A Mist of Prophecies

by Saylor, Steven

  ‘Redbeard is no more,’ said Calpurnia, with a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. ‘When the camp was overrun, Domitius fled on foot and headed up a mountainside. Antony’s cavalry hunted him down like a stag in the woods. He collapsed from fear and exhaustion. His body was still warm when Antony found him. He died without a wound on him.’

  ‘Faustus Sulla?’

  ‘Fausta’s brother apparently escaped. There was a rumour he might head for Africa.’

  ‘Cato?’

  ‘He, too, eluded capture. He may be on the way to Africa as well.’

  ‘Cicero?’

  ‘Cicero lives. He missed the battle entirely, on account of an upset stomach. Rumour has it he’s headed back to Rome. My husband is notorious for his clemency. Who knows? He may yet forgive Cicero for siding with Pompey.’ She stared at me for a long moment. ‘Why not ask what you most want to ask, Finder?’

  Why not, indeed? I bowed my head and sighed. I tried to control the trembling in my voice. ‘What news of Meto?’

  She nodded and smiled, a bit more smugly than was warranted. ‘Meto is well. According to my husband, he distinguished himself admirably throughout the campaign and most especially in the battle at Pharsalus. He remains at Caesar’s side, travelling with him to Egypt.’

  I shut my eyes and held them shut, to hold back tears. ‘When did this battle take place?’

  ‘Four days after the Nones of Sextilis.’

  I drew a breath. ‘The day Cassandra was buried!’

  ‘So it was. I hadn’t realized that.’

  On the very day Cassandra turned to ashes upon her funeral pyre, the fate of Rome was decided. I thought of all that had transpired and all I had discovered in the time it took the news from Pharsalus to reach Rome. I thought of the women who had shared with me their secrets, none of us knowing that even as we raked over the past and agonized over the future, the battle between the titans was already decided.

  ‘Why did you summon me here, Calpurnia, and bid me come so quickly? I should think that every man out there, shuffling nervously about your forecourt, is more deserving to be kept abreast of the latest news from Caesar.’

  She laughed. ‘Let those senators and magistrates grind their teeth and swap rumours and stand on pins awhile longer. I intended to call you here today, anyway, because of a certain other event. Rupa, step forward.’

  He had been standing in the shadows. When he stepped into sight, the look I saw on his face was closer to chagrin than anything else. He put his hands on my shoulders and gave me a rather stiff embrace.

  ‘So you’re alive, after all,’ I said. ‘Where have you been all this time?’

  He covered one hand with the other. In hiding. Who could blame him? Fausta had sent a slave to kill him. When he learned about Cassandra’s death, he must have been as baffled as I was, not knowing whom to blame or whom to fear.

  ‘He should have come straight to me, of course,’ said Calpurnia. ‘But I suppose he was afraid of me, thinking I might have had something to do with Cassandra’s death. But ever since Fausta died, all sorts of rumours have been circulating about her death and her role in the insurrection, including a rumour about her poisoning Cassandra. Rupa heard it and decided to risk coming here to find out the truth. I told him of all your efforts to find his sister’s killer, not to mention the care you took to see that she was properly cremated.’

  Rupa looked in my eyes and embraced me again, less stiffly. At that moment he looked very much like Cassandra.

  ‘He also came here to collect Cassandra’s earnings, which I kept in trust for her. It’s a considerable sum. But there’s a slight problem. It has to do with you, Finder.’

  ‘Please explain.’

  ‘At some point, Cassandra gave Rupa a letter addressed to me, to be delivered only in the event of her disappearance or death. Rupa can’t read, and of course he didn’t dare to show the letter to anyone besides me, so he’s had no idea what’s in the letter until today, when he delivered it to me. I’ve read it to him and discussed what it means. He’s agreed to its terms, but I can’t be certain that you will.’

  ‘I don’t understand. The letter mentions me?’

