Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4)

by Steven Saylor

  Senator Gaius Claudius’ house was on the Aventine Hill, not the most fashionable district in Rome. Still, there are plenty of old patrician households tucked amid the cramped little shops and ugly new tenements that sprawl over the hill. The facade of the senator’s house was humble, but that meant nothing; the houses of the Roman nobility are often unassuming, at least on the outside.

  The doddering doorkeeper recognized Lucius (could there be two men in Rome with his beaming round face, untidy red hair, and dancing green eyes?) and escorted us at once to the atrium, where a fountain gurgled and splashed but did little to relieve the heat of a cloudless midsummer day. While we waited for our host to appear, Lucius and I strolled from corner to corner of the little square garden. On such a warm day, the various rooms facing the atrium all had their shutters thrown open.

  ‘I take it that your cousin has fallen on hard times,’ I said to Lucius.

  He pursed his lips. ‘Why do you assume that, Gordianus? I don’t recall mentioning it.’

  ‘Observe the state of his house.’

  ‘It’s a fine house. Gaius had it built when he was a young man and has lived here ever since.’

  ‘It seems rather sparsely decorated.’

  ‘You saw the busts of his noble ancestors lined up in their niches in the foyer,’ said Lucius, his nose tilting up. ‘What more ornamentation does the house of a patrician require?’ Despite his genial temperament, Lucius sometimes could not help being a bit of a snob.

  ‘But I think your cousin is a great lover of art, or used to be.’

  ‘Now why do you say that?’

  ‘Observe the mosaic floor beneath our feet, with its intricate acanthus-leaf pattern. The workmanship is very fine. And note the wall paintings in some of the rooms around us. The various scenes are from the Iliad, I believe. Even from here I can see that they’re works of very high quality.’

  Lucius raised an eyebrow. ‘Cousin Gaius does have good taste, I’ll grant you that. But why do you assume he’s fallen on hard times?’

  ‘Because of the things that I don’t see.’

  ‘Now, Gordianus, really! How can you walk into a house you’ve never entered before and declare that things are missing? I can see into the surrounding rooms as well as you, and they all look adequately furnished.’

  ‘Precisely; the furnishings are adequate. I should expect something more than that from the man who built this house and commissioned those wall paintings and mosaics. Where is the finely wrought furniture? Everything I see looks like the common stuff that anyone can buy ready-made down in the Street of the Woodworkers. Where are the paintings, the portable ones in frames, the portraits and bucolic scenes that are so fashionable nowadays?’

  ‘What makes you think that cousin Gaius ever collected such works?’

  ‘Because I can see the discoloured rectangles on the wall where they used to hang! And surely a rather substantial statue once filled that empty spot atop the pedestal in the middle of the fountain. Let me guess: Diana with her bow, or perhaps a discus-thrower?’

  ‘A rather good drunken Hercules, actually.’

  ‘Such valuables don’t vanish from a patrician household without good reason. This house is like a bare cupboard, or a fine Roman matron without her jewellery. Where are the urns, the vases, the precious little things one expects to see in the house of a wealthy old senator? Auctioned off to pay the bill-collector, I presume. When did your cousin sell them?’

  ‘Over the last few years,’ admitted Lucius with a sigh, ‘bit by bit. I suppose the mosaics and wall paintings would be gone by now as well, except that they’re part of the house and can’t be disposed of piecemeal. The Civil War was very hard on cousin Gaius.’

  ‘He backed the wrong side?’

  ‘Quite the opposite! Gaius was a staunch supporter of Sulla. But his only son, who was my age, had married into a family that sided with Marius, and was contaminated by his wife’s connections; he was beheaded when Sulla became dictator. He did leave an heir, however – Gaius’ grandson, a boy named Mamercus, who is now not quite twenty. Gaius took custody of his grandson, but also had to assume his dead son’s debts, which were crushing. Poor cousin Gaius! The Civil War tore his family apart, took his only son and left him virtually bankrupt.’

  I looked around. ‘The house itself looks valuable enough.’

  ‘I’m sure it is, but it’s all that Gaius has left. The wealth has all fled. And so has young Mamercus, I fear.’

