“Amazingly well, considering!”
“But it might easily have been otherwise. If one of us had been wounded in the attack, or fallen ill in that terrible place …”
Cicero nodded vaguely. Tiro shuddered.
“But I will discover who was behind it. I suppose the prudent course, now, would be to retrace our steps to find the stable where we were kept. But I doubt we could find it again. What do you think, Eco?”
“I think we were trying too hard not to be seen to memorize an unfamiliar landscape. Besides, Papa, a disused stable on a derelict piece of farmland might belong to anyone. Finding the place wouldn’t necessarily lead us to the men who captured us. They’ll be long gone.”
“We might make the search anyway,” I said. “We would need bodyguards, of course.” I turned back to Cicero, who looked uneasy for an instant and then smiled blandly.
“I would love to accommodate you, of course, Gordianus, but I really have no men to spare. I probably haven’t enough protection as it is—your example has illustrated all too well the lamentable danger of the roads in these dreadful days.”
“You might turn aside from your own journey for a day or two, Cicero. Join with us to search for that stable and the men who kept us.”
“Impossible, Gordianus. My own mission is too important and cannot wait. Tomorrow I press on to Ravenna.”
“Ah, yes, your mission, Cicero. What is it you’re seeking from Julius Caesar? Or is it a secret of state?”
“There’s no secret. It’s Marcus Caelius again. Such a busy tribune! Caesar wants to be able to run for consul next year, but that’s not possible so long as he’s commanding his troops and can’t come to the city. So his supporters have fashioned a special exemption allowing Caesar to run for consul in absentia. It would set a bad precedent, of course, but if Pompey can be made sole consul, Caesar’s supporters think it’s only fair that he should be able to run while he’s still up in Gaul. It becomes an issue of preserving the peace—I mean to say, the balance—between the Great One and Caesar. But Caelius has threatened to block the special exemption, just as he’s threatened to block Pompey’s reforms.”
“And your part, Cicero?”
He shrugged. “Certain parties have prevailed upon me to use my influence with Caelius to dissuade him from baiting Caesar. Caelius is willing to back down, but both he and I would like to make sure we have a complete understanding of Caesar’s goals and attitudes. So I’m headed for Ravenna to have a friendly discussion with Caesar. To clear the air, so to speak.”
“Wheels within wheels,” muttered Eco.
“Better than one great wheel driving the whole engine of the world, which is what some people would like to see,” said Cicero. “But I’m pressed for time. Caesar will be leaving Ravenna any day now, heading back into the field. There are rumors of a new uprising led by some Gaul with a typically unpronounceable name. What is it, Tiro?”
“Vercingetorix,” said Tiro crisply. He was clearly not inebriated.
“Whatever,” agreed Cicero. “So you see, I have no time to go off looking for—what did you call it, Eco? ‘A disused stable in a derelict field.’ And neither should you, Gordianus. Don’t tempt the Fates. You’re safe in my company. I’ll provide all your needs. Accompany me to Ravenna tomorrow, and then accompany me back to Rome.”
“We should head back to Rome at once,” said Eco glumly. “For Bethesda and Menenia to suffer even one more day than they should, not knowing what’s become of us—”
“Ah, but don’t you have a brother who’s likely to be with Caesar in Ravenna?” said Cicero. “Yes, your son, Gordianus—the one called Meto. Your family will have written him about your disappearance, I’m sure. He’ll be as distraught as they are. This is your chance to see him before he heads back north with Caesar. You see, you must come with me to Ravenna. But now, I think it’s time for everyone to retire. You look weary, Gordianus, and Eco is yawning. Tonight, you’ll have the best accommodations our host has to offer, with a soft bed in a private room. I arranged it for you myself. I predict that you will sleep like stones.”
And we did.
25
Caesar’s residence in Ravenna was a large villa on the outskirts of the city, with numerous tents, stables and makeshift buildings set up around it. Like all military camps, it resembled a small city, where the needs of a vigorous, mostly young male population with strong appetites could be accommodated on a daily basis. One invariably encounters three things in such places: the sight of prostitutes, the constant smell of cooking, and the sounds of the crudest language imaginable.
