Rubicon rsr-7

by Steven Saylor

"And how did you know she came to see me yesterday? Were you watching my house, or were you following her?"

  He shook his head. "Gordianus, you can't expect me to tell you everything, any more than I expect you to tell me all you know. Still, I think it might serve both our interests if we were to pool our knowledge. About Numerius, I mean."

  "You're looking for the documents he told you about, aren't you?"

  "Aren't you, as well, Gordianus? Since we're looking for the same thing, why not help each other find it?"

  I didn't answer.

  Tiro stepped to the middle of the room and knelt beside the bowl with Aemilia's poems. The flint box lay beside it. "You were about to burn these before I arrived," he observed. "What are they?"

  "Nothing to interest you."

  "How can you be sure of that?"

  I sighed. "They're erotic poems copied out by a lovesick girl. Aemilia told me they were here. She asked me to burn them. I see no reason to do otherwise."

  "But they might not be what they seem."

  "They're not what either of us is looking for, Tiro."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I know!"

  "But you'll let me take them, won't you? What harm could there be in that, Gordianus? I'll burn them myself, once I've had a chance to thoroughly examine them. No one else will ever see them."

  "No, Tiro!"

  We looked at one another for a long moment, neither willing to look away. At last he rose to his feet and stepped away from the bowl. "Very well, Gordianus. I can see that you won't be swayed. What obligation do you owe to this girl?"

  I didn't answer, but knelt by the bowl and recommenced striking the flint. A spark flew into the bowl. The dry parchment ignited. The flame was tiny at first, then spread along the edge of the parchment. I watched the words catch fire: A thin flame runs under my skin. I see nothing…

  I looked up to see the glow reflected off Tiro's swarthy features. "Nothing is as fascinating as fire, don't you think?" he said, smiling faintly. "After the flames, nothing is left but a bit of ash, which crumbles to nothing if you touch it. Where does the flame come from? Where does the parchment go? No one knows. Now it will be as if the girl never copied those poems, and Numerius never heard her read them. Numerius might as well never have existed."

  "But he did. And Aemilia loved him." Inside her a part of Numerius still existed, I thought, at least for a while. The baby, too, soon would be ashes.

  Tiro made a scoffing noise. "She loved him? Perhaps. But did he love her?"

  "He was determined to marry her, despite Pompey's wishes. Aemilia was certain of that."

  "Was she? No doubt she imagined all sorts of things, lying on that bed with him after an hour of making love, gazing out the window at the temples on the Capitoline. No doubt he told her all sorts of lies- whatever he needed to tell her to keep her coming back to meet him here."

  "A life spent with Cicero has made you a stodgy moralist, Tiro."

  "Nonsense! But when I see a love nest like this, and I've seen just how young and tender the girl was, it's no mystery what sort of young man Numerius must have been. A perfect specimen of his generation- selfish, without morals, out to take whatever he can, with no thought to the consequences. If it weren't for his kinship to Pompey, he'd have been just the sort to join Caesar."

  I looked at Tiro steadily. "You make him sound the sort of man that no one should regret killing."

  Tiro gave me a sour look. "Don't mock me, Gordianus. And don't accuse me of murder, even in jest."

  "I wasn't."

  "I'm only saying that if Numerius really loved the girl, he'd have done the right thing and taken her for a wife, with or without the Great One's blessing, instead of taking her for a lover in a squalid hole like this."

  "Tiro! Have you forgotten the love affair that you were carrying on behind Cicero's back when I first met you? You were a slave then, and she was the daughter of your master's client, and the consequences could have been terrible for both of you- not to mention for any child that might have resulted."

  "Unfair, Gordianus! I was young and stupid-"

  "And Numerius wasn't?"

  Tiro stared at the ashes in the bowl.

  " 'Every man likes to remember youthful indiscretions, but no man likes to be reminded of them.' " I said quietly.

  "Ennius," said Tiro, recognizing the quotation. He managed a weak smile. "You're right. We're not here to pass judgment on Numerius. We're here to discover his secrets. Shall we work together, Gordianus, or not?"

  "There are two knives," I said, holding up the one I had brought and offering him the one I had found in the trunk.

