‘The gold!’ snarled Marcus.
‘All that gold …’ sighed Spurius.
The men from the capsized relay boat had set out swimming for their ship. Now they floundered in the water, trapped between the Crimson Ram and Marcus’ men on shore. ‘They’ll have to head in eventually,’ Marcus muttered, ‘along with any survivors from the other ship. We’ll ring the cove and strike them down one by one as they crawl from the water. Men! Listen up!’
‘No, Marcus!’ I clutched my arm and staggered to my feet. ‘You can’t kill them. The kidnapping was a hoax!’
‘A hoax, was it? And the lost gold – I suppose that was only an illusion?’
‘But those men aren’t pirates. They’re simple fishermen. Spurius put them up to the whole thing. They acted on his orders.’
‘They defrauded Quintus Fabius.’
‘They don’t deserve to die!’
‘That’s not for you to say. Stay out of this, Finder.’
‘No!’ I ran into the surf. The scattered fishermen struggled in the waves, too far out for me to tell which was Cleon. ‘Stay back!’ I screamed. ‘They’ll kill you as you come ashore!’
Something struck the back of my head. Sea and sky merged into a solid white light that flared and then winked into darkness.
I awoke with a throbbing headache and a dull pain in my right arm. I reached up to find that my head was bandaged. So was my arm.
‘Awake at last!’ Belbo leaned over me with a look of relief. ‘I was beginning to think …’
‘Cleon … and the others …’
‘Shhhh! Lean back. You’ll set your arm to bleeding again. I should know; I learned a thing or two about wounds when I was a gladiator. Hungry? That’s the best thing, to eat. Puts the fire back in your blood.’
‘Hungry? Yes. And thirsty.’
‘Well, you’re in the right place for both. Here at the Flying Fish they’ve got everything a stomach needs.’
I looked around the little room. My head was beginning to clear. ‘Where’s Spurius? And Marcus?’
‘Gone back to Rome with the rest, yesterday. Marcus wanted me to go, too, but I wouldn’t. Someone had to stay with you. The master will understand.’
I cautiously touched the back of my head through the bandages. ‘Someone hit me.’
Belbo nodded.
‘Marcus?’
Belbo shook his head. ‘Spurius. With a rock. He would have hit you again after you were down, but I stopped him. Then I stood over you to make sure he didn’t do it again.’
‘The vicious little …’ It made sense, of course. His scheme foiled, the best Spurius could hope for was to silence everyone who knew about his plot, including me.
‘Cleon and the rest – ’
Belbo lowered his eyes. ‘The soldiers did as Marcus ordered.’
‘But they can’t have killed them all …’
‘It was horrible to watch. Seeing men die in the arena is bad enough, but at least there’s some sport when it’s two armed men, both trained to fight. But the sight of those poor fellows coming out of the water, worn out and gasping for breath, pleading for mercy, and Marcus’ men slaughtering them one after another …’
‘What about Cleon?’
‘Him, too, so far as I know. “Kill every one of them!” was what Marcus said, and his men did just that. Spurius helped, pointing and yelling whenever he saw one of them about to come ashore. They killed the pirates one by one and threw their bodies back into the sea.’
I pictured the spectacle and my head began to throb. ‘They weren’t pirates, Belbo. There never were any pirates.’ Suddenly the room became blurry. It wasn’t from the blow to my head; it was only the tears welling up in my eyes.
A few days later I was back at the Senian Baths, lying naked on a bench while one of Lucius Claudius’s slaves massaged me. My battered body needed pampering. My bruised conscience needed the release of pouring the whole sordid tale into Lucius’s spongelike ear.
‘Appalling!’ he finally muttered. ‘You’re very lucky to be alive, I should think. And when you got back to Rome, did you call on Quintus Fabius?’
‘Of course, to collect the balance of my fee.’
‘Not to mention your share of the gold, I should think!’
I winced, and not from the massage. ‘That was something of a sore point. As Quintus Fabius pointed out, I was to be paid one-twentieth of whatever portion of the gold was actually recovered. Since the ransom was lost – ’
‘He cheated you on a technicality? How typical of the Fabii! But surely some of the gold washed up on the shore. Didn’t they go diving for it?’
