My heart pounded in my chest. My hand shook, causing the lamplight to flicker. "Who knows what you've forgotten? Tell me what you remember, Vercingetorix. Tell me… about the plot to kill Caesar."
He fell silent. Was he puzzled or angry or too shrewd to answer? At last he spoke. "What are you talking about?"
"Surely your people won't let your death go unavenged. Are the Gauls not bitter? Are they not proud? Can they allow the great Vercingetorix to die and do nothing to avenge his death?"
Again, there was silence; it went on so long that I became unnerved, imagining that he had slipped from his chains somehow and was drawing toward me. I braced myself and stood upright, letting the lamp's steady glow illuminate my face.
"I have no people," he finally said. "The best of the Gauls died at Alesia. The survivors were sold into slavery. The traitors who sided with Caesar received their reward." This was true; all over Gaul, Caesar had placed the native chieftains who had supported him in positions of authority over the rest. Some he had even elevated to the Roman Senate.
"But the Gauls have other ways to inflict harm on a man," I whispered. "Druid magic! How you must long for Caesar's death. Have you placed a curse on him?"
He laughed bitterly. "If the Druids possessed true magic, would Gaul be a Roman province? There's nothing I can do to cause Caesar's death. But he'll die soon enough."
"How do you know that?"
"Every man dies, even Caesar. If not this year, then the next, or the year after. Vercingetorix dies. Caesar dies. The same fate awaits us all. Strange, that I should have to remind Pluto of that fact."
He began to weep. I moved the lamp so that I could see him. He shivered and trembled. He hid his face in his hands. Insects and glistening slugs crept amid the strands of his matted, filthy hair. A rat skittered between us. My stomach churned with nausea.
I tugged on the rope and called to the warder above. The winch gave a squeal. The rope pulled taut. I sat on the wooden plank and began to rise slowly. I turned my face up toward the opening, longing for light, desperate to fill my lungs with fresh, clean air.
VII
I hurried across the Forum with Rupa beside me, thankful for the simple freedom to gaze at the blue sky above and to run my fingertips over the smooth, sun-heated stone wall of a temple. From a food vendor near the Temple of Castor and Pollux I paused to buy a little pastry stuffed with fig paste and slathered with fish-pickle sauce. Rupa, who had never acquired a taste for Roman garum, waved his hand to signal that he wanted a pastry with fig paste only.
Together, eating as we walked, we passed the House of the Vestals and trudged up the Ramp to the crest of the Palatine. At the top, we turned down the winding lane that would take us to the house of Cicero, not far from my own.
As we rounded the crest of the hill, I had a clear view of the top of the Capitoline Hill across the way. The Temple of Jupiter, rebuilt after its destruction by fire during the days of Sulla, was as imposing as ever. In a prominent place before the temple, obscured by a canopy of sailcloth pending its unveiling, stood the bronze statue that would be dedicated the next day. What pose had Caesar struck for his grand image on the Capitoline? That of a mortal supplicant, a man more than other men but still obeisant to the king of the gods? Or something more grand, the upright, unbowed image of a descendant of Venus, a demigod and junior partner to the Olympians?
We arrived at Cicero's door. Rupa gave a polite knock with his foot. To the slave who perused us through the peephole I stated my name and the desire to see his master on personal business. A few moments later, we were admitted to the vestibule, then conducted down a hallway to Cicero's library.
He was balder and fatter than I remembered. He rose from his chair, laid aside the scroll he had been reading, and gave me a beaming smile.
"Gordianus! How long has it been? I thought-"
"I know. You thought I was dead." I sighed.
"Why, no. I knew you were back in Rome. I probably knew it the day you arrived. I walk by your house almost every day, you know. And neighbors talk. No, I was going to say, I thought you'd never come to see me."
"I've been keeping to myself."
He nodded. "So have I. A lot of that going around these days. Best to stay at home, with a stout fellow to guard the door. Dare to stick your head up, and you're liable to get it whacked off." He made a vivid gesture, slashing one hand across his throat.
Like the orator he was, he exaggerated. "Caesar isn't Sulla," I said. "I haven't seen the heads of his enemies on spikes down in the Forum."