  "I brought my own," he said, "but this one looks sharper." Together we set to cutting open the pillows and the mattress.

  They contained at least one surprise. Instead of common straw or wool, they were stuffed with swan's down, mixed with enough dried herbs to faintly scent the whole room; I had been wondering where the smell came from. Numerius had not been one to stint himself of luxury when it came to lovemaking.

  Each time we cut into a pillow, feathers came bursting out. Soon the room was adrift in white fluff. Bits of down floated in the air like snowflakes. The absurdity of it made us both laugh. The tension between us leaked away. Perhaps it would have been otherwise if we had found what we were seeking, but as we sifted and searched it quickly became evident that nothing was hidden among the stuffing.

  "I've searched everywhere I can think of," I told Tiro. "Why don't you have a look yourself, starting with the trunk. Perhaps you'll notice something I've overlooked."

  He carefully examined every item in the room, including the bedposts, searching for hollow chambers. Together we examined every floorboard, looking for one that might be loose. We ran our hands over the plastered walls and poked at the ceiling. We found nothing.

  "If there ever were some documents regarding a plot to kill Caesar, they aren't here," said Tiro, sticking out his tongue to blow a bit of down from his upper lip.

  "Nor were they hidden at Numerius's house. His mother told me she made a thorough search for just such material and found nothing."

  "Yet Numerius told me he was 'sitting on something enormous'- something so dangerous it could get him killed."

  "Which it did," I said, lowering my eyes.

  Tiro walked about the room, stirring up eddies of swan's down. "So I'm no closer to finding what I was looking for, and you're no closer to discovering who murdered Numerius and getting your son-in-law back from Pompey. Listen, Gordianus- I'm leaving Rome tomorrow. Come with me."

  I cocked an eyebrow.

  "Why not?" he said. "I'm sick of traveling alone."

  "Surely you'll take a bodyguard for the road."

  "Yes, one of those idiots at Cicero's house."

  "The older one's brighter," I said. "Not quite as stupid, anyway."

  "Fortex, you mean?"

  "If that's his name."

  "Fortex won't make much of a traveling companion. I could have better conversations with my horse. You're good company, Gordianus."

  "You want me to go with you simply to keep you amused, Tiro? Someone has to look after my family."

  "You've got that cyclops from Pompey at your front door, haven't you? And your son Eco can look in from time to time."

  "Perhaps. Still, what reason have I to leave Rome?"

  Tiro looked at me gravely. "You want to get your son-in-law back, don't you? There's not much time left for that, Gordianus. Pompey's withdrawn to Brundisium, with his back to the sea. Caesar is pursuing him. It can only be a matter of days now. If you have any intention of bringing Davus back to Rome…"

  "I see your point. What about you, Tiro? Why are you leaving Rome?"

  "I received a message from Cicero today. He wants me to stop at his villa in Formiae on my way and carry some letters to Pompey-"

  "Formiae? Cicero is still down the coast?"

  "Yes."

  "But Pompey ordered all loyalist senators to rend
ezvous at Brundisium."

  "Yes. Well…" Tiro's expression became guarded.

  "Don't tell me Cicero is still vacillating! Is he waiting for the war to be over before he takes sides?"

  "It's not like that, Gordianus; not as bad as you make it sound. Cicero sees himself as- how to put it? — uniquely positioned to play a special role. What other man of his eminence can still communicate with both sides?"

  "Cicero is still in contact with Caesar?"

  "Cicero and Caesar never stopped corresponding. Pompey knows that. Cicero hasn't misled him. Now that the crisis is entering a new stage, Cicero may be in a position to act as go-between, as peacemaker. In order to do that, he must maintain a delicate balance-"

  "Nonsense! Cicero simply hasn't the nerve to throw his lot with Pompey. He detests Caesar, but he fears that Caesar may win, so he secretly cozies up to both sides. He's the worst sort of coward."

  Tiro grimaced. "Who's being the stodgy moralist now, Gordianus? We all find ourselves in a situation not of our choosing. Every man has to steer his own course. It'll be a lucky man who comes out of this alive without a bit of tarnish on his conscience."