  ‘The grandson?’

  ‘Gone to Spain! It’s broken his grandfather’s heart.’

  ‘Spain? Ah, so that’s why you mentioned Sertorius on the walk here …’

  The Civil War had been over for six years. Marius had lost. Sulla had won and had made himself dictator. He disposed of his enemies, reordered the state, and then retired, leaving his chosen successors in firm control of the senate and the magistracies. The Marians – those who had survived the proscriptions and still had their heads – were lying low. But in Spain, the last embers of resistance still smoldered in the person of Quintus Sertorius. The renegade general not only refused to surrender, but had declared himself to be the head of the legitimate Roman state. Disgruntled Marian military men and desperate anti-Sullan senators had fled from Rome to join Sertorius’ government-in-exile. In addition to his own legions, Sertorius had succeeded in rallying the native population to his side. Altogether, Sertorius and his forces in Spain constituted a considerable power that the Roman Senate could not ignore and had not yet been able to stamp out.

  ‘Are you saying that young Mamercus has run off to join Sertorius?’

  ‘So it appears,’ said Lucius, shaking his head. He leaned over to sniff a rose. ‘This smells very sweet!’

  ‘So young Mamercus rejected his grandfather’s Sullan politics and remained loyal to his mother’s side of the family?’

  ‘So it appears. Gaius is quite distraught. The folly of youth! There’s no future for anyone who sides with Sertorius.’

  ‘But what future would the young man have if he’d stayed here in Rome with his grandfather? You say that Gaius is bankrupt.’

  ‘It’s a question of loyalty, Gordianus, and family dignity.’ Lucius spoke carefully. I could see he was doing his patrician best not to sound condescending.

  I shrugged. ‘Perhaps the boy feels he’s being loyal to his dead father, by joining the last resistance to Sulla’s faction. But I take your point, Lucius; it’s a family tragedy, of a sort all too common these days. But what can your cousin want of me?’

  ‘I should think that was obvious. He wants someone to – ah, but here is Gaius himself …’

  ‘Cousin Lucius! Embrace me!’ A frail-looking old man in a senatorial toga stepped into the atrium with wide-open arms. ‘Let me feel another of my own flesh and blood pressed against me!’

  The two men could hardly have been more different. Gaius was older, of course, but also tall and narrow, where Lucius was short and round. And where Lucius was florid and flushed, there was a greyness about the old senator, not only in his hair and wrinkled hands, but also in his expression and manner, a kind of drawn, sere austerity. Like his house, the man seemed to have been stripped bare of all vain adornments and winnowed to his essence.

  After a moment, the two drew apart. ‘I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me, Lucius. Is this the fellow?’

  ‘Yes, this is Gordianus, called the Finder.’

  ‘Let us hope he lives up to his name.’ Gaius Claudius regarded me not with the patronizing gaze I was used to receiving from patricians, but steadily and deeply, as if to judge whether I should be a cause of hope to him or not. ‘He looks reliable enough,’ he finally pronounced. ‘Ah, but what judge of character am I, who let my only son marry into a Marian family, and then could not foresee my grandson’s intentions to follow the same course to disaster?’

  ‘Yes, I was just informing Gordianus of your situation,’ said Lucius.

  ‘And is he willing?’

  ‘Actually
, we were just coming to that …’

  There must indeed have been a last, thin veil of vanity over the old senator’s demeanour, for now I saw it fall away. He looked at me imploringly. ‘The boy is all I have left! I must at least know for certain what’s become of him, and why he’s done this mad thing, and if he can’t be persuaded to see reason! Will you do this for me, Gordianus?’

  ‘Do what, Gaius Claudius?’ I said, though I was beginning to see all too clearly.

  ‘Find him! Go to Spain for me. Take my message. Bring him back to me!’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Let me understand you, Gaius Claudius. You wish for me to venture into Sertorius’ territory? You must realize that the whole of the Spanish peninsula is wracked with warfare. The danger—’

  ‘You will demand a large fee, I suppose …’ Gaius averted his eyes and wrung his hands.