"No, not yet… not yet…" His voice trailed off. "But can I offer refreshment to you and… your companion?"
"This is Rupa. I adopted him before I left for Egypt. He doesn't speak."
Cicero smiled. "You and your extended family! Isn't this your third adopted son? He's certainly the biggest of the lot. But silent, eh? Well, there's been an addition-and a subtraction-to my own household, as you may already know. But my new family member most certainly speaks-oh, how that girl can speak! Hopefully she'll return from her shopping before you leave, and you can meet her. But what can I offer you? Are you hungry?"
"We just had a bite, actually. Perhaps some liberally watered wine to wash it down?"
Cicero clapped his hands and sent a slave to fetch the refreshment. He cleared away some scrolls that were stacked on chairs and the three of us sat.
"Well, Gordianus, tell me your news, and then I'll tell you mine." From the look on his face, I saw he could hardly wait to talk about his new wife.
"My news is not happy, I'm afraid. While I was away, I think you made the acquaintance of a good friend of mine, Hieronymus of Massilia."
"Ah, yes! I heard the bad news. I sent a message of condolence to your house just this morning. I'd have come myself, but as I said, I don't go out much."
"You know about his death already?"
Cicero nodded. "I send a man every day to check the new entries in the death registry. These days, one must keep abreast, or else fall hopelessly behind. There's nothing more embarrassing than to meet an old friend, or someone I once defended in court, and not to know that the fellow's brother or son or father is dead. It makes one look uncaring, not to mention uninformed. Yes, I was sorry to learn of Hieronymus's death. How did it happen?"
"He was stabbed, here on the Palatine."
"Stabbed? In the street?"
"More or less."
"But this is terrible! Do we know who did it?"
"Not yet."
"Ha! Caesar claims to have made the city safe again, but there's more lawlessness than ever. Another reason I hardly budge from my house. So, Gordianus, are you on the trail of the killer? Slipping into your old role, playing the Finder to seek justice for poor Hieronymus? Venturing hither and yon, uncovering scandal and skullduggery and whatnot?"
"Something like that."
"Like the good old days, eh, when we were young, you and I, when there was a point to seeking out the truth and striving for justice. Will our grandchildren even know what a republic was? Or how the law courts operated? If we're to have a king, I suppose the king will mete out justice. No more juries, eh? There won't be much use for an old advocate like myself." His tone was more wistful than bitter.
I nodded sympathetically. "Speaking of Hieronymus, I was wondering how well you came to know him."
"Oh, I had him here to my house a few times. He greatly admired my library. He was a very scholarly fellow, you know. Awfully well-read. And what a memory! I had an old scroll of Homer that had suffered some water damage-needed to be patched where a few lines had been lost. Can you believe that Hieronymus was able to recite the missing lines by heart? He dictated them to Tiro, and we restored the missing text on the spot. Yes, he was the model of the well-versed Greek, proof that the Massilian academies are every bit as good as they're reputed to be."
I nodded. Would Cicero speak as glowingly if he could read the parts about himself in Hieronymus's journal? Those passages were especiall
y full of pedantic wordplay, as if Hieronymus enjoyed making fun of Cicero by using overwrought rhetoric.
The old satyr seems completely unaware of how ridiculous he looks to everyone except the fellow he sees in the mirror; if he would pause to reflect, he would die of blushing. The little queen with bee-stung lips he calls "my honey" will sting him sooner or later. (Some say he married her for money, not honey.) A bad case of the hives is likely to kill an old satyr like Cicero…
"Publilia!" Cicero abruptly exclaimed, and rose from his chair.
Rupa and I did likewise, for Cicero's young bride had entered the room.
"My honey! I didn't hear you come in." Cicero hurried toward her. He took a plump little arm in one hand and stroked her honey-blond hair with the other. "You flit like a butterfly. You come and go without a sound. Your dainty little feet barely touch the earth!"
Rupa shot me a look and rolled his eyes. I tried not to laugh.
"Publilia, this is Gordianus, an old friend. And this is his son Rupa."