  I had no answer for that.

  He took a deep breath. "Well then, Gordianus, will you come with me to Brundisium or not?"

  On the way home, I bought the Egyptian basket ringed with hippopotami as a gift for Bethesda. I needed something to soften the news that I was leaving Rome. As it turned out, it was a wise choice for a gift, since a reed basket can be thrown across the room and not break.

  Unlike her mother, Diana seemed to receive the news with enthusiasm. Anything that might result in the return of Davus was a welcome development. But that night, as I packed a saddlebag with things I would need for the journey, Diana came into the room. She spoke without looking at me.

  "I think it's a brave thing you're doing, Papa, going off like this. The countryside must be terribly dangerous."

  "No more so than the city these days, I imagine."

  She watched me fold a tunic. I did such a poor job that she felt obliged to take it from me and fold it herself.

  "Papa, I know that you're doing this for me. Even though… I mean to say, I know that you were never… pleased… by my marriage. Yet now you're willing to…" She fought back sudden tears. "And I worry that I may never see either of you again!"

  The folded tunic came undone in her hands. I put my arm around her. She reached up to touch my fingers on her shoulder. "I don't know what's wrong with me, Papa. Every since Davus left…"

  "Everyone's nerves are as frayed as a beggar's cloak, Diana. What do you want to bet that Cicero breaks out in tears twice a day?"

  She smiled. "I doubt that Caesar does."

  "Perhaps not. But Pompey may. There's a picture for you: Davus yawning outside the Great One's tent, and Pompey inside, crying like a baby and tearing his hair."

  "Like a scene from Plautus."

  "Exactly. Sometimes it helps to think of life as a comedy on a stage, the way the gods must see it."

  "The gods can be cruel."

  "As often as not."

  We were silent for a while. I felt a great sense of peace, standing next to her with my arm around her.

  "But Papa," she said quietly, "how will you manage to get Davus from Pompey? If you haven't discovered who killed Numerius, Pompey will never let him go."

  "Don't worry. I have a plan."

  "Do you? Tell me."

  "No, Diana."

  She shrugged my arm from her shoulder and stepped away. "Why not, Papa? You used to tell me everything."

  "You don't need to know, Diana."

  She pursed her lips. "Don't tell me your plan, then, Papa. Perhaps I don't believe you have one."

  I took her hands and kissed her forehead. "Oh, I assure you, daughter, I do have a plan." And I did- although using it might mean that I would never come back from Brundisium alive.

  PART TWO

  Mars

  XII

  Horses were hard to come by. The best had been taken by those who fled the city in the first wave of panic or requisitioned by Pompey's forces. Tiro promised to meet me outside the Capena Gate before dawn the next day with fresh mounts, but what could possibly be left in the stables? I had visions of myself atop a swaybacked nag with knobby joints and a hide worn to leather, but I underestimated Tiro's resourcefulness. I found him waiting for me with Fortex, the bodyguard, both of them mounted. A third horse stood idly by, munching at the grass between two moss-covered funeral shrines alongside the road. All three beasts were as sleek and fit as any rider could wish.

  We set out at once. The sun was no more than an intimation of fiery gold not yet cresting the low hills to the east. Patches of darkness lingered like vestiges of Night's trailing shroud. In such uncertain light, there was something eerie about that stretch of road, flanked on either side by so many tombs of the dead.

  The Appian Way itself is as smooth as a tabletop, with polygonal paving stones fitted so tightly that not a grain of sand could be passed between them. There is something reassuring about the solid immutability of a Roman road. Meto once told me of venturing on a reconnaissance mission into the wild woods of Gaul. Alien gods seemed to peer from gnarled roots. Lemures flitted among shadows. Unseen creatures scurried amid moldering leaves. Then, in a place where he never expected it, Meto came upon a road built at Caesar's instigation, a gleaming ribbon of stone cutting through the heart of the forest, letting in fresh air and sunlight.

