For the trial of Sextus Roscius, we have the text of Cicero’s defence. It is a long document, and to the extent that I have compressed and adapted it, I do not feel I have taken any undue liberties. Historians agree that Cicero’s original, spoken orations by no means corresponded exactly to the published versions handed down to us, which Cicero (and Tiro) revised and embellished after the fact, often for political purposes. There is considerable doubt, for example, that certain satirical jabs at Sulla found in the written text of the Pro Sexto Roscio Amerino would actually have been spoken from the Rostra while the dictator was still alive. However, certain of Cicero’s rhetorical flourishes, as reproduced here, are absolutely authentic; I would never have dared to invent the melodramatic ‘by Hercules!’ to which Cicero resorted more frequently in his own writings than I have allowed him to do in Roman Blood.
The known details of the murder case are all supplied by Cicero; the prosecutor’s speech has not survived and its main points can only be inferred from Cicero’s rebuttals. In drawing certain conclusions about innocence and guilt that go beyond the judgment of the original court, I have gone out on a limb, but not, I think, unreasonably far. Cicero was not above defending a guilty client; he could take considerable pride in doing so and could boast, as he did after the trial of Cluentius, of having thrown dust in the judges’ eyes. Curiously, he speaks on the issue of defending guilty men in his treatise De Officiis (On Duties), and almost immediately (consciously or unconsciously) brings up the matter of Sextus Roscius.
But there is no need, on the other hand, to have any scruples about defending a person who is guilty – provided that he is not really a depraved or wicked character. For popular sentiment requires this; it is sanctioned by custom and conforms with human decency. The judges’ business, in every trial, is to discover the truth. As for the counsel, however, he may on occasion have to base his advocacy on points which look like the truth, even if they do not correspond with it exactly. But I confess I should not have the nerve to be saying such things, especially in a philosophical treatise, unless Panaetius, the most authoritative of Stoics, had spoken to the same effect. The greatest renown, the profoundest gratitude, is won by speeches defending people. These considerations particularly apply when, as sometimes happens, the defendant is evidently the victim of oppression and persecution at the hands of some powerful and formidable personage. That is the sort of case I have often taken on. For example, when I was young, I spoke up for Sextus Roscius of Ameria against the tyrannical might of the dictator Sulla.
Cicero is best read between the lines, especially when he hammers hardest upon his own boldness and sincerity.
As for the high-level intrigue behind the trial, I have taken some cues from ideas in Arthur D. Kahn’s monumentally detailed The Education of Julius Caesar (Schocken Books, 1986), a radically revisionist view of political wheeling and dealing in the late Roman Republic as seen from the perspective of a citizen-survivor of the Republic of McCarthy, Nixon, Reagan, et alia. I should also mention the prolific Michal Grant, whose translation of Cicero’s Murder Trials (Penguin Books, 1975) first set me on the trail of Sextus Roscius.
Metrobius’s song in chapter 26 is original. The anonymous ditty about sundials (chapter 9) and the passage from Euripides (chapter 33) are my own adaptations.
‘Every detective story writer makes mistakes, of course, and none will ever know so much as he should.’ Raymond Chandler’s dictum is doubly true when the setting is historical. I want to thank all those who helped to eliminate anachronisms from the original manuscript, including my brother Ronald Saylor, an expert on ancient glassware; a certain classicist who prefers to be anonymous; and the attentive copy editors at St Martin’s Press. My thanks also to Pat Urquhart, who gave technical advice on the map; Scott Winnett, for his practical advice on publishing in the mystery genre; John Preston, who appeared like a deus ex machina when the manuscript was finished and literally whisked it into the right hands; Terri Odom, who helped batten the hatches on the Roman galleys; and my erudite editor, Michael Denneny.