We arrived shortly after midday. Cicero and Tiro went to seek an audience with Caesar. Eco and I went in search of Meto. He was not hard to find. A foot soldier pointed the way to a tent filled with young officers. As we stepped inside, there was a sudden hush which had nothing to do with us, followed by a rattling noise, then an outburst of raucous laughter and cursing. They were playing dice.
The four dice being used were an old-fashioned set made of bones, pointed at two ends with the numerals painted on the four flat sides. A young man stepped out of the crowd and leaned forward to scoop them up, and I saw with a catch in my throat that it was Meto.
Since he had begun his career with Caesar, we had seen each other only a few times a year at most, and never for long enough. Each time I saw my younger son I braced myself for an unpleasant surprise—a limp, a digit missing, a fresh scar across his face to add to the faded one he received in his first battle. So far he had kept himself intact, if not unmarked. Each time I saw him I was struck anew by how young he still looked. He was twenty-six now, very much a man by every measure, with a few gray hairs at his temples already and a ruggedness to his features that comes from years of hot sun and cold wind, but when he smiled as he scooped up the dice I could not help but see the child I had redeemed from slavery and adopted twenty years ago. He had always been a good-natured boy, affectionate, laughing, mischievous but even-tempered. It was hard to imagine him killing strangers for a living.
Meto became a soldier at the age of sixteen when he ran off to fight for Catilina. In the battle of Pistoria he gained the scar across his face that he was still so proud of. I had thought—hoped—that would be the end of a youthful folly, but Meto still sought the thing he had found with Catilina. He found it again in Caesar. And Caesar, fortunately, had found Meto, discovering his talent for words and taking him into his private service as a sort of literary adjutant. (Caesar the politician was always busy writing and publishing the memoirs of Caesar the general, and commanded his own private troop of wordsmiths.) In recent years Meto had also found service as a translator, having shown an aptitude for learning the Gaulish dialects. In addition to these sedentary pursuits, he still saw plenty of battle and danger, often at the side of the great general himself. I could never stop worrying about him.
He had not yet seen us across the crowded tent. As he rattled the four dice in a cup, he narrowed his eyes and seemed to mutter an invocation—to a god, to a lover? Who were his gods these days? Who were his lovers? We never talked of such things anymore. He gave the cup a final shake and let fly the dice.
A hush, the rattle of bones, then more laughter and curses. Meto himself was loudest of all, raising his arms triumphantly in the air as he laughingly announced, “The Venus Throw! One of each number—the Venus Throw beats all! Pay up, pay up!” The long sleeves of his tunic slid down his upraised arms and I noticed a new scar, red and gnarled, which cut across the biceps of his left arm. It was ugly, but seemed to cause him no awkwardness or pain. He reached into his tunic for a little bag and opened it wide for the others to throw coins into.
Then he saw Eco and me.
I think I knew then how my own face must have looked, on those occasions when I had been separated from him by great distances, and had worried for him, not knowing if he was alive or dead, and then at last had seen him again, often by surprise when he appeared in Rome without announcement. It was th
e look of a man whose eyes discern in an instant what his heart has spent long hours desiring.
“Doesn’t your commander object to your gambling?” I said.
“Not as long as we wager only with coins that have his image on them.” Meto laughed at his own joke. Roman coins do not bear the images of living men, only dead ones. Not even Caesar dared to mint a coin with his own portrait.
We had retired to a quieter place, a tiny room in the villa that was crammed with scrolls, parchments and maps. There was barely room for the three of us. This was the place where Meto did much of his work for Caesar, reading and emending his latest volume of memoirs. Deciding on a consistent spelling of Gaulish names was an ongoing crisis, I gathered.
I asked him how he knew that Eco and I had been missing.
“Diana sent a letter. It’s a good thing you taught her to write, you see? Though her syntax is atrocious. You really should spend more time drilling her, Papa, or else hire a decent tutor. I could tell she was very upset. Her hand shook. Here, I’ll show you.” He shuffled among a pile of documents and retrieved a slender, folded wooden tablet. I untied the ribbon that held it shut. The letters etched into the wax coating on the inner surface were indeed uncertain and wavering.