  ‘Yes. Shall I read it to you?’ Without waiting for an answer she produced a scrap of parchment and read aloud:

  To Calpurnia, wife of Gaius Julius Caesar:

  In recent days, I have found myself thinking a great deal about my death. Were I truly gifted with the power of prophecy, I might almost say that I have experienced a premonition of death. Perhaps I am only suffering a normal measure of trepidation, given the inherent danger of my work for you.

  But if you are reading these words, then I must indeed be dead, for my instructions to Rupa are to deliver this letter to you only in the event of my death, or if I should disappear under circumstances such that my death can almost certainly be presumed.

  In such an event, this is my desire regarding the disposition of the money I have earned from you and which you are holding for me. Because Rupa himself would be ill-disposed to handle such a large amount of money, I wish for the entire sum to be given to Gordianus, called the Finder, a man who is known to you and to your husband, upon this condition: that he shall take Rupa into his household and shall adopt him as his son. In return for assuming a father’s responsibility for Rupa’s well-being, Gordianus may dispose of the money as he sees fit. I know he has great need of it. I hope it will come as a boon to him and to his family.

  This is the wish of your loyal agent, Cassandra.

  Calpurnia put down the letter. ‘I’m not sure about that last bit – her loyalty, I mean. She did conspire with Fausta to induce Milo to raise arms against the state. One might argue that she was a traitor in the end, and that I would be entirely justified to seize all her assets – including the money I was holding in trust for her. But I ask myself: What would Caesar do? And the answer is obvious, for no leader of the Roman state has ever shown as great an inclination to clemency as Caesar. Cassandra cannot be made to suffer any more for her collusion with Fausta; she paid for that mistake with her life. I see no reason why Rupa should also suffer, and I have no wish to take from you, Gordianus, the money that Cassandra wished for you to have. You did me a great favour when you uncovered Fausta’s perfidy, and while I suspect you don’t wish to be paid for that effort – that would make you my agent, wouldn’t it? – I do hope that this audience and its outcome may mark the first step towards a complete reconciliation between you and my husband, as well as those who serve my husband . . . including young Meto.’

  I stared at her, not sure how to answer. ‘What is the sum you hold in trust for Cassandra?’ I asked.

  She named it. The amount so surprised me that I asked her to repeat it.

  I looked at Rupa warily. ‘Do you understand the amount of money that your sister earned?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Yet you accept the terms she laid out in her letter? That you should receive none of that money, and instead should become my son by adoption?’

  He nodded again and would have embraced me a third time had I not stepped back. I looked at Calpurnia. ‘Perhaps it would be fairer if Rupa and I were to split the amount,’ I suggested.

  She shrugged. ‘Once you receive the money from me, Gordianus, you can do with it whatever you wish. But you’ll receive it only if you agree to adopt Rupa, as Cassandra requested. You appear to be a bit taken aback by her generosity, but I think she showed great wisdom in making such an arrangement. Rupa is a strong young man, probably an excellent bodyguard, and able to take care of himself in a fight – he certainly got the better of that gladiator Fausta sent to kill him. But in many ways he’s not fit to look after himself. Cassandra was the one who always took care of him. Now that she’s gone, it was her wish that you should do so. And why not? Haven’t you a propensity for taking strays into your house – the two sons you adopted and that pair of rowdy slave boys you acquired from Fulvia? It was also Cassandra’s wish that the money she earned sh
ould buy you out of the hole you’ve dug yourself into. I understand your debts are considerable. Even so, given the amount she’s left you, there should be a tidy sum left over – enough to look after Rupa and the rest of your family for quite a while.’

  I thought about this and took a deep breath. I looked over my shoulder at Davus, who had followed the entire exchange in silence. He looked back at me with a furrowed brow, and I realized that I would face no easy task when it came to explaining to Bethesda and Diana how I had come into such a fortune, and why I was coming home with a new mouth to feed.

  But why should I worry about explaining myself? Was I not a Roman paterfamilias, the supreme head of my own household, granted by law the power of life and death over everyone in that household? A paterfamilias had no need to justify himself. So tradition dictated, although real life never seemed to adhere very strictly to the model. If my wife or daughter pestered me with uncomfortable questions about Cassandra or Rupa or my sudden windfall or the abrupt vanishing of my debts, I could always fall back on my privileges as paterfamilias and simply refuse to answer them . . . for a while, anyway.

