was here, but you didn't tell. Did you?' He looked uneasily towards the mouth of the mine.
'No, Catilina. We came here in secret.'
He sighed and studied the flames that danced beneath his spitted apple. 'Forgive me. These last few days have dealt me quite a blow. Men whom I thought my friends have turned their backs on me. Men whom I never thought to fear have wished me dead to my face. Cicero! May his eyes rot!'
'May his tongue turn black!' said Tongilius, with a vehemence I had never seen in him before. He picked up one of the apples and hurled it against a nearby wall, where it exploded against the stone.
'His tongue is already black,' said Catilina, 'as we know from having heard the offal that flowed from his mouth today.'
'Then let it be eaten by worms!' shouted Tongilius, who clenched his fists and began to pace. There was not room enough for his anger; after a moment he went to the wall and pulled himself over with a single bound.
'The rain will cool him off,' said Catilina, whose eyes had never left the fire.
'My son Eco was here a few days ago,' I said. 'He told me that you were under voluntary house arrest, pending charges under the Plautian Law. Why have you left Rome? What has happened?'
Catilina raised his eyes from the fire. By some trick of the flames his face appeared to be both amused and grim. 'The world has come apart at its seams and is quickly unravelling.'
'Another riddle?'
'No. For you, Gordianus, I shall bite my tongue and speak without devices. Your son Eco told you that I was under house arrest. What else did he tell you?'
"That Cicero persuaded the Senate to pass something called the Extreme Decree in Defence of the State.'
'Yes, the same tool their grandfathers used to get rid of Gaius Gracchus. I suppose I should be flattered. Of course, every bit of evidence that Cicero put forward was fabricated.'
'How?'
'He told them that I planned to massacre half the Senate on the twenty-eighth day of October. For proof he brought forth anonymous letters that had been received by certain parties warning them to flee the city. What sort of proof is that? Do you know who I think wrote those letters? Cicero's oh-so-clever secretary, Tiro, taking dictation from his master. The vile little toad.'
'Speak no ill of Tiro to me, Catilina. I have fond memories of him, from the days when he helped me investigate the case of Sextus Roscius.'
'That was years ago! Since then he's grown as corrupt as
his master. Slaves follow the course of the man who owns them, you know that'
'Never mind; you say the letters originated with Cicero himself' 'Do you think I wrote them? Or some hand-wringer among my supporters, wanting to secretly alert a few friends before I set loose a bloodbath? Nonsense! The whole concoction was devised by Cicero for two purposes: to create hysteria and fear among the senators, who are always ready to believe someone is out to murder them — as they should rightly fear — and to test those who received the anonymous letters. Crassus was among them. I had thought I could count on him — if not on his overt support, then at least on his discretion — but when presented with the opportunity to turn his back on me he took it. To keep himself out of trouble, to separate his fortunes from mine, he went directly to Cicero to report the warning in the letter. Surely he must have known it came from the consul himself! What a farce, the two of them playacting for the benefit of the Senate! How could a man as proud as Crassus allow Cicero to manipulate him in such a manner? Don't worry, he'll take his revenge on the New Man from Arpinum in his own way, sooner or later.
'To keep the senators in a state of hysteria, Cicero made more shocking revelations, all based on his supposedly infallible network of spies and informers. First he claimed that on a particular day — the twenty-seventh day of October — my colleague Manlius would take up arms in Faesulae. What of it? Manlius has been training the Sullan veterans for months, and there's nothing illegal in that. But sure enough, on the very day that Cicero had predicted, one of the senators reads aloud a letter that he's received, saying that Manlius and his soldiers have taken up arms and begun to fight To fight whom, where? It's all nonsense, but Cicero nods sagely and the senators swallow hard. He predicted it, and it came true. The letter proves it. A letter, do you see? Another piece of Tiro's handiwork, taking dictation straight from Cicero's lips.
'And then came Cicero's outrageous accusation that I was planning a surprise attack on the town ofPraeneste on the Kalends of November. To fend it off Cicero called out the garrison ofRome — how convenient that Praeneste is so close to the south. No attack materialized; not surprising, since none was planned, and even if one had been planned, announcing knowledge of a secret attack ahead of time by definition prevents the possibility. Puffing himself up like a frog, the consul declares himself the saviour of Praeneste — when the whole affair was a fantasy! What a mighty general, able to foresee and forestall attacks that were never to take place!
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