Roman blood rsr-1

by Steven Saylor

  'Sextus Roscius, young and old, I've known them both for years. And let me tell you, however impossible it may seem, whatever else the evidence may tell you, the son was behind the murder of his rather. What a hatred they had for each other! It started when Roscius took his second wife and had a son by her, Gaius, the son he spoiled and petted until the day of the boy's death. I remember the day he brought the infant into this tavern and forced the pretty gold-haired thing on every man in the room, because what fellow isn't proud of a new son, and young Sextus meanwhile stood in the doorway, forgotten, ignored, puffed up like a toad with hatred. I still had eyes then. I can't remember what a flower looks like, but I can still see that young man's face and the look of pure murder in his eyes.'

  I thought I heard my host returning, and looked over my shoulder.

  'Look towards me!' the old man shrieked. 'Don't think I can't tell when you turn away from me — I can tell from the sound of your breathing. Look at me when I talk to you! And listen to the truth: the son hated the father, and the father hated the son. I felt the hatred grow and fester in this very room, year after year. I heard the words that were never spoken — the words of anger, resentment, revenge. And who could blame either one of them, but most of all the father — to have had such a son, such a failure, such a disappointment. A greedy little pig, that's what he's turned out to be. Greedy and fat and disrespectful. Imagine the heartbreak, the bitterness! Is it any wonder my grandson never visits, and won't speak to his father? They say Jupiter demands that a son should obey his father, and a father his own father, but what kind of order can there be in a world where men go blind or else grow fat as pigs? The world is a ruin, lost, with no redemption. The world is dark….'

  I stepped back, appalled. In the next instant the fat taverner jostled me aside, seized the old man by his shoulders and pulled him out of the doorway. I stepped through and glanced back. The old man's milky eyes were fixed on me. He babbled on. The son averted his face.

  I untied Vespa, mounted her, and rode through what remained of the town of Narnia and across the bridge as quickly as I could.

  17

  Vespa seemed as eager as I to leave the village of Narnia behind. She made no complaint as I rode her doggedly down the final leg of the day's journey. When we came to a fork in the road just north of the village, she seemed reluctant to stop.

  A public trough stood at the junction. I made her drink slowly, reining her back after every few swallows. A crude signpost stood behind the trough, a goat's skull mounted on a stick. Across the bleached brow someone had painted an arrow pointing to the left and the word AMERIA. I turned from the broad Flaminian Way onto the Amerian side road, a narrow path that meandered up to the saddle of a steep ridge.

  We began the ascent. Vespa at last began to weary, and the jolts against my backside made me grit my teeth. I leaned forwards, stroking her neck. At least the heat of the day had begun to dissipate, and the ridge cast us into cool shadow.

  Near the summit I came to a band of slaves who clustered about an ox cart, helping to push it onto the ridge. The vehicle lurched and swayed and finally attained the level ground. The slaves leaned against one another, some of them smiling with relief, others too weary to show any expression. I rode up beside the driver and waved.

  'Do you make this trip often?' I asked.

  The boy gave a start when he heard me, then smiled. 'Only when there's something to take to market at Narnia. The dangerous part is going down that hill.'

  'I can imagine.'

  ‘We lost a slave last year. He was helping to brake the cart on its way down and fell under the wheel. It isn't nearly as steep on the other side going down into Ameria.'

  'But downhill all the same. That should please my horse.'

  'She's a beautiful animal.' He looked at Vespa with a farm boy's admiration.

  'So,' I said, 'you come from Ameria?'

  'Nearby. Just outside the town, at the foot of the hill.'

  'Perhaps you could tell me how to find the home of Sextus Roscius.'

  'Well, yes. Except that Sextus Roscius doesn't live there any more.'

  'You mean the old man?'

  'Oh, the one who was murdered? If that's who you're looking for, you'll find what's left of him in the family cemetery. He never lived in Ameria that I knew of, not since I was born.'

  'No, not the old man; the son.'

  'He used to live near my father's place, if you mean the one with the two daughters.'

  'Yes, he has a daughter about your age; a very pretty girl.'

  The lad grinned. 'Very pretty. And very friendly.' He arched his eyebrows in an effort to look worldly. The image of Roscia's naked body flashed through my mind. I saw her pressed against the wall, wilted with satisfaction, with Tiro on his knees before her. Perhaps Tiro had hot been the first.

  'Tell me how to find his house,' I said.

  He shrugged. 'I can tell you how to find it, but as I said, it's not his any more. They drove Sextus Roscius out.'