The petite, round-faced girl gave me a polite nod, then turned her attention to Rupa, who, I have noticed, seems to be just the sort of fellow most fifteen-year-old girls enjoy looking at. Publilia perused him openly for a moment, then tittered and averted her eyes. Cicero appeared not to understand the cause of her chagrin, but he delighted in her childish laughter and joined in with a cackle of his own.
"She's a shy thing, really."
"No, I am not!" the girl protested, pulling her arm free. She pouted for a moment, then shot another glance at Rupa and smiled.
"Ah, I think all that shopping has tired out my little honey, hasn't it?" crooned Cicero. "Or is this heat making her cranky? Perhaps you should take a nap, my dear."
"I suppose I could go… lie down… for a bit." She looked Rupa up and down, and sighed. "Especially if you men are talking about boring old books."
"Actually, we were talking about death and murder," I said.
"Oh!" The girl gave an exaggerated shudder, causing her breasts to quiver. They were surprisingly large for a fifteen-year-old.
"Gordianus, you've frightened her!" protested Cicero. "You should be more careful what you say. Publilia is hardly more than a child."
"Indeed!" I said under my breath.
"Run along, my honey. Have a drink. Cool yourself; call one of the slaves to come fan you. I'll join you a bit later. You can show me that cloth you bought for your new gown."
"Red gossamer from Cos," she said, "so light and gauzy, you can see right through it!"
The lump protruding from Cicero's throat bobbed up and down as he swallowed. He blinked. "Yes, well, run along, my honey."
"Your bride is utterly charming," I said, after Publilia had gone. "Did she bring a large dowry?" In the social circles to which Cicero aspired, this was not a rude question.
"Enormous!" he said. "But that is not why I married her."
"Oh, I can believe that," I assured him. "Still, it must have been painful, after so many years together, to end your marriage with Terentia."
Cicero smiled wryly. "I'm a strong man, Gordianus. I survived Sulla. I've survived Caesar-so far. And, by Hercules, I survived thirty years with Terentia!"
"Still, the divorce must have been painful for her, if not for you."
His smile vanished. "Terentia is a rock." The way he said it, the word was not a compliment. "She's indestructible. She'll live to be a hundred, mark my words. Don't worry yourself about Terentia."
If I were to worry, I thought, it would be about you, Cicero. What do the Etruscans say? "There is no fool like an old fool!" I bit my tongue.
"I'm happy, don't you see?" Cicero crossed the room with a swagger. I had never seen him so cocky, not even in court, and Cicero orating before a jury could be very cocky indeed. "Despite the dismal state of the world, despite the end of everything I've fought for all my life, about my personal life I have no complaints. In that sphere-after so many reverses, disappointments, outright disasters-at last, everything is going my way. My debts are all paid. Terentia is finally out of my life. And I have a wonderful new bride who adores me. Oh!" His eyebrows lifted. "And at long last, my dear little Tullia is expecting a child. Soon my daughter shall make me a grandfather!"
"Congratulations," I said. "But I heard that her marriage to Dolabella-"
"Is finally over," he said. "And Tullia is well rid of the beast. He caused her nothing but heartbreak. He shall come to a bad end."
Under normal circumstances, a respectable public figure like Cicero would hardly boast that his daughter was about to give birth out of wedlock. But circumstances were no longer normal-not in a world where Calpurnia consulted a soothsayer and Cicero was married to a vapid teenager.
In such a world turned utterly askew, could the vacillating, timorous, stay-at-home Cicero pose a genuine threat to Caesar? It occurred to me that his new marriage might be both symptom and cause of a major shift in Cicero's behavior. Might the old goat be thinking like a young goat-stamping the ground and getting ready to take a reckless run at Caesar with horns lowered? With a new bride-and a grandchild-to impress, did the husband of Publilia feel sufficiently virile to take a stand as savior of the republic?
And if that were the case, could Cicero have been behind the killing of Hieronymus? When I spoke of the murder, his response had seemed entirely innocent. But Cicero was an orator-Rome's greatest-and what was an orator but an actor? I had heard him boast of throwing dust in a jury's eyes. Was he throwing dust in my eyes even now?