  The Appian Way is surrounded not by wilderness but by tombs for miles along either side. Some monuments are large and elaborate, like miniature temples. Others are no more than a simple marker, an upright stone pole with a bit of engraving. Some fresh-scrubbed and beautifully tended, surrounded by flowers and shrubbery. Others have fallen into disrepair, with columns knocked askew and cracked foundations choked by weeds.

  Even in broad daylight, there is something melancholy about a trip down the Appian Way. In that tenuous predawn light, where unsettled spirits seemed to lurk in the shadows, the road beneath our feet meant more than Roman order and ingenuity. It was a path by which the living could traverse the city of the dead. Every clop of our horses' hooves against the stones was a note of reassurance that we were just passing through.

  We came to the shrine of Publius Clodius, set among those of his ancestors. The last time I had traveled any great length on the Appian Way, it had been to investigate the murder of Clodius. He had been the darling and the hope of the urban rabble. His assassination sparked riots in Rome; a mob with torches made the Senate House his funeral pyre. Desperate for order, the Senate had called on Pompey, and the Great One had used emergency powers to instigate what he called judicial reforms. The result had been the prosecution and exile of a great many powerful men who now saw in Caesar their only hope to ever return. The ruling class was irreparably fragmented, the rabble more disaffected than ever. In hindsight, was the murder of Clodius on the Appian Way the true beginning of civil war, the opening skirmish, the first casualty?

  His shrine was simple, as befitted a patrician with pretensions to the common touch. Atop a plain pedestal sat a ten-foot-tall marble stele carved with sheaves of wheat, a reminder of the grain dole that Clodius established. The sun cleared the hills. By the growing light I was able to see that the pedestal was littered all about with humble votive offerings- burnt tapers and plugs of incense, bouquets of sweet herbs and early spring flowers. But there was also a pile of something that looked and smelled like human excrement, and a graffito smeared in the same stuff on the base of the pedestal: Clodius fucked his sister.

  Tiro wrinkled his nose. Fortex barked out a laugh. We rode on.

  A little farther, on the opposite side of the road, we passed the Pompeius family plot. The tomb of Pompey's father was a gaudy, elaborate affair. All the gods of Olympus were crowded into the pediment, as if jealous of the honor, painted in lifelike colors and surrounded by a gilded border that glimmered red in the rays of the r
ising sun. The tomb looked recently painted and refurbished but lately neglected; weeds had grown about the base in the time since Pompey and his household had fled south. Otherwise, everything seemed perfect, until I noticed that heaps of horse dung, easy enough to collect on the road, had been deposited on the bronze roof. By midmorning of a sunny day, as this promised to be, travelers would smell the shrine to the elder Pompey long before they saw it.

  Fortex snickered.

  "Outrageous!" muttered Tiro. "When I was young, men fought for power just as viciously as they do today, but nobody would have dared to desecrate a tomb, not even as an act of war. What must the gods think? We deserve whatever misery they thrust upon us. Here, you! Climb up there and get rid of that stuff."

  "Who, me?" said Fortex.

  "Yes. Do it at once."

  Fortex made a face, then dismounted, muttering, and looked about for something to use as a shovel.

  While we waited, I let my horse wander idly along the edge of the road, looking for tender grass amid the tombs of the Pompeii. I shut my eyes, feeling the warmth of morning sunlight on my eyelids and enjoying the casual, uncontrolled movements of the beast beneath me. Behind me I heard the slave climb onto the brazen roof, then the sound of scraping, followed by the soft impact of dung hitting the road.

  I must have dozed. The moment slid out of ordinary time. When I opened my eyes, before me I saw the tomb of Numerius Pompeius.

  It was a simple stele of the ready-made sort, engraved with a horse's head, symbol of death's departure. It was a little way off the road, behind a row of more conspicuous tombs. Compared to its neighbors, it was small and insignificant. I would never have noticed it, passing by on the road. How strange that the horse should have brought me directly to it, and that the first thing I should see when I opened my eyes were the words newly chiseled in the narrow, five-line space reserved for personalizing the monument:

  NUMERIUS POMPEIUS

  GIFT OF THE GODS

  WHO JEALOUSLY RECLAIMED HIM

  AFTER TWENTY-THREE YEARS

  AMONG THE LIVING