Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4)

by Steven Saylor

  The meal was spectacular – grilled eel, succulent venison, roasted fowl, and a wide variety of spring vegetables with delicate sauces, all washed down with the finest Falernian. As more wine flowed, the conversation grew more relaxed, punctuated by peals of laughter. The members of Lucullus’ circle were completely at ease with one another, so much so that they seemed to speak a sort of secret language, full of veiled references and coded innuendoes. I felt very much an outsider, with little to contribute; mostly I listened and observed.

  Servilia showed off a new piece of jewellery, a necklace of pearls linked by a finely wrought gold chain, and boasted of the bargain she had negotiated; the cost was roughly the value of my house on the Esquiline Hill. This prompted a discussion about money and investments, which led to a general consensus, myself abstaining, that land around Rome had become more expensive than it was worth, but a country house in Etruria or Umbria, complete with slaves to run it, could still be obtained at a bargain.

  Marcus Licinius asked Cicero if the rumour he had heard was true, that Cicero’s chief rival in the coming race for consul was likely to be the radical patrician, Catilina. Cicero replied by quoting a Greek epigram; the point was obscure to me, but the others were moved to laughter. There was more talk of politics. Cato complained about a fellow senator who had employed an obscure but ancient point of procedure to outmanoeuvre his opponents; declining to name the man, Cato instead referred to him using a vaguely indecent nickname – presumably a pun, but it meant nothing to me. I think he was talking about Julius Caesar.

  It seemed that Archias was in the midst of composing an epic poem about Lucullus’ campaigns in the East, hoping to complete it in time for his patron’s eventual triumph. At the urging of Cicero, Archias quoted a new passage. The scene was one the poet had witnessed himself: the sinking of the fleet of the one-eyed Roman rebel Marcus Varius off the island of Lemnos. His words were spellbinding, conjuring images full of terror, gore and glory. At one point, he quoted Lucullus’ order to his men regarding the fate of the Roman rebel:

  Take Varius alive, not dead;

  Put no one-eyed man to the sword.

  Disobey, and I’ll pluck the eyes from your

  head

  And throw you overboard!

  It seemed to me that a shadow crossed Lucullus’ face as he listened to these words, but afterwards he applauded as heartily as the rest of us, and promised Archias a place of honour at his triumph.

  Over pheasant with pine-nut sauce, the conversation took a philosophical turn. Antiochus was a proponent of the so-called New Academy, a school of thought which argues that mankind possesses an innate faculty for distinguishing truth from falsehood and reality from fantasy. ‘The existence of such a faculty may be inferred if we consider the opposite case, that no such faculty exists,’ said the corpulent philosopher, dabbing a bit of sauce from his chin. ‘Perception comes from sensation, not from reason. I see the cup before me; I reach for it and I pick it up. I know the cup exists because my eyes and my hand tell me so. Ah, but how do I know I can trust my eyes and my hand in this instance? Sometimes, after all, we see a thing that turns out not to be there after all, or at least not what we thought it was; or we touch a thing in the dark and think we know what it is, then discover it to be otherwise when we see it in the light. Thus, sensation alone is not entirely reliable; indeed, it can be quite the opposite. So how do I know, in this instance, that this is a cup I hold before me, and not some other thing, or an illusion of a cup?’

  ‘Because the rest of us can see it, too!’ said Marcus, laughing. ‘Reality is a matter of consensus.’

  ‘Nonsense! Reality is reality,’ said Cato. ‘The cup would exist whether Antiochus or the rest of us saw it or not.’

  ‘I agree with you there, Cato,’ said the philosopher. ‘But the point remains: how do I know the cup exists? Or rather, let me change the emphasis of that question: How do I know the cup exists? Not by my eyes and hand alone, for those two are not always trustworthy, and not because we all agree it exists, despite what Marcus may say.’

  ‘By logic and reason,’ offered Cicero, ‘and the accumulated lessons of experience. True, our senses sometimes deceive us; but when they do, we take note of it, and learn to recognize that particular experience, and to differentiate it from instances where we can trust our senses, based also on past experience.’