‘They did, and Marcus’ men recovered a little, but only a tiny fraction. My share hardly came to a handful of gold.’
‘Only that, after all your labour, and after putting yourself in so much danger! Quintus Fabius must be as miserly as his stepson claims! I suppose you told him the truth about the kidnapping?’
‘Yes. Unfortunately, the very men who could back me up – the fishermen – are dead, and Spurius continues to insist blithely that he was kidnapped by pirates.’
‘The bald-faced young liar! Surely Quintus Fabius knows better than to believe him.’
‘Publicly, at least, he accepts his stepson’s version of the story. But that’s only to save himself the embarrassment of a scandal, I think. He probably suspected the truth all along. I think that’s the real reason he hired me, to find out for certain. And that’s why he ordered Marcus to kill his stepson’s accomplices on the spot, to keep the truth from getting out. Oh yes, he knows what really happened. He must detest Spurius more than ever, and the enmity is mutual.’
‘Ah, the type of family bitterness that so often ends in – ’
‘Murder,’ I said, daring to utter the unlucky word aloud. ‘I wouldn’t care to wager which will outlive the other!’
‘And the boy’s mother, Valeria?’
‘Her son subjected her to agonizing worry, just to satisfy his greed. I thought she had a right to know that. But when I tried to tell her, she suddenly seemed to go deaf. If she heard a word I said, she didn’t show it. When I was done, she politely thanked me for rescuing her son from those awful pirates, then dismissed me.’
Lucius shook his head.
‘But I did get something I wanted from Quintus Fabius.’
‘Yes?’
‘Since he refused to give me a fall share of the ransom, I insisted that he give me something else he owned, a possession he clearly undervalued.’
‘Ah yes, your new bodyguard.’ Lucius glanced at Belbo, who stood across the room with folded arms, sternly guarding the niche that held my clothing as if it contained a senator’s ransom. ‘The fellow is a treasure.’
‘The fellow saved my life on that beach outside Ostia. It may not be the last time.’
Every now and again, business takes me south to the vicinity of Neapolis and the bay. I always make a point of visiting the waterfront where the fishermen congregate. I ask in Greek if any of them knows of a young man named Cleon. Alas, the Neapolitans are a close-lipped, suspicious bunch. Not one of them has ever admitted to knowing a fisherman by that name, though surely someone in Neapolis must have known him.
I scan the faces on the fishing boats, on the chance that I might see him. For no good reason, I have convinced myself that he somehow eluded Marcus’ men on that fateful day and made his way home.
Once, I was almost certain that I did get a glimpse of him. The man was clean-shaven, not bearded, but his eyes were Cleon’s eyes. I called out from the dock, but the boat slipped by before I could get a better look. I was never able to confirm whether it was Cleon I saw or not. Perhaps it was a relative, or merely a man who resembled him. I didn’t pursue the matter as fully as I might have, perhaps afraid that the truth would disappoint me. I prefer to believe that it was Cleon after all, proof or no proof. Could there be two men in the world with the same soulful green eyes?
THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE SATURNAL
IA SILVER
‘Gambling in the Forum! Really, Gordianus, who can countenance such behaviour?’ Cicero sniffed, turning his nose up at the nearby circle of men busy casting dice on the paving stones.
‘But Cicero, it is Saturnalia,’ I said wearily. Eco and I had run into him on our way to the house of Lucius Claudius, and Cicero had insisted that we walk with him. He was in a testy mood, and I couldn’t imagine why he wanted our company, unless it was simply to swell the ranks of his little retinue of secretaries and hangers-on as he walked through the Forum. A Roman politician can never be seen with too large an entourage, even if its members include a citizen of dubious respectability like myself and a thirteen-year-old mute.
The clatter of dice was followed by squeals of glee and moans of defeat, then the jingling of coins changing hands. ‘Yes, Saturnalia,’ sighed Cicero. ‘By tradition the city commissioners must allow such behaviour in public during the midwinter festival, and Roman traditions are always to be revered. Still, it pains me to see such demeaning activity in the very heart of the city.’
I shrugged. ‘Men gamble all the time in the Subura.’