If I could stay a bit longer, conversing and drawing him out, he might yet let something slip. I nodded to Rupa, who reached into the shoulder bag he carried and pulled out some documents.
"I was wondering, Cicero, if you might take a look at something I found among Hieronymus's private papers."
"A literary work?" Cicero raised an eyebrow. "Was our friend secretly composing a tragedy? An epic poem?"
"No, this is something more in a scientific vein, I think, though I'm not really sure. That's why I want to show it to you. With your vast knowledge, drawn from your wide reading, perhaps you can make sense of it."
Cicero smiled broadly. Did Publilia find it this easy to lead him by flattery?
I handed him the documents. He pursed his lips, squinted, clucked his tongue, and hummed as he perused them. He was stalling, I thought; he could no more decipher the arcane symbols and calculations than could I.
But at last he nodded and slapped the documents with the back of his hand, as if to indicate he had cracked the code. "Well, I can't make it all out-I'm hardly an astronomical expert-but clearly this has something to do with the calendar."
"The Roman calendar?"
"The Roman, yes, but also the calendars of the Greeks and the Egyptians and perhaps of others as well. There are many calendars, Gordianus. Every civilization has come up with its own way of reckoning the passage of time, dividing years into seasons, seasons into months, months into days. It was King Numa who devised the Roman calendar and established the priesthoods to maintain it. Numa was both a holy man and a king. The whole point of his calendar was to make sure that religious rites were remembered and performed on time.
"But as you must know, no one has yet devised a perfect calendar-that is to say, a reckoning of days that works equally well for every year. Irregularities inevitably creep into the process, and no one quite knows why. You'd think the movements of the stars in the heavens would be as precise and predictable as the measurements of a water clock, but it's more complicated than that. Which is why Numa's calendar has become such a mess. For most of my lifetime and yours, it's been at least slightly out of step with the seasons, and nowadays it's worse than ever."
"But aren't there priests who fix the calendar as we go along?" I said. "Every year they decide whether to introduce an extra month, and the month is as long as they wish-they add however many days they deem necessary to bring the calendar back into alignment with the planets."
"That's correct, Gordianus,
" said Cicero in a patronizing tone, as if he were surprised that a fellow like myself could grasp such an abstract concept. "You may remember, in the year that Clodius was killed on the Appian Way, we had an intercalary month between Februarius and Martius; twenty-seven days, as I recall." He hummed thoughtfully and looked toward the doorway. "I wonder if I should invite Publilia to join us. She could learn a great deal from this discussion. It's good for a female to stretch her mind occasionally."
Cicero was in pedagogic mode, craving a worthy audience. It struck me that few topics were more likely to bore Cicero's honey than this one.
"Ah, but she's probably napping." Cicero sighed and shrugged. "Where was I? Oh, yes-even with the addition of intercalary months, the Roman calendar has grown more and more out of step, so that nowadays the harvest festivals of our ancestors occur during the summer, which makes no sense, and the holidays that are supposed to relieve the tedium of midwinter arrive in the autumn, when everyone is busy with the harvest. And so on. This is the middle of September, yet the weather is sweltering and the days are long."
I nodded to show I understood. Cicero continued.
"Which is why our esteemed dictator for life is planning to introduce a new calendar, the first real advance on King Numa's ever attempted. Apparently, when Caesar was trapped for all those months in Alexandria, under siege in the palace complex, he had rather a lot of time to kill."
"I know. Rupa and I were there as well. I passed the time by borrowing books from the famous library of the Ptolemies. I read them aloud to Rupa and the slave boys. I think I must have read every book ever written about Alexander the Great."
"Caesar also took advantage of his access to the library. When he wasn't diddling that dreadful queen, he consulted with her astronomers-the library boasts an impressive faculty of scientists and stargazers-and it occurred to him that he might use his spare time to devise a more accurate and durable calendar. Now Caesar is back in Rome, and so is the Egyptian queen, along with her retinue, including scholars from the library. Even now, Caesar is said to be putting the final touches to his calendar, intending to unveil it on the final day of his triumphs, when he dedicates his temple to Venus. We shall have a new calendar for the new age." Cicero scowled, as the dispassionate pedagogue gave way to the thwarted republican.
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