  Antiochus shook his head. ‘No, Cicero. Quite apart from logic and reason and the lessons of experience, there exists in every man an innate faculty, for which we as yet have no name and governed by we know not which organ; yet that faculty determines, for each man, what is real and what is not. If we could but explore and cultivate that faculty, who knows to what greater degree of awareness we could elevate mankind?’

  ‘What do you mean by a “greater degree of awareness”?’ said Marcus.

  ‘A realm of perception beyond that which we presently possess.’

  Marcus scoffed. ‘Why do you assume such a state exists, if no mortal has yet attained it? It’s a presumption with no basis in experience or logic; it’s an idea plucked out of thin air.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Cato. ‘Antiochus is espousing mysticism, not philosophy, or at least not any brand of philosophy suitable for a hard-headed Roman. It’s all very well for Greeks to spend their time pondering imponderables, but we Romans have a world to run.’

  Antiochus smiled, to show that he took no offence at Cato’s words. He opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by our host, who abruptly turned his gaze to me.

  ‘What do you think, Gordianus?’ said Lucullus.

  I felt the eyes of the others converge on me. ‘I think …’

  I looked to Cicero, who smiled, amused at my hesitation. I felt slightly flushed, and cleared my throat. ‘I think that most men are like myself, and don’t give much thought to such questions. If I see a cup, and if I want what’s in the cup, I pick it up and drink it, and that’s the end of that. Now, if I were to reach for the cup and pick up a hedgehog instead, that would give me pause. But as long as a cup is a cup – and up is up, and down is down, and the sun comes up in the morning – I don’t think most people ever think about epistemology.’

  Antiochus raised a condescending eyebrow. It was one thing for the others to challenge his ideas with other ideas, but quite another to dismiss the importance of the topic he had raised. In his eyes, I had shown myself to be hardly better than a barbarian.

  My host was more indulgent. ‘Your point is well taken, Gordianus, but I think you’re being just a bit disingenuous, aren’t you?’ said Lucullus.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Well, in your line of work – insofar as Cicero has explained it to me – I should think you rely a great deal on reason or instinct, or some faculty such as that which Antiochus speaks of, in order to determine the truth. A murder is committed; a relative comes to you, asking you to discover the killer. If a man’s stopped breathing, it doesn’t take an Aristotle to determine that he’s dead; but how do you go about the rest of it – finding out who did it, and how, and when, and why? I suppose some evidence is concrete and indisputable, of the sort you can hold in the palm of your hand – a bloody dagger, say, or an earring separated from its match. But there must be a vast grey area where the indicators are not so certain. Witnesses to a crime sometimes tell different versions of events—’

  ‘They inevitably do!’ asserted Cicero with a laugh.

  ‘Or a clue may point in the wrong direction,’ continued Lucullus, ‘or an innocent man may deliberately incriminate himself, so as to protect another. Lies must be sorted from truth, important facts must be placed above trivialities. The warp and woof of reality must be minutely examined for meaningful patterns and inconsistencies that might elude the scrutiny of a less conscientious … “finder,” as I believe Cicero calls you. Indeed, Gordianus, I should think that you must have frequent occasion to apply the tenets of epistemology more rigorously than anyone else in this room. I suspect it�
��s become second nature to you; you swim in a sea of practical philosophy and never think about it, as the dolphin never thinks of being wet.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I acknowledged, dubious of his point but thankful that he had rescued me from looking like a cretin.

  ‘So how do you go about it?’ said Lucullus. ‘Ascertaining the truth, I mean? Do you apply a particular system? Or do you rely on intuition? Can you tell if a man is lying, simply by looking in his eyes? And if so, would that not be an indication that some innate faculty such as that suggested by Antiochus must indeed exist, perhaps more developed in some men – men like yourself – than in others?’

  The guests looked at me intently now, seriously interested to see what I would say. I took a deep breath. ‘In fact, Lucullus, I have given some thought to such questions over the years. If we accept that a thing must be either true or false – either one thing or the other – then even the most complex questions can be approached by breaking them into smaller and smaller questions, and determining in each case which proposition is true and which is false. Smaller units of truth combine into greater units, until eventually a greater truth emerges. Sometimes, investigating the circumstances of a crime, I imagine I’m building a wall of bricks. Each brick must be solid, or else the whole wall will come down. So it’s simply a matter of testing each brick before it’s put into place. Is this brick true or false? True, and it goes into the wall; false, and it’s discarded. Of course, sometimes one makes a mistake, and realizes it only after several courses of bricks have been laid, and it can be a messy business going back and making the repair.’