  ‘Do you accept Cassandra’s terms?’ asked Calpurnia, suddenly impatient for the audience to end.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. I’ll have the money delivered to you this afternoon. Take Rupa with you as you go. Stay in the forecourt for a while if you wish to hear the formal announcement.’ She made a wave of dismissal. Guards appeared from the shadows to see us out.

  We lingered for only a few moments in the forecourt before Calpurnia appeared on the steps. Every voice fell silent as all eyes looked to her.

  ‘Citizens, I stand before you with wonderful news. Caesar has triumphed! There was a great battle in Thessaly, near a place called Pharsalus . . .’

  She repeated the news just as she had given it to me, word for word. When she was done, the forecourt was oddly silent as those present absorbed the enormity of the news. Isauricus and Trebonius were the first to cheer. Others joined them, until the forecourt rang with acclamations for Caesar and cries of ‘Venus for victory!’

  And so I made my way home with not one but two stout young men to act as my bodyguards – and a good thing that was, for the streets of the Palatine were suddenly thronged with people cheering and weeping and kissing one another and madly jumping up and down. Some appeared quietly pleased, some genuinely ecstatic. How many were simply experiencing a rush of emotion at the tremendous release of the tension that had been building in everyone for months? And how many were not happy at all, but were doing their best to laugh and shout and blend in with the rest?

  As we slowly made our way through the crowd, I was startled to see, some distance off, a familiar face amid the throng. It was old Volcatius, Pompey’s most vociferous partisan among the chin-waggers. His hands were in the air; his head was thrown back, his mouth open. Amid the din I could hear his reedy voice, shouting, ‘Hurrah for Caesar! Venus for victory! Hurrah for Caesar!’

  ‘We are all Caesarians now,’ I muttered under my breath.

  XX

  ‘What about this?’ asked Diana, holding up one of my better garments, a green tunic with a Greek-key border in yellow along the hem.

  ‘Surely I’ve packed enough clothing already,’ I said. ‘The shipmaster charges passengers by the trunk, so we should take only what we need for the journey. It will be cheaper to buy what we need when we get there.’

  ‘Mother will like that. A shopping trip!’ Diana forced a smile. She was not happy about her mother’s trip to Alexandria; she had done all she could to dissuade her. That part of the world was already unsettled and dangerous, she pointed out, and likely to become more so if Pompey had fled there with Caesar chasing after him. Besides that, a sea journey was always dangerous, and autumn was coming; if we stayed in Egypt past the sailing season, we might be stranded there for months, unable to find a ship willing to risk stormy waters. But Bethesda would not relent: to be cured of her malady, she must return to Egypt and bathe in the Nile.

  Diana’s greatest worry she left unspoken: that she would never see her mother again if the rigours of travel proved too much for her, or if Bethesda’s true purpose in returning to Egypt was to die.

  ‘Perhaps – perhaps I should come along,’ she said.

  ‘Absolutely not, Diana! We’ve already discussed this.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No! You have Aulus to look after and his little brother or sister, as well. It’s unthinkable that a woman in your condition should take off on such a long and uncertain journey.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have told you.’

  ‘That you’re with child? You couldn’t have hidden it much longer. You don’t know how relieved I was to find out that your morning sickness was due to pregnancy and not something else. No, you will remain in Rome to oversee the household, and Davus will remain by your side. And don’t worry – your mother and I will be back in plenty of time to see the birth of our grandchild. Do you think Bethesda would miss that?’

  Diana forced another smile and busied herself checking the contents of my trunk. ‘What’s this?’ she asked, holding up a sealed bronze urn.

  I took it from her and returned it to the trunk. ‘Ashes,’ I said.

  ‘Ah. Her ashes.’

  ‘You can say her name: Cassandra.’

  ‘But why are you taking them to Egypt?’