‘Yes, in the Subura,’ he said, his polished orator’s voice dripping disdain for the precinct where I lived, ‘but not here in the Forum!’
From nowhere, a group of drunken revellers appeared and went careening through the midst of Cicero’s retinue. The revellers whirled about, making the hems of their loose gowns spin above their knees. With their forefingers they raised their felt skullcaps off their heads and spun them in the air, making blurs of red, blue and green. In the midst of the celebrants, held aloft in a litter chair, was a hunchback dressed like old King Numa in a bright yellow gown with a papyrus crown atop his head. He nodded tipsily, squirting wine into his lips from a wineskin in one hand while waving a gnarled walking stick in the other, as if it were a sceptre. Eco, delighted by the spectacle, opened his mouth in a silent laugh and clapped his hands. Cicero was not amused.
‘Surely Saturnalia is my least favourite of festivals, no matter how wise our ancestors were to establish it,’ he grumbled. ‘All this drunken revelry and licentiousness has no place in a sensible society. As you see, I’m wearing my toga today, as usual, no matter what custom decrees for the holiday. No loose gown for me, thank you. Men whirling about to show off their naked legs, indeed! Loose clothing leads to loose morals. A toga keeps a man all in one piece, if you take my meaning.’ He squared his shoulders and shook his elbows slightly, making the folds of his toga fall into an orderly pattern, then gathered one arm to his chest to keep the folds in place. To look respectable in a toga, my father used to say, a man must have a spine of iron. The toga suited Cicero well.
He lowered his voice. ‘Worst of all are the liberties granted to slaves for the holiday. Yes, I give mine a day of rest and I allow them to speak their minds freely, within reason, but I draw the line at letting them go carousing through the streets wearing coloured felt caps like free men. Imagine a day when you can’t tell whether a stranger in the Forum is a citizen or someone else’s property! The festival is consecrated to Saturn, but it might as well be Chaos! And I absolutely refuse to follow the absurd custom of allowing my slaves to wear my clothes and recline upon my dining couch while I serve them dinner!’
‘But Cicero, it happens only once a year.’
‘Which is once too often.’
‘There are those who would say it’s a good practice to turn things upside down every so often – to let a hunchback be a king, and set masters to wait upon their slaves. What better time for a bit of whimsy than midwinter, when the harvesting is all done, ships are safely docked, old magistrates are about to be booted out of their offices so that new ones can take their place, and the whole Republic lets out a collective sigh of relief at having survived yet another year of corruption, greed, backstabbings and betrayals? Why shouldn’t Rome slip into some loose clothing for a few days and uncork a new wineskin?’
‘You make Rome out to be a whore,’ said Cicero disapprovingly.
‘Instead of a scowling politician with a stiff neck? I think that Rome is both, depending on which side one looks at. Don’t forget, they say that Saturnalia was established by the god Janus, and Janus has two faces.’
Cicero harrumphed.
‘But I’m sure you observe at least one of the traditions of Saturnalia,’ I said, ‘which is the exchange of gifts with friends and family.’ I made this comment with no ulterior motive, only to remind him of the finer aspects of the holiday.
He stared at me gloomily, then a smile broke out across his face as if he suddenly dropped a mask. ‘That I do!’ he said, and clapped for one of his slaves, who brought him a small bag from which he drew a tiny object which he placed in my hand. ‘For you, Gordianus!’ He laughed aloud at the expression of surprise on my face. ‘What, did you think I made you walk across the Forum with me just so I could regale you with my low opinion of the revelry?’
Eco drew close to me and together we peered down at the tiny round object which glittered on my open palm beneath the dead-white winter sun. It seemed to be a simple silver bead flawed by some irregularity, but when I held it closer I saw that it was fashioned like a miniature chickpea – the cicer bean, from which Cicero’s family took its name. Eco let out a noiseless gasp.
‘Cicero, I’m honoured!’ I said. From the weight of the little thing, it had to be solid silver. Silver is the substance of choice for Saturnalia gift-giving, among those who can afford such extravagance.
‘I’m giving my mother a whole necklace of them,’ Cicero said proudly. ‘I had them made last year in Athens, during my studies there.’