  'When?'

  'About two months ago.' 'And why was that?'

  'The law, laid down from Rome. His father had been proscribed. Do you know what that means?' 'Only too well.'

  He drew a finger across his throat. 'And then they take all your land and all your money. They don't leave the family a thing. There was some auction held down in Rome. My father said he wouldn't mind bidding on some of the land, especially the parcels next to ours. But he said it wouldn't serve any use. The auctions are always rigged. You have to be a friend of a friend of Sulla's, or else know the right man to bribe.'

  Twice now I had been told the proscription story. It made no sense, but if it was true it would surely be a simple matter to prove Sextus Roscius innocent of his father's death.

  'Tell me then, who lives there now?'

  'Old Man Capito. Bought up the family house and some of the best farmland. My father spat on the ground when he heard he was going to be our new neighbour. All through the winter Capito allowed Sextus and his family to stay on. People thought that was only right, that Capito should take pity on him. Then he kicked them out for good.'

  'And did no one take them in? Surely Sextus Roscius had friends who owed him some obligation.'

  'You'd be surprised how fast a man can lose his friends when there's trouble from Rome; that's what my father says. Besides, Roscius was always a loner; I can't say that he seemed to have many friends. I suppose my father was the closest to a friend he had, us being neighbours and all. After Capito kicked him out, he spent a few nights under our roof. He and his wife and daughters.' The boy's voice trailed off, and I saw from his eyes that he was thinking of Roscia. 'But he didn't stay in Ameria for long. He headed straight for Rome. They say the old man had a powerful patroness, and Sextus was going to ask her for help.'

  We rode on for a moment in silence. The wheels of the ox cart creaked and banged against the rutted road. The slaves trudged alongside. 'You told me the old man was proscribed,' I said.

  'Yes.'

  'And when that was announced, did no one protest?'

  'Oh, yes. There was a delegation sent to Sulla and everything. But if you really want to know about that, you'd have to talk to my father.'

  'What is your father's name?'

  'Titus Megarus. I'm Lucius Megarus.'

  'And my name is Gordianus. Yes, I'd like very much to speak with your father. Tell me, how do you think he would take it if you were to bring a well-met stranger home to dinner?'

  The boy was suddenly wary. 'I think it might all depend.' 'On what?'

  'From the way you talk, you've got some sort of interest in Capito and his land.' 'I do.'

  'And whose side are you on?'

  'I am for Sextus and against Capito.'

  'Then I believe my father would be happy to see you.'

  'Good. How much farther is your house?'

  'Do you see that plume of smoke on the right, just over those trees? That's it.'

  'Very close. And where is Ca
pito's place?'

  'A bit farther on, on the other side of the main road, to your left. We'll be able to glimpse the roof for a moment when we come around this corner.'

  ‘Very well. Do this for me: when you get home, tell your father that a man from Rome would like to speak with him tonight. Tell him I'm a friend of Sextus Roscius. I would wait until morning, but I haven't the time. If he could invite me to his table, I would be most grateful If I could sleep under your roof I would be doubly so; a stall in the barn would suffice. Would he be insulted if I were to offer money?'

  'Probably.'

  'Then I won't. This is where we part for a while.' As we rounded the bend I caught a glimpse through the trees of lowering sunlight on a distant red tile roof.

  'Where are you going?'

  'I'm going to drop in briefly on your new neighbour. There's probably no point in it, but I want at least to have a look at the place, and maybe at the man himself' I gave the boy a wave, then coaxed Vespa to a steady trot.

  The house in which Sextus Roscius the younger had been born and raised and over which he had ruled in his father's absence was a grand example of the ideal country villa, an imposing mansion of two storeys with a red clay roof surrounded by a rust assemblage of sheds and bams. In the dwindling light I heard the ringing of cowbells and the bleating of sheep as the herds were led homeward. Workers were tramping in from the fields through the grape arbours; a long row of scythes seemed to float above a sea of leaves and tendrils. The sharp blades caught the last rays of the setting sun and gave off a cold sparkle the colour of blood.

  The main house was in the midst of extensive renovations. A network of catwalks and netting obscured the facade, and symmetrical wings were being built onto each side. The new wings stood hollow and gaping in a state of half-completion. Peering through the skeleton of the left wing, I could see the beginnings of a formal garden behind the house, where a red-faced fighting cock of a man strode impatiently amid the earthworks and trellises, barking commands at a group of slaves. The slaves leaned upon their shovels and fingered their spades, wearing on their dirt-streaked faces the bored, humiliated expression of men who have been yelled at for a very long time.