A final acknowledgment: to my friend Penni Kimmel, a perceptive student of mysteries modern, not ancient, who meticulously studied my first draft and delivered invaluable oracles in the form of yellow Post-its. Without her sybilline interventions, a wretched girl might have needlessly suffered, a wicked man might have gone unpunished, and a lost boy might have wandered silent and lonely forever in the dark, dingy alleys of the Subura. Culpam poena premit comes; but also, miseris succurere disco. Or in plain English: punishment follows hard on crime, yet I learn to comfort the wretched.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Steven Saylor’s fascination with Ancient Rome began at the age of eight, when he saw a censored print of Cleopatra at a drive-in theatre outside Goldthwaite, Texas. He studied history at the University of Texas at Austin before becoming a newspaper and magazine editor in San Francisco. His stories and essays have appeared in The Three-penny Review, the San Francisco Bay Guardian, and The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. Roman Blood is his first novel.
THE HOUSE
OF THE VESTALS
MYSTERIES OF ANCIENT ROME
Steven Saylor
ROBINSON
London
To three women of mystery
whose inspiration helped create these stories:
Janet Hutchings, Hildegarde Withers, and
(in memoriam) Lillian de la Torre;
one of them (at least) is a fictional character –
though which, I am not quite sure …
FOREWORD
Gordianus the Finder, detective of Ancient Rome, was introduced in Roman Blood, the first in a series of novels that have come to be called collectively Roma Sub Rosa.
Roman Blood was set in 80 BC, during the aftermath of a bloody civil war that left the dictator Sulla temporarily in command of the Roman Republic. The story recounts the trial in which the young orator Cicero first made his mark in the Roman courts, defending a man accused of parricide. It was Gordianus, a man of thirty with a peculiar pedigree for digging up dirt, whom Cicero called upon to help him uncover the truth.
The next novel in the series, Arms of Nemesis, was set during the chaos of the Spartacus slave revolt in 72 BC. Thus, between Roman Blood and Arms of Nemesis, there was an eight-year gap in Gordianus’ career. Curious readers have asked what was Gordianus up to during those intervening, ‘missing’ eight years?
The answer – or at least parts of the answer – will be found in this book. Chronologically, it should be placed second in the series. It collects the investigations of Gordianus the Finder (those which have so far been recounted) between the years 80 and 72 BC – after Roman Blood and before Arms of Nemesis.
As you will see, there was no shortage of murders, kidnappings, ghostly hauntings, disappearances, decapitations, sacrileges, thefts, will-tamperings and other sundry mysteries to be solved during those years.
At Gordianus’ side in several of these stories, rapidly growing up, is Eco, the mute boy he met in Roman Blood. Also here is Bethesda, Gordianus’s Jewish-Egyptian concubine, who proves to have crime-solving abilities of her own. One story explains how Gordianus acquired his loyal bodyguard, Belbo. Another looks back to one of Gordianus’ earliest adventures as a footloose young man in Alexandria. Cicero and Catilina play important roles; Marcus Crassus and the young Julius Caesar loom just offstage.
Here readers will discover the origin of Gordianus’ friendship with his patrician benefactor, Lucius Claudius. The Etruscan farm which Gordianus visits in ‘King Bee and Honey’ is the same farm he will later inherit, in Catilina’s Riddle. The house on the Palatine Hill which he visits in ‘The Disappearance of the Saturnalia Silver’ and ‘The Alexandrian Cat’ is the very house he himself will one day live in.
The stories are presented in chronological order. Readers who enjoy history as much as mystery will find a detailed chronology at the back of the book, along with some notes on historical sources.
‘Eco,’ I said, ‘do you mean to tell me that you have never seen a play?’
He looked up at me with his big brown eyes and shook his head.
‘Never laughed at the bumbling slaves who have a falling-out? Never swooned to see the young heroine abducted by pirates? Never thrilled at the discovery that our hero is the secret heir to a vast fortune?’
Eco’s eyes grew even larger, and he shook his head more vigorously.
‘Then there must be a remedy, this very day!’ I said.
It was the Ides of September, and a more beautiful autumn day the gods had never fashioned. The sun shone warmly on the narrow streets and gurgling fountains of Rome; a light breeze swept up from the Tiber, cooling the seven hills; the sky above was a bowl of purest azure, without a single cloud. It was the twelfth day of the sixteen days set aside each year for the Roman Festival, the city’s oldest public holiday. Perhaps Jupiter himself had decreed that the weather should be so perfect; the holiday was in his honour.