‘Well,’ I said, gesturing to Eco to reach inside the pouch he carried, ‘I have nothing to match it, I fear, only this.’ No man goes out during Saturnalia without gifts to offer should the need arise, and I had given Eco a pouch to carry before we went out, containing a bundle of wax tapers. Eco handed me one, which I then held out to Cicero. It was the traditional gift of a poorer man to a man better off, and Cicero accepted it graciously.
‘It’s of the highest quality,’ I said, ‘from a little shop on the Street of the Candlemakers, dyed deep blue and scented with hyacinth. Though perhaps, given your feelings about the holiday, you won’t be out tonight with the rest of the throng holding up your burning taper to set the Forum aglow.’
‘Actually, my brother Quintus is joining me for a small family celebration tonight; I’m sure we’ll stay in. But I often stay up late, reading. I shall use your gift to light my way when next I ponder a scroll of law. The scent will remind me of the sweetness of our friendship.’ Hearing such honey from his lips, who could doubt that young Cicero was well on his way to becoming the best-known orator in Rome?
Eco and I took our leave of Cicero and made our way up the Palatine Hill. Even here, in the city’s poshest neighbourhood, there was open gambling and drunken revelry in the streets; the only difference was that the gambling was for higher stakes and the revellers wore gowns made of finer stuff. We came to the house of my friend Lucius Claudius, who answered the door himself.
‘Reduced to a door slave!’ he laughed. ‘Would you believe, I told the slaves to take the whole day off and they took me quite seriously. Saturn alone knows where they all are or what they’re up to!’ With his red nose and plump cheeks, Lucius Claudius was the very image of benevolence, especially with his features suffused, as they now were, with a beaming and slightly tipsy smile.
‘I don’t imagine they’ll get very far, unless they have purses to carry them,’ I said.
‘Oh, but they do! I gave each one of them a purse with a few coins and a felt cap. Well, how can they enjoy themselves if they can’t join in the gambling?’
I shook my head in mock disdain. ‘Now I wonder, Eco, what Cicero would make of our friend Lucius’ reckless liberality?’
Eco took the cue at once and launched into an uncanny impersonation of Cicero, drawing his holiday gown about him like a toga, throwing b
ack his head and wrinkling his nose. Lucius laughed so hard he began to cough, and his face turned redder than ever. At last he caught his breath and wiped tears from his eyes.
‘No doubt Cicero would say that a slave owner with such a lax disposition is shirking his responsibility to maintain peace and order in society – but ask me if I care! Come, let me show you why I’m in such a good mood. The presents arrived only this morning!’
We followed him through the vestibule, through an immaculate garden decorated with a splendid bronze statue of Minerva, down a long hallway and into a small, dark room at the back of the house. There was a thumping noise and a stifled curse as Lucius banged his knee against some sort of low chest set against one wall. ‘Light, must have light,’ he muttered, leaning over the chest and fiddling with the latched shutters of one of the tall, narrow windows.
‘Here, Master, let me do that,’ said a hoarse voice from the darkness. Eco gave a little jump beside me. His eyes are quite keen, but even he had not seen the owner of the voice when we entered the room.
The ability to be invisible is a much sought-after trait among household slaves, and appeared to be one of the skills of Lucius’ right-hand man, an ancient white-haired Greek named Stephanos who had been in charge of running the house on the Palatine for many years. He walked with a stiff-limbed gait from window to window, unlatching the narrow shutters and pulling them open to admit cold air and bright sunshine.
Lucius muttered a word of thanks to the slave, who muttered some formula in return, but I hardly heard them. Like Eco, I stood transfixed by a sudden blaze of silver. Before our dazzled eyes, the sunlight which poured in through the windows was transformed into a white, liquid fire that shimmered, sparkled, and danced. I glanced at Eco and saw his wondering face lit up by lozenges of reflected light, then returned my gaze to the splendour before us.
The piece of furniture Lucius had bumped his knee against was a thigh-high wooden chest. In itself it was a marvellous piece of work, beautifully crafted and inlaid with bits of shell and obsidian. Spread across the hinged lid was a blood-red cloth. Laid out atop the cloth was the most stunning collection of silver objects I had ever seen.
Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) Page 65