Brother,
We are in great worry and sadness here. Papa left on a journey of a few days and on the way back they were attacked and carried off, him and Eco.
There is maybe cause for hope. There was a note given to the guard outside the door early this morning, by a man who hid his face. The note was addressed to Mother, but of course I had to read it for her. It says: “Do not fear for Gordianus and his son. They have not been harmed. They will be returned to you in time.” But who knows who the note is from? Or whether to believe it? It makes me more worried than before, almost.
The city is not as wild as it was, but still dangerous, especially at night. Mother and me, and Menenia and Titus and Titania are all safe. We have plenty of the great man’s guards to keep us safe. Don’t worry for us. But I long for Papa and Eco to come home! Oh, Cybele, let them come back soon!
I will write again when that happens. Or Papa will write himself to you! Take care of yourself, my brother.
I closed the letter.
“My sister’s grammar is poor, Papa, but not so atrocious that you should be moved to tears,” said Meto archly.
I cleared my throat. “I can hardly stand to think of them, waiting for us, worrying—”
“I arrived in Ravenna only a couple of days ago, from up north. Diana’s letter was waiting for me. You can imagine what a fright it gave me. I petitioned Caesar for leave at once, to head home to try to sort things out. I was planning to leave tomorrow. And now here you are! The gods seem to like our family, don’t they?”
“It’s because we have a family like none other,” said Eco, laughing. “One of everything! Like the Venus Throw. I think we keep them amused.”
“Well, I’m glad they finally grew bored of watching you and me in that pit,” I said.
Meto frowned. “In her letter, Diana mentions guards. ‘We have plenty of the great man’s guards to keep us safe.’ What is that about? And where in Hades have you been all this time?”
So we told him the tale, or most of it, as briefly as we could. The sun was fading before we finished.
I opened Diana’s letter and read it again, more calmly. Who had sent the note addressed to Bethesda, advising her not to worry? What a peculiar sort of kidnapping!
My wits still must have been dulled by our captivity, for it was only as I reread the letter a third time that an equally obvious question occurred to me. How had Diana known that Eco and I were attacked and abducted on our way home? “On the way back they were attacked and carried off,” she wrote. Who had seen it happen, and who had told her about it?
Meto found accommodations for us in the villa, in a tiny room even smaller than his office. It reminded me uneasily of the pit. When it came time to sleep I tossed and turned for a while. When Eco began to snore, I realized that I was so sick of being cooped up with him that I might strangle him. So I gathered up a blanket and found Meto, who was still awake and talking with his tentmates. He found a spare cot for me and I pulled it outside, to a spot where I could fall asleep looking at the stars. I wanted to gaze at them for hours, and breathe in the clear, cold air, but I fell into a dreamless sleep almost at once.
The next morning, Meto took us to see Caesar.
A guard escorted us to a courtyard inside the villa. He and Meto seemed to know each other quite well. We sat on a bench to wait. A few moments later, Cicero and Tiro appeared, formally attired in togas and escorted by the same guard. “I must warn you, he’s very busy today,” said the guard to Cicero. “But I’ll do my best to make sure that you see him.”
Cicero and Tiro sat on the bench across from us. Cicero looked rather peeved, I thought.
“Did you not see Caesar yesterday?” I said.
“No. We arrived in the afternoon, of course, when he was at his busiest. You know how it is with these generals. Pompey is the same. Sometimes one has to wait days to see them. You’d think, since I’m here to smooth the way for his next campaign for consul, that he’d see me at once. But of course a man like Caesar has much important business. Every hour is taken.”
I nodded.
A few moments later the guard appeared. Cicero quickly stood and began straightening the folds of his toga. The guard ignored him and nodded to us. “He’ll see you now.”
As we walked past Cicero, I found it hard not to grin. The look on his face was priceless.