  The master continued to rant with no sign of stopping. He paced back and forth, waving his arms and strangling fistfuls of air. He was a man on the brink of old age, with white hair and a bent back. I could see his face only in glimpses as he turned back and forth. His skin was very weathered, pitted and scarred. Nose, cheeks, and chin all seemed to merge without distinction. Only his eyes were notable, glinting sharply in the fading light like the blades of the faraway scythes.

  I dismounted and held Vespa's rein while I rapped at the door. The tall, thin slave who answered stared meekly at my feet and told me in a cowed whisper that his master was busy outside the house.

  'I know,' I said. 'I saw him putting on a parade in the garden. But it's not your master I want.'

  'No? I'm afraid my mistress is also indisposed.' The slave looked up, but not quite high enough to meet my eyes.

  'Tell me, how long have you been Capito's slave?'

  He frowned, as if debating whether the question was dangerous. 'Only for a short time.-'

  'Only since the estate changed hands — is that what you mean? In other words, you came with the house.'

  'That's correct. But please, perhaps I should tell my master1—'

  'No, tell me this: there were two slaves who served your old master's father in Rome, named Felix and Chrestus. Do you know the ones I mean?'

  ‘Yes.' He nodded doubtfully and seemed to find great fascination in my feet.

  'They were with him in Rome when the old man was killed. Where are they now?'

  They are…' 'Yes?'

  'They were here for a while, in this house. They served my former master Sextus Roscius while he was still here as a guest of my new master Capito.'

  'And after Sextus Roscius left? Did he take the slaves with him?'

  'Oh, no. They remained here, for a while.' 'And then?'

  'I believe — of course I don't really know—'

  'What's that? Speak up.'

  'Perhaps you should talk to my master Capito.'

  'I don't think your master would care speak to me, at least not for long. What is your name?'

  'Carus.' He gave a small start andpricked up his ears, as ifhe heard something within the house, but the sound came from outside. In the quiet twilight I could distinctly hear Capito's ranting from the back of the house, joined now by a coarse female voice. It could only be the mistress of the house. They seemed to be shouting at each other in front of the slaves.

  'Tell me, Carus. Was Sextus Roscius a better master than Capito?'

  He looked uncomfortable, like a man with a full bladder. He made an almost imperceptible nod.

  'Then perhaps you will help me when I tell you that I am Sextus Roscius's friend. The best friend he has left in the world. I need to know this very badly: where are Felix and Chrestus?'

  His expression became more pained, until I thought he would tell me that they were dead. Instead he glanced over his shoulder, then back at my feet. 'In Rome,' he said. 'My master traded them to his partner in the city, that other one who came into all of Sextus Roscius's wealth.'

  'You mean Magnus.'

  'No, the other one.' He lowered his voice. 'The golden one. Felix and Chrestus are in Rome, in the household of a man called Chrysogonus.'

  Chrysogonus, a Greek word: golden-born. For an instant the name floated shapeless in my mind, then all at once it seemed to explode in my ears like a thunderclap. In my mind the word became a key, pressed into my hand by the unwitting slave, a shiny golden key to unlock the mystery of Sextus Roscius's murder.

  From the garden I could still hear Capito ranting and his wife screaming in response. 'Say nothing to your master’ I hissed at the slave. 'Do you understand? Nothing.' I turned to the post and mounted Vespa. Thinking we had finally come to our destination, she snorted in rebellion and shook her head; I coaxed her on. I rode with one eye over my shoulder, careful now that I should not be seen by Capito. No one must know I had been here; no one must know where I slept. Chrysogonus, I thought, shaking my head at the magnitude of it. I shuddered at the danger. Of course it had always been there, but now I had eyes to see it.

  I came to the main road and headed back towards the branch that would lead me to the house of Titus Megarus. Above the trees, in the fading light, I saw the rising plume of smoke with its promise of comfort and rest. I mounted a small rise and abruptly saw two riders approaching from the Flaminian Way. Their mounts proceeded at a slow pace, as weary as Vespa. The men seemed almost to be dozing, as if tired from a long day of riding, then one after the other they looked up and I saw their faces.

  They were both big, broad-shouldered men, dressed in light summer tunics that left their muscular arms bare. Both were clean-shaven. The man on the right had shaggy black hair, glowering eyes, and a cