"Her party?"
"Clodia always throws a party on the eve of the Great Mother festival. It's the first social event of the spring. Three nights from now." "But that's the opening day of the trial."
"Purely by coincidence. One more reason to celebrate, if all goes well. This garden will be full of people, and up on the stage—well, every year Clodia has to outdo herself. Maybe this year Trygonion will play his instrument for us." He laughed crudely.
"I won't be able to come. I got myself elected aedile this year, so I'm in charge of overseeing the official events of the festival—too busy for pleasure. I'll probably have to miss the trial as well. Too bad. I should like to watch Caelius squirm. I love a good trial." His green eyes glittered. In the lamplight he looked uncannily like his sister. "I even enjoyed my own trial. You remember that, don't you, Gordianus?"
"I wasn't there," I said cautiously. "But I think that everyone re-members the Good Goddess affair."
He drank deeply of the honeyed wine. "From that ordeal I learned three things. First, never trust Cicero to back you up. Stab you in the back, more likely! Second, when bribing a jury, account for a comfortable margin of victory. You'll sleep better the night before. I did."
"And third?"
"Think twice before putting on women's clothing, for whatever reason. It did me no good at all."
"It did Dio no good either," I said.
Clodius made a dry little laugh. "Perhaps you have a sense of humor after all."
The older I get, the more easily I fall asleep without meaning to.
At the end of our meal Clodius got up, saying he had to relieve himself. I relaxed and closed my eyes, listening to the chanting of the galli. The pleasing phrase I had heard before recurred, and I followed it along until it seemed that I was floating on the strange music, rising above Clodia's garden, levitating face to face with the monstrous Venus, then flying even higher. Rome was a toy city beneath me, moonlit, her temples made of little blocks. The music rose and fell, and I was carried along like a bubble on a wave, like a feather in a mist, until someone whispered in my ear: "If Marcus Caelius didn't murder Dio, who did?"
I woke with a start. The voice had been so clear, so close, that I was puzzled to find myself alone. The lamps had died. The sky above was spangled with stars. The garden was dark and quiet, except for the soft splashing of the fountain. Someone had put a blanket over me.
The blanket smelled of Clodia's perfume.
Too much honeyed wine, I thought. Too much rich food. Yet I felt clear-headed and refreshed. How long had I slept?
I pushed away the blanket. The night was too warm for it. I stood, stretched my arms and looked around, still not quite certain I was alone. But there was no one in the garden, except for the suppliant Adonis and the towering Venus, huge and black in silhouette. Her eyes glittered dully in the starlight. Again I had the unnerving feeling that the statue was about to come to life. I shivered and was suddenly eager to leave the garden.
At the top of the steps 1 paused to quietly call out—"Clodius? Clodia? Chrysis?" — but no one answered. The house was absolutely still. I might have been in an empty temple, shut up for the night. I walked through the hallway and the atrium, into the foyer. Surely there would be a slave at the door, perhaps the same old man who had let us in that afternoon.
But the slave at the door was Barnabas, fast asleep. He sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, his head tilted back so that by the faint starlight which seeped in from the atrium I could see his face with its joined eyebrows. There was something gathered about him on the floor, a puzzling shape which I slowly realized was the body of Chrysis, asleep with her head nestled on his lap. In the utter stillness I could hear their quiet breathing.
Clodius had promised to see me safely home, which I took to mean an escort. It was only reasonable that I should wake Chrysis or Barnabas and tell them what I needed. But their repose was so perfect that I feared to move, not wanting to disturb them.
A hand touched my shoulder. I turned and stared into the darkness. The Ethiop was so dark that for a moment I couldn't see him at all.
"My master said I was to take care of you if you woke up," he said, with an accent I could barely understand.
"Clodius is still here?"
The giant nodded.
"And Clodia?"
"She came, while you slept."
"Perhaps I should see her before I leave."
"They've gone to bed."
"Are they asleep?"
"What difference does that make?" By the faint light, I couldn't tell whether the giant was grinning down at me or gritting his teeth. The garlic on his breath was overpowering. Gladiators and strong-armers eat it raw to give themselves strength.