  ‘It was Rupa’s idea. Cassandra lived most of her life in Alexandria. He wants to scatter her ashes in the Nile.’

  ‘I don’t see why she should go along on Mother’s trip.’

  ‘Don’t forget that it’s her legacy that’s paying for the trip.’

  ‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ said Diana sharply. ‘If this trip does cure Mother’s condition, it shall have been paid for by the woman who—’ She saw the look on my face and left the thought unfinished. ‘I suppose it is a good thing that you’re taking Rupa with you, since Davus isn’t going along to protect you. Rupa will know his way around the city.’

  ‘You forget that I lived in Alexandria myself for a while.’

  ‘But, Papa, that was years and years ago. Surely it’s changed since then.’

  The Alexandria of my youth was fixed in my memory, encircled by nostalgia as a city is encircled by walls to keep it safe. It seemed unthinkable that it could have changed, but why not? Everything else in the world had changed, and seldom for the better.

  Diana clicked her tongue. ‘But I’m not sure about the advisability of taking Mopsus and Androcles.’

  ‘I’m an old man, Diana. I’ll need quick feet to run my errands.’

  ‘So will I, once my belly begins to grow.’

  ‘I suppose I could take only one of the boys with me, and leave you the other . . .’

  ‘No, it would be unthinkable to separate them. But they’re likely to get themselves thrown overboard if they behave on the ship the way they behave in this house. They’re such a handful, those two little . . .’ Something caught in her throat. She cleared it with a cough and a sniffle and lowered her voice. ‘A shame you’re not taking Hieronymus. He keeps hinting that he’d like to go. Having lived all his life in Massilia, he’s eager to see the world.’

  ‘At my expense! No, Hieronymus can stay here. Surely he hasn’t exhausted all the discoveries that Rome has to offer.’

  I sat on the bed. Diana sat beside me. She took my hand in hers. ‘There’s something we haven’t yet talked about,’ she said.

  ‘Your mother? I think she truly believes this trip will cure her. You shouldn’t worry that—’

  ‘No, not that.’

  I sighed. ‘If you wish to finish what you were saying earlier . . . about Cassandra . . .’

  Diana shook her head. ‘No. I think it was the Fates who guided your course, and hers, towards an end that neither of you foresaw.’

  ‘What, then?’

  She hesitated. ‘We’ve talked before about the danger in that part of the world . . .’

  ‘Surely it’
s no more dangerous than Rome!’

  ‘Isn’t it? Ever since old King Ptolemy died, the Egyptians have been as torn apart as we Romans. Young Ptolemy is at war with his sister – what’s she called?’

  ‘I believe her name is Cleopatra. Marc Antony once mentioned to me that he had met her. He said the oddest thing . . .’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘He said that she reminded him of Caesar. Imagine that! Cleopatra couldn’t have been more than fourteen when Antony met her. She must be about twenty-two now – yes, exactly the same age as you, Diana.’

  ‘Wonderful! You shall find yourself in Alexandria with Pompey at his most desperate, a royal civil war going on, and a young female Caesar to contend with – if one can imagine such a creature!’

  I laughed. ‘At least it shouldn’t be boring.’

  ‘But still – this wasn’t what I meant to talk about.’

  ‘What then?’

  She sighed. ‘Caesar will be there, too, won’t he?’

  ‘Very likely.’

  ‘And if Caesar is . . .’

  ‘Ah, I see where you’re going.’

  ‘You’ll already have so much to deal with – and I don’t mean Pompey and Cleopatra and all that. I mean Mother, whether she gets well . . . or not. And the ashes in that urn, and what you’ll feel when you scatter them in the Nile. And I know you’ll be worried about me and the child I’m carrying, back here in Rome. And on top of all that, if you should happen to confront Meto again . . .’

  ‘Daughter, Daughter! Do you imagine that I haven’t thought of all this myself? I’ve been lying awake at night, pondering this journey and all the places it may lead. But looking ahead serves no purpose. It’s as you say: the Fates lead us to unseen ends. So far, on balance, the Fates have been kind to me.’