  ‘Ah, but how does such a mistake occur in the first place?’ asked Antiochus, in a tone that showed he had warmed to me somewhat.

  ‘Carelessness, confusion, a lapse of concentration.’

  ‘And how do you recognize the mistake?’

  I shrugged. ‘Sooner or later, you step back and look at the wall, and you can see there’s something wrong. Something’s off-kilter; one of the bricks doesn’t quite match the others.’

  ‘Ah, but there you have yet another indication of the existence of the faculty I speak of !’ said Antiochus. ‘ “One knows it when one sees it,” goes the commonplace. But how? Because of an innate ability to distinguish truth from falsehood.’

  ‘An innate sense that doesn’t always work, apparently,’ said Marcus, with a laugh.

  ‘That this faculty isn’t infallible is hardly evidence against it,’ asserted Antiochus. ‘On the contrary, it’s yet another sign of its existence. No other human faculty is infallible, so why should this one be? Perfection exists only in that ideal world which Plato postulated …’

  Here the talk drifted to other matters philosophical, about which Lucullus did not question me; gratefully, I withdrew from the conversation. But it seemed to me that my brief foray into the debate had been deliberately engineered by Lucullus, so that he might observe and form a judgement of me. For what purpose? I did not know. Had I satisfied his expectations? That, too, I did not know.

  I spent the rest of the meal observing the others. The corpulent Antiochus was the most vocal and self-assertive, and in such a company, that was saying a great deal. Cato tended to enter the debate only in reaction to the others, usually to chide or taunt them. His sister Servilia spoke only when the conversation involved gossip or money, and was silent about politics and philosophy. The poet Archias every so often contributed an epigram, some more appropriate to the conversation than others. Marcus Licinius seemed a contented sort who enjoyed every course of the meal and every turn of the conversation. Cicero was talkative and high-spirited, but occasionally I saw him touch his belly and wince. As he had feared, the meal was too rich for his dyspeptic constitution.

  The one who spoke least – hardly at all, in fact – was the sculptor Arcesislaus. Like me, he seemed content merely to enjoy the food and wine and to observe the others. But he wore a vaguely scornful expression; even when Archias came out with an epigram that made the rest of us hoot with laughter, he hardly smiled. Was he shy and retiring, as are many artists, or was he haughty, as might be the case with a handsome young man of great talent? Or was he brooding about something? I could not make him out.

  The generally buoyant mood dimmed only once, when the conversation turned to the father of Lucullus, and his sad end. Cicero had been talking – boasting, in fact – of his first important appearance as an advocate before the Rostra, defending a citizen accused of parricide. Cicero had retained my services to investigate the matter, and that was how we first met. The outcome of the trial had made Cicero a famous man in Rome and set him on the path to his present pinnacle of success. He never tired of telling the tale, even to those who already knew it, and would have gone on telling it had not Cato interrupted.

  ‘It was the same with you, was it not, Lucullus?’ said Cato. ‘Your first appearance in the courts made your reputation – even though you lost the case.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Lucullus, suddenly reticent.

  ‘Indeed, I remember it well, though it seems a lifetime ago,’ said Cato. ‘Your father was sent to put down the great slave revolt in Sicily. Things went well for him at first, then badly, and he was recalled. No sooner did he arrive back in Rome than one of his enemies accused him of official misconduct and prosecuted him in the courts. He was found guilty and sent into exile, poor fellow. But his sons didn’t forget him! As soon as he was old enough to argue before the Rostra, our Lucullus dug up some dirt on his father’s accuser and brought the man to trial. Everyone in Rome took sides; there was rioting and bloodshed in the Forum. When it was all over, Lucullus lost the case and the fellow got off – but the real winner was our Lucullus, whose name was on everyone’s lips. Friends and foes alike acknowledged him as the very model of a loyal Roman son.’

  ‘And a fellow not to be tangled with,’ added Marcus, looking at his brother with admiration.