  ‘The fee is not an issue,’ said Lucius.

  ‘I’m afraid that it most certainly is,’ I said, not following his meaning. Then I saw the look that passed between Lucius and his cousin, and understood. Gaius Claudius had no money; it was Lucius who would be paying my fee, and Lucius, as I well knew, could afford to be generous. The commission would be coming just as much from my dear friend as from his cousin, then. That made me feel all the more obliged to accept it.

  Thus I came to find myself, some days later, on the eastern coast of Spain, near the village of Sucro, which is situated not far from the mouth of the river of the same name.

  I was not alone. After a great deal of internal debate and hesitation, I had decided to bring Eco with me. On the one hand, I was likely to encounter danger, quite possibly a great deal of danger; who knows what may happen in a foreign land torn by warfare? On the other hand, a nimble, quick-witted fourteen-year-old boy who had survived the harsh streets of Rome from his earliest years (despite the handicap of his muteness) is not a bad companion to have around in unpredictable surroundings. And for his own benefit, I thought it a good thing that Eco should learn the lessons of travel while he was still young, especially since Lucius Claudius was paying the expenses.

  First had come the sea voyage, on a trading ship out of Puteoli bound for Mauretania. For a reasonable sum, the captain agreed to put us ashore at New Carthage, in Spain. That had gone well enough. Pirates had pursued us only once, and our experienced captain had managed to outrun them easily; and Eco had suffered from seasickness only for the first day or two. Once ashore, we sought for news of Sertorius’ whereabouts, and made our way north until we caught up with him at Sucro, where we arrived only two days after a tremendous battle on the banks of the river.

  According to the locals, Sertorius had suffered heavy casualties, perhaps as many as ten thousand men; but so had the opposing Roman general, the Sullan boy-wonder Pompey (not quite such a boy any longer at thirty), who had been wounded himself, though not gravely. The two sides appeared to be regrouping their forces, and a fresh rumour had it that Pompey’s colleague Metellus was soon to arrive with reinforcements from the north. The townspeople of Sucro were bracing themselves for another great battle.

  Getting into Sertorius’ camp proved to be easier than I anticipated. The traditional rigid discipline of a Roman army camp was missing; perhaps, given Sertorius’ mix of Spanish tribesmen and ragtag Romans, such discipline was impossible. In its place, there seemed to be a great sense of camaraderie, and of welcome to the local camp followers who came to offer food and wares (and, in not a few cases, themselves) for sale to the soldiers. The air of the camp was open and almost festive, despite the great slaughter of two days before. Morale, clearly, was very high.

  I inquired after the whereabouts of Mamercus Claudius, using the description his grandfather had given me – a young patrician of nineteen, tall, slender, with a pleasant face and a shock of jet-black hair, a newcomer to the ranks. Among the grizzled Roman veterans and their Spanish allies, such a fellow was likely to stand out, I thought, and sure enough, it took only a little asking (and a pittance of bribes) before Eco and I were pointed to his tent.

  The location surprised me, for it was very near the heart of the camp, and thus not far, I presumed, from Sertorius’ own quarters. Despite his youth and inexperience, Mamercus Claudius was probably quite a catch for Sertorius, evidence to his fellow Romans that the renegade general could still attract a youth from one of Rome’s best families, that his cause looked towards the future, not just the past.

  This presumption turned out to be more astute than I realized. When I asked the centurion outside the tent to inform Mamercus that he had a visitor, I was told that Mamercus was elsewhere. When I asked where he might be, the centurion suggested that I try the commander’s tent.

  So Eco and I made our way to the tent of Quintus Sertorius himself, which was quite conspicuous, thanks to the phalanx of guards around it. There was also a great crowd of petitioners of the usual sort, lined up to seek audience – locals who hoped to sell provisions to the army, or had suffered property damage and wanted restitution, or had other pressing business with the commander and his staff.

  Eco tapped the edge of one hand against the flattened palm of the other, to suggest that we had run into a solid wall: We shall never get inside that tent, he seemed to say.

  ‘Ah, but we don’t need to get inside,’ I said to him. ‘We want someone who’s already in there to come out, and that’s a different matter.’