For Eco, the festival had been an endless orgy of discoveries. He had seen his first chariot race in the Circus Maximus, had watched wrestlers and boxers in the public squares, had eaten his first calf’s-brain-and-almond sausage from a street vendor. The race had thrilled him, mostly because he thought the horses so beautiful; the pugilists had bored him, since he had seen plenty of brawling in public before; the sausage had not agreed with him (or perhaps his problem was the spiced green apples on which he gorged himself afterwards).
It was four months since I had rescued Eco in an alley in the Subura, from a gang of boys pursuing him with sticks and cruel jeers. I knew a little of his history, having met him briefly in my investigations for Cicero that spring. Apparently his widowed mother had chosen to abandon little Eco in her desperation, leaving him to fend for himself. What else could I do but take him home with me?
He struck me as exceedingly clever for a boy of ten. I knew he was ten, because whenever he was asked, he held up ten fingers. Eco could hear (and add) perfectly well, even if his tongue was useless.
At first, his muteness was a great handicap for us both. (He had not been born mute, but had been made that way, apparently by the same fever that claimed his father’s life.) Eco is a skilful mime, to be sure, but gestures can convey only so much. Someone had taught him the letters, but he could read and write only the simplest words. I had begun to teach him myself, but the going was made harder by his speechlessness.
His practical knowledge of the streets of Rome was deep but narrow. He knew all the back entrances to all the shops in the Subura, and where the fish and meat vendors down by the Tiber left their scraps at the end of the day. But he had never been to the Forum or the Circus Maximus, had never heard a politician declaim (lucky boy!) or witnessed the spectacle of the theatre. I spent many hours showing him the city that summer, rediscovering its marvels through the wide eyes of a ten-year-old boy.
So it was that, on the twelfth day of the Roman Festival, when a crier came running through the streets announcing that the company of Quintus Roscius would be performing in an hour, I determined that we should not miss it.
‘Ah, the company of Roscius the Comedian!’ I said. ‘The magistrates in charge of the festival have spared no expense. There is no more famous actor today than Quintus Roscius, and no more renowned troupe of performers than his!’
We made our way from the Subura down to the Forum, where holiday crowds thronged the open squares. Between the Temple of Jupiter and the Senian Baths, a makeshift theatre had been erected. Rows of benches were set before a wooden stage that had been raised in the narrow space between the brick walls.
‘Some day,’ I remarked, ‘a rabble-rousing politician will build the first permanent theatre in Rome. Imagine that, a proper Grecian-style theatre made of stone, as sturdy as a temple! The old-fashioned moralists will be scandalized – they hate the theatre because it comes from Greece, and they think that all things Greek must be decadent and dangerous. Ah, we’re early – we shall have good seats.’
The usher led us to an aisle seat on a bench five rows back from the stage. The first four rows had been partitioned by a rope of purple cloth, set aside for those of senatorial rank. Occasionally the usher tromped down the aisle, followed by some toga-clad magistrate and his party, and pulled aside the rope to allow them access to the benches.
While the theatre slowly filled around us, I pointed out to Eco the details of the stage. Before the first row of benches there was a small open space, the orchestra, where the musicians would play; three steps at either side led up to the stage itself. Behind the stage and enclosing it on either side was a screen of wood with a folding door in the middle and other doors set into the left and right wings. Through these doors the actors would enter and exit. Out of sight, behind the stage, the musicians could be heard warming up their pipes, trilling snatches of familiar tunes.
‘Gordianus!’
I turned to see a tall, thin figure looming over us.
‘Statilius!’ I cried. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘And you as well. But who is this?’ He ruffled Eco’s mop of brown hair with his long fingers.
‘This is Eco,’ I said.
‘A long-lost nephew?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Ah, an indiscretion from the past?’ Statilius raised an eyebrow.
‘Not that, either.’ My face turned hot. And yet I suddenly wondered how it would feel to say, ‘Yes, this is my son.’ Not for the first time I considered the possibility of adopting Eco legally – and as quickly banished the thought from my mind. A man like myself, who often risks death, has no business becoming a father; so I told myself. If I truly wanted sons, I could have married a proper Roman wife long ago and had a houseful by now. I quickly changed the subject.