  I was only vaguely aware of this tale regarding Lucullus’ father and Lucullus’ own younger days, and would have liked to have heard more, but our host was clearly not in a mood to discuss it. He lowered his eyes and raised a hand dismissively. An abrupt silence filled the room, and stretched awkwardly until Archias, clearing his throat, delivered one of his epigrams:

  Right are the Thracians, when they mourn

  The infant on the very morning of its birth.

  Right, also, when they rejoice that death has snatched

  Some aged mortal from the earth.

  Why not? This cup of life is full of sadness;

  Death is the healing draught for all its madness.

  He raised his cup. The rest of us, including Lucullus, did likewise, and the wine we shared dispelled the chill that had fallen on the room.

  The meal lasted at least three hours, but had begun so early that the sun was still well above the horizon when Lucullus announced that it was time for the final course.

  ‘Something sweet, I hope,’ said Antiochus.

  ‘Sweet, indeed,’ said Lucullus. ‘In fact, the final course is the principal reason for asking you all here today, so that you can share in my bounty.’ He rose from his couch and gestured that we should do likewise. ‘Up, everyone! Up, on your feet, and follow me! The first of the cherries are ripe, and today we shall devour them!’

  From the others, as they stirred, I heard a murmur of pleasant anticipation. I stepped beside Cicero and spoke in his ear. ‘What are these “cherries” that Lucullus speaks of ?’

  ‘A most exquisite fruit, which he brought back from the realm of Pontus on the Euxine Sea. They grow on small trees and come in many varieties, all with shiny skins in various shades of red. All sweet, all splendidly delicious! I was privileged to taste some of Lucullus’ cherries last year at this time. What a delight that he should invite me back again to taste this year’s crop!’ Cicero smiled. ‘His brother Marcus says that if Lucullus’ wars against Mithridates had yielded nothing else, they would still have been worth the effort for bringing cherries back to
Rome!’

  Lucullus led the way on to the terrace and then down a flagstone path that meandered through a small orchard of low, leafy trees. The branches were heavy with a fruit the likes of which I had never seen before. The cherries, as they were called, hung in great clusters. The type varied from tree to tree; some were blood-red, some were pink, and others were almost black. Lucullus demonstrated the ease with which they could be picked by reaching out and plucking off a whole handful at once.

  ‘Be warned: the juice might stain your garments. And be careful of the pit.’ To demonstrate, he popped a cherry into his mouth, then spat the seed into his hand. His features assumed a sublime expression. He swallowed and smiled. ‘All this talk of philosophy and politics – how irrelevant it all seems when one can know the simple, unadulterated joy of devouring a cherry. And then another, and another!’

  With much laughter, the rest of us joined him in plucking cherries from the branches and popping them into our mouths. Some of the most sophisticated individuals in Rome were reduced to a childlike euphoria by the unbridled joy of eating cherries.

  ‘Sensational!’ said Archias, with cherry juice running down his chin. ‘I must compose a poem to celebrate this crop of cherries.’

  Cicero sighed. ‘More wonderful than I remembered.’

  Even the dour Arcesislaus smiled as he shared the joy of eating cherries.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to see that it belonged to my host. ‘Come, Gordianus,’ he said in a low voice. ‘There’s something I want you to see.’

  Leaving the others behind, Lucullus led me to a tree at the farthest corner of the cherry orchard. Its branches were more gnarled and its leaves more lustrous than those of the other trees, and its cherries were the largest and plumpest I had yet seen, of a hue that was almost purple.

  ‘Of all the cherry trees I brought back from Pontus, this variety is the most extraordinary. The Greek-speakers of Pontus have preserved the ancient name which the aboriginal barbarians gave to this cherry. I find the word impossible to pronounce, but they tell me it translates as “Most-Precious-of-All” – which these cherries are. Their flavour is sweet and very complex – at first subtle, then almost overwhelming. And their skins are very, very delicate. Most other cherries travel well; you could pack them in a basket and carry them across Italy to share with a friend. But these are so tender that they can scarcely survive a fall from the tree. To appreciate them, you literally must eat them from the tree – and even then, they may burst if you pluck them too carelessly.’