  I walked to the head of the long line. Some in the queue glared at us, but I ignored them. I came to the man who was next to be admitted and cleared my throat to get his attention. He turned and gave me a nasty look and said something in his native tongue. When he saw that I didn’t understand, he repeated himself in passable Latin. ‘What do you think you’re doing? I’m next. Get away!’

  ‘You’re here to see Quintus Sertorius?’ I said.

  ‘Like everyone else. Wait your turn.’

  ‘Ah, but I don’t want to see the general himself. I only want someone to give a message to a young fellow who’s probably in there with him. Could you do me the favour?’ I patted my hand against the coin purse inside my tunic, which clinked suggestively. ‘Ask after a young Roman named Mamercus Claudius. Tell him that someone has come a very long way to talk to him.’

  ‘I suppose …’ The man seemed dubious, but then his face abruptly brightened, as if reflecting the glitter of sunlight on the coins I dropped into his hand.

  Just then a guard approached, searched the fellow for weapons, and told him to step into the tent.

  We did not have long to wait. Soon a lanky young man stepped out of the tent. His armoured leather fittings seemed to have been tailored for a shorter, stockier man; I had noticed that many of Sertorius’ junior officers were outfitted in similarly haphazard fashion. The young man pulled uncomfortably at the armholes of his leather shirt and peered into the crowd, looking rather put out. I caught his eye and beckoned for him to meet me at one side of the tent.

  ‘Mamercus Claudius?’ I said. ‘I come with a message from—’

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, you idiot, summoning me from the commander’s tent like that?’ He was angry but kept his voice low.

  ‘I suppose I could have lined up with the rest for an audience with the general—’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Gordianus, called the Finder. This is my son, Eco. We’ve come all the way from Rome. Your grandfather sent me.’

  Mamercus seemed taken aback at first, then smiled ruefully. ‘I see. Poor grandfather!’

  ‘Poor indeed,’ I said, ‘and poorer still for lack of your company.’

  ‘Is he well?’

  ‘In body, yes. But his spirit is eaten away by fear for you. I’ve brought a message from him.’

  I produced the little folded tablet that I had faithfully brought all the way from Rome. The two thin plates of wood were bound together with a ribbon and sealed with a daub of red wax, upon which Gaius Claudius had pressed his signet ring. Mamercus broke the seal, pulled th
e tablets apart, and gazed at the wax surfaces inside, upon which his grandfather had scratched his plea by his own hand, no longer having even a secretary to write his letters for him.

  Had Mamercus’ reaction been callous and uncaring, I would not have been surprised. Many an impatient, bitter, dispossessed young man in his situation might have scorned a doting grandparent’s concern, especially if that grandparent had always supported the very establishment against which he was rebelling. But Mamercus’ reaction was quite different. I watched the swift movement of his eyes as they perused the words and saw them glisten with tears. He clamped his jaw tightly to stop his lips from quivering. His evident distress made him look almost as boyish as Eco.

  Gaius Claudius had not kept the contents of his letter secret from me. On the contrary, he had insisted that I read it:

  My dearest grandson,

  Blood of my blood, what has induced you to take this foolish course? Do you think to please the shade of your father by joining a hopeless struggle against those who destroyed him? If this were the only course open to you – if your own name and future had been ruined along with your father’s and mother’s – then honour might demand such a desperate course. But in Rome you still have my protection, despite your father’s downfall, and you can still make a career for yourself. We are woefully impoverished, to be sure, but together we will find a way out of our misfortune! Surely the best revenge for your father would be for you to restore our family’s fortunes and to make a place for yourself in the state, so that when you are my age you can look back upon a long career and a world you have had a hand in shaping to your liking. Do not throw your life away! Please, I beg you, calm your passions and let reason guide you. Come back to me! The man who bears this message has funds sufficient for your passage home. Mamercus, son of my son, I pray to the gods that I shall see you soon!

  After a while, Mamercus pressed the tablets together and retied the ribbon. He averted his eyes in a way that reminded me of his grandfather. ‘Thank you for bringing the letter. Is that all?’