He unbolted the door and swung it open, letting it bang against the sleeping figures on the floor with a smirk of disdain. Chrysis let out a sleepy whimper. Barnabas grunted. "Poor excuse for a door slave," the Ethiop sneered. "She's too soft on her slaves. Well, go on. I'll be right behind you."
"No," I said. "I'll go alone." The man made me uneasy.
The Ethiop crossed his arms and looked at me grimly. "The master gave me specific orders."
"I'll see myself home," I said. It was suddenly a battle of wills.
At last the Ethiop made a face of disgust and shrugged his brawny shoulders. "Suit yourself," he said and closed the door on me.
It was such a short way to my house, and the night was so silent and so deep, surely there was nothing to fear.
Chapter Seventeen
Rome slept. The great houses and apartment buildings of the Palatine were dark. The streets were silent, except for the
sound of my own footsteps. What was the hour? Dusk and dawn seemed equally distant, like opposite shores impossible to make out from the middle of a vast, black sea. I felt utterly alone, the last man awake in Rome.
Then I heard footsteps behind me.
I stopped. The footsteps stopped a heartbeat later. I took a few steps. The footsteps behind me resumed. Gordianus, I whispered to myself, you've finally done it, taken the final risk of a lifetime full of foolish risks. You've fallen into the lazy habit of relying on Fortune's favor, always assuming that the goddess will make allowances for your foolishness and shield you at the last moment because the singular drama of your life for some reason intrigues her and she wishes it to continue. Now Fortune's interest has waned; she's turned her attention elsewhere for as long as it takes to blink an eye, and you will be snuffed out, removed from the world's story for good.
A part of me believed this and steeled for the worst. But another part of me knew that it was impossible for me to die just yet, and merely gave lip service to the possibility, to let Fortune know that I wasn't taking her for granted, and to gently remind her she had better do something, and quickly.
The footsteps behind me speeded up. I fought the urge to run and instead turned around. I refused to end up as one of those corpses found with knife wounds in the back.
The street was narrow, the shadows deep. The figure moved toward me with a slightly unsteady gait. The man was alone, and unless I was mistaken, had been drinking too much wine. It's the poet Catullus after all, I thought, the man whom Clodius told me not to fear.
Unless, of course, it was Marcus Caelius, drunk and coming after me with a knife. Or some nameless henchman of King Ptolemy. Or a garlic-eating gladiator sent by Pompey. Or someone else with a reason to kill me, thinking I knew something I didn't.
He stopped several paces away. I still couldn't make out his face, but it obviously wasn't the Ethiop; the man wasn't big enough. He appeared to be of medium height, with a slender build. When he spoke, I recognized Catullus's voice.
"So she's gotten tired of picking apples off the tree the moment they're ripe. Now she's poking around in the mulch heap." He sounded only slightly drunk, sarcastic but not particularly threatening.
"I'm afraid I don't follow you," I said.
"Aren't you awfully old to be wa
rming a spot in her bed?" "Whose bed? I don't know what you're talking about." He came a few steps closer. "We should find a patch of light so I can watch your face while you lie to me. You know whose bed." "Maybe. But you're mistaken."
"Am I? The damned gallus carries messages back and forth between you, takes you to her horti. You go riding around in her litter with the curtains closed, and stay at her house until the middle of the night. You must be her new lover."
"Don't be absurd."
He backed off a bit and began to circle around me. I suddenly realized that he might be more frightened of me than I was of him. He was the one who had turned to flee on the Ramp.
"At least she's finished with Caelius, though I can't see why she'd throw him over for the likes of you."
"You insult me," I said. "Shall I go on insisting on the truth—that I'm not Clodia's lover—and let the slur against my manhood stand? Or shall I tell a lie to refute the insult, say that Clodia is my lover and tells me nightly that I'm twice the man Caelius is, and four times the man that you are, Gaius Valerius Catullus."
I thought I might have pushed him too far, but my instinct was true: he came to a stop and barked out a laugh. "You must be a nit-picking orator, like Caelius. One of those word-murdering, truth-twisting advocates from the Forum. Why haven't I heard of you before, old man?"