‘But Statilius, where is your costume and your mask? Why aren’t you backstage, getting ready?’ I had known Statilius since we were boys; he had become an actor in his youth, joining first one company and then another, always seeking the training of established comedians. The great Roscius had taken him on a year before.
‘Oh, I still have plenty of time to get ready.’
‘And how is life in the company of the greatest actor in Rome?’
‘Wonderful, of course!’
I frowned at the note of false bravado in his voice.
‘Ah, Gordianus, you always could see through me. Not wonderful, then – terrible! Roscius – what a monster! Brilliant, to be sure, but a beast! If I were a slave I’d be covered with bruises. Instead, he whips me with his tongue. What a taskmaster! The man is relentless, and never satisfied. He makes a man feel no better than a worm. The galleys or the mines could hardly be worse. Is it my fault that I’ve grown too old to play heroines and haven’t yet the proper voice to be an old miser or a braggart soldier? Ah, perhaps Roscius is right. I’m useless – talentless – I bring the whole company into disrepute.’
‘Actors are all alike,’ I whispered to Eco. ‘They need more coddling than babies.’ Then to Statilius: ‘Nonsense! I saw you in the spring, at the Festival of the Great Mother, when Roscius put on The Brothers Menaechmus. You were brilliant playing the twins.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘I swear it. I laughed so hard I almost fell off the bench.’
He brightened a bit, then frowned. ‘I wish that Roscius thought so. Today I was all set to play Euclio, the old miser – ’
‘Ah, then we’re seeing The Pot of Gold?’
‘Yes.’
‘One of my favourite plays, Eco. Quite possibly Plautus’s funniest comedy. Crude, yet satisfying – ’
‘I was to play Euclio,’ Statilius said rather sharply, drawing the conversation back to himself, ‘when suddenly, this morning, Roscius explodes into a rage and says that I have the role all wrong, and that he can’t suffer the humiliation of seeing me bungle it in front of all Rome. Instead I’ll be Megadorus, the next-door neighbour.’
‘Another fine role,’ I said, trying to remember it.
‘Fah! And who gets the plum role of Euclio? That parasite Panurgus – a mere slave, with no more comic timing than a slug!’ He abruptly stiffened. ‘Oh no, what’s this?’
I followed his gaze to the outer aisle, where the usher was leading a burly, bearded man towards the front of the theatre. A blond giant with a scar across his nose followed close behind – the bearded man’s bodyguard; I know a hired ruffian from the Subura when I see one. The usher led them to the far end of our bench; they stepped into the gap and headed towards us to take the empty spot beside Eco.
Statilius bent low to hide himself and groaned into my ear. ‘As if I hadn’t enough worries – it’s that awful moneylender Flavius and one of his hired bullies. The only man in Rome who’s more of a monster than Roscius.’
‘And just how much do you owe this Flavius?’ I began to say, when suddenly, from backstage, a roaring voice rose above the discordant pipes.
‘Fool! Incompetent! Don’t come to me now saying you can’t remember the lines!’
‘Roscius,’ Statilius whispered, ‘screaming at Panurgus, I hope. The man’s temper is terrible.’
The central door on the stage flew open, revealing a short, stocky man already dressed for the stage, wearing a splendid cloak of rich white fabric. His lumpy, scowling face was the sort to send terror into an underling’s soul, yet this was, by universal acclaim, the funniest man in Rome. His legendary squint made his eyes almost invisible, but when he looked in our direction, I felt as if a dagger had been thrown past my ear and into the heart of Statilius.
‘And you!’ he bellowed. ‘Where have you been? Backstage, immediately! No, don’t bother to go the long way round – backstage, now!’ He gave commands as if he were speaking to a dog.
Statilius hurried up the aisle, leaped onto the stage and disappeared backstage, closing the door behind him – but not, I noticed, before casting a furtive glance at the newcomer who had just seated himself beside Eco. I turned and looked at Flavius the moneylender, who returned my curious gaze with a scowl. He did not look like a man in the proper mood for a comedy.
Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) Page 51