Meto had first introduced me to Gaius Julius Caesar some years ago. On subsequent occasions, I never expected him to remember me, but he always did. Caesar’s mind was like a fisherman’s net. No fact or face, once apprehended, ever slipped away from him.
His study was a spacious room with tall windows thrown open to admit the morning light. One wall was covered by an enormous map made of sheepskins stitched together and dyed in various colors to show the various tribes of the Gauls, with pictures to show their cities and strongholds. What sort of place could Lutetia be? Or Alesia? Or Cenabum, which for some reason was circled in red? Was Britannia really as huge as the maps showed it to be? Meto had been to all these places, even to Britannia, where the barbarians paint themselves blue. He had learned the language of the Bituriges and the Helvetii, whose very names I could hardly pronounce. I had traveled much in the East, but never in Gaul. Meto had entered a world and an existence I could only wonder at.
And he had fallen into the orbit of a man whose force of personality I could only wonder at, as well. Gaius Julius Caesar was unique among men. I have never met anyone else whose intellectual and physical vigor were so keenly evident even in a glance or the exchange of a few brief words. I had never had serious dealings with Caesar, as I had with Crassus and Catilina, and now Pompey, but I could see that he abundantly possessed an element in his personality which they too possessed, a drive for power and for what men call greatness. But Caesar seemed somehow accessible in a way the others were not; he was not as frighteningly single-minded as Crassus, or as elusively seductive as Catilina, or as intimidating as Pompey. He seemed at once more than human, and yet vulnerable, a man who could both divinely inspire his men and make them feel protective of him. He was quite human in his vanity, at least; he had begun to bald at an early age (he was now in his late forties), and according to Meto was still self-conscious about his lack of hair.
He was dictating to a secretary as we entered, but stood and opened his arms when he saw Meto. He gave him a warm embrace and kissed him on the lips. “So, Meto, you shall not be deserting me after all?”
“I shall not be leaving for Rome, if that’s what you mean. My father and brother are safe and sound, as you can see.”
“Ah, Gordianus! And …” Caesar hesitated for only a heartbeat. “And Eco. The three of you look so little alike. That always confuses me for a moment, when I see you all together. Bu
t of course the sons were chosen and adopted by their father, and thus are like him in spirit, not in flesh. It was a false alarm then, the rumor that they had been kidnapped?”
“Not false at all,” said Meto. “They made their escape only a few days ago, and only a few miles from here.”
“That must be quite a tale. You must tell me all about it.” Caesar indicated that we should sit.
“But you must be very busy, General,” I said, thinking of Cicero waiting in the courtyard.
“Not particularly. I shall be heading back to Gaul in a few days, but preparations proceed without me. I’m filling the time by dictating a new chapter of my memoirs. That little skirmish with the Eburones last year—you must remember it well, Meto.” He reached out to touch Meto’s face. Meto returned his smile. The moment seemed disconcertingly intimate, until I realized that Caesar had brushed his fingers against a very slight scar on Meto’s cheek.
“My father and brother were waylaid on the Appian Way,” said Meto. “He was doing some work for Pompey, looking into the murder of Publius Clodius.”
“Really? Now that is interesting. What did you discover, Gordianus?”
I looked at Meto, chagrined that he should bring my affairs so blatantly to Caesar’s attention. But I kept no secrets from Meto, and Meto evidently kept no secrets from Caesar. “I was merely able to confirm what everyone in Rome already seemed to know—that Clodius was killed by Milo’s slaves after an altercation on the Appian Way.”
“As simple as that? I presume you’ll be giving Pompey a somewhat more comprehensive report. But I’ve made you uncomfortable, Gordianus. I have no intention of interrogating you. Settling the matter of Milo’s guilt and punishment falls to Pompey, not to me, and quite properly so. Milo was his man, after all, until Milo became Cicero’s man. Let Pompey have the headache of disposing of Milo and restoring order in the city. I have a greater task ahead of me: restoring order in Gaul. The chaos begun by the murder of Publius Clodius has reached even there. Remarkable, isn’t it, the repercussions that can follow upon a single death?”
A Murder on the Appian Way Page 33