"Because I'm not an orator. I'm a Finder, Catullus."
"Well, you found out my name. What's yours?" "Gordianus."
He nodded. I saw him more clearly now. He still had the scraggly beard on his jaw, despite his trip to the baths. The tragic look had returned to his eyes, even when he smiled.
"Are you thirsty, Gordianus?"
"Not particularly."
"I am. Come with me."
"Where?"
"It's time we talked. About her." "I didn't say why. I said where." "Where else, at this time of night?"
Take a winding pathway to the foot of the Palatine, to a spot just behind the Temple of Castor and Pollux. Turn left. Proceed down the narrow alley (stinking of urine, and black as pitch at night) that runs behind the buildings on the north side of the Forum. As the slope of the Palatine curves away on the left-hand side, letting the alley open a bit, you will come to a cluttered area of little workshops and warehouses south of the Forum, east of the cattle markets and the river. Look for the little pillar which name the shops and businesses. As you draw near to the ninth signpost you will see the pool of light cast by the lamp hung outside welcoming those who cannot or will not sleep, and who cannot or will not stop drinking, whoring and gambling. This is the place which Catullus called the Salacious Tavern.
Actually, the place has no name, or none to be read on the signpost outside. Atop the little pillar, instead of an inscription, is an upright marble phallus. The lamp which casts such a lurid glow is carved in similarly suggestive shape. Perhaps inspired by these fine examples o craftsmanship, less skilled artists have drawn crude graffiti on the wall outside, graphically depicting various uses to which such phalli might b put.
Catullus rapped on the door. A little trap opened. A bloodshot eye peered at us. The door swung open.
"They know me here," said Catullus. "And I know them. The win is wretched, the whores are lice-ridden, and the patrons are the lowest of the low. I should know. I've come here every night since I go back."
We stepped into a long narrow room partitioned here and there b
folding screens. The room was packed with patrons who stood in groups or sat on chairs and benches around little tables. The lamps were fueled by an inferior oil that created as much smoke as light, filling the room with an amber haze that made my eyes water. I heard laughter and cursing and the clatter of dice followed by hoots of triumph and groans of despair. The crowd was made up almost entirely of men. The few women were obviously there to ply their trade.
One of them suddenly emerged from the haze and wrapped herself around Catullus like a clinging vine. I blinked my watery eyes and the vine resolved into a supple redhead with a heart-shaped face.
"Gaius," she purred. "One of the girls told me you were back. And with a beard! Here, let me kiss it."
Catullus stiffened and drew back with a pained expression. "Not tonight, Ipsithilla."
"Why not? It's been a whole year since I've made a meal of you. I'm famished."
Catullus managed to smile.
"Not tonight."
She drew back, lowering her eyes. "Still pining for your Lesbia?"
He winced and took my arm, leading me to a bench that had just been vacated. A slave brought us wine. Catullus was right; the quality was wretched, especially after the honeyed wine that Clodius had given me. But Catullus drank without hesitation.
Next to us, clustered around a little table, a group of rough-looking young men were playing with dice of the old-fashioned kind, made from the rectangular anklebones of a sheep, with numbers—I, III, IV, VI— painted on each of the four long sides. Each man in turn would scoop the four dice up in a cup, rattle them, cry out the name of a deity or his mistress, and cast them on the table. A referee figured out the combination and shouted the name of the throw, which would be followed by cries of gloating or derision.
"When I was young, the laws against gambling were more strictly enforced," I said, "except of course during the Saturnalia."
"It's always Saturnalia inside the Salacious Tavern," quipped Ca-tullus.
"Hercules!" shouted one ofthe gamblers. The box rattled, the bones clattered. "A Taurus Throw!" declared the referee—three ones and a six.
The next gambler cried a woman's name and tossed the dice. 'Dogs!" cried the referee. "Four ones — nothing lower!" The player groaned at such bad fortune, and cursed the mistress whose name he had called out for luck.
Catullus stared blearily at the crowd. The haze was so thick I could hardly make out faces, let alone recognize anyone. "You wanted to talk " I said.
"I've lost my tongue for it. I want more wine."
"Then I'll talk. Was it you who followed me up the Ramp two nights
ago?"
"Yes."
"Who sent you?" "No one."
"Then why follow me?"
"I was following you before that. Perhaps you're not as sharp as you think. I was outside her house when you came calling that afternoon with Trygonion.
I'd just gotten back into town."
"You'd just arrived and you went straight to Clodia's house?"
He put a finger to his lips. "In this place, call her Lesbia."
"Why?"
"It's my secret name for her. In the poems. In places like this."
"Why 'Lesbia'?"
"Lesbos was the island of Sappho, who understood love better than any poet before or since. And Homer called the women of Lesbos 'the most beautiful women in the world.' "
"Wasn't Homer blind?"
He gave me a sour look. "Agamemnon speaks the line."
"Very well: Lesbia. When you went to Lesbia's house that day, didn't they tell you she'd gone out?"
"No. I didn't knock on the door. I was waiting. Watching. I wasn't ready to see her again, not face to face."
"Waiting and watching from where? It's a dead-end street."
"There are doorways deep enough to hide in. Then you came along with your bodyguard and the little gallus. I was close enough to overhear the word 'horti,' so when you headed off, I followed. What did the two of you get up to, alone inside her tent?"
"I don't think that's any of your business."
"More to the point, what did the three of you do after Lesbius showed up, naked and dripping from the river?" "Lesbius?"
"You know whom I mean."
"You saw him come into the tent?"
"I hid among the trees and bushes on the riverbank." He grinned bleakly. "You must think I'm an utter fool." "Did you follow me when I left?"
"All the way to your house, then over to that other house in the
Subura, then back. You never knew until the Ramp, did you? You set
a trap for me at the top, you and your bodyguard, so I made like a rabbit. If you're like most of the low-lifes she takes for lovers, I figured you might be pretty dangerous."
"I told you, I'm not her lover. Just her 'hireling,' as Clodius calls
me."
"Lesbius!" he insisted. The cheap wine was beginning to take effect. "Anyway, you could be her lover and her hireling both. She's far above the likes of you, but she's been known to bend over for love."
"The Venus Throw!" shouted the referee, setting off an uproar next to us. Someone slammed his fist on the table, making the dice jump, and shouted an accusation of cheating. The others closed ranks to calm him down.
"The Venus Throw," said Catullus. "When all four dice come up different. Not the highest total, just the luckiest. Why do you suppose
that is?"
"Because Venus craves variety?"
"Like Lesbia. Except when she craves her own flesh:
Lesbius is Pulcher—Pulcher meaning beautiful — and he must be, because Lesbia loves him far better than Catullus and all his clan, whom Lesbius would sell down the river
to pay three upright men willing to let him blow them ... a kiss!"
I smiled and nodded. "Clodius said you made better poems than Milo's men. And nastier."
"Lesbius," insisted Catullus, "demeans me with such praise." "You seem to be talkative after all."
"But as thirsty as ever. Where is that serving slave?" He banged his cup against the bench, but the noise was lost in the hubbub. "I suppose you'll see her again, eventually," I said. He stared bleakly into the amber haze. "I already have." "I mean face to face. To speak to her." "I spoke to her today. I spent the afternoon with her."
"What?"
"This morning I finally knocked on her door. The old slave told me she'd gone out early, taking her daughter to visit some cousin. So I wandered around and ended up at the Senian baths. It was only coincidence that I happened to see you there, and that ridiculous chase after Caelius's friend. What was it all about?"
"I'll tell you later. Go on, about . . . Lesbia."
"I finally left the baths and headed back to her house. On the way I recognized her litter outside the house of one of the Metelli. She was just leaving, with her daughter. The two of them were stepping out the door. Before I could turn, she saw me. It was hard to read her face. It always has been. A face unlike any other, except one. Do you suppose that Lesbia and Lesbius can read each other at a glance? Like looking in a mirror? The rest of us study their faces for hours and still can't be sure what's behind them. Something about her eyes—like a poem in a foreign tongue. But more perfect than any poem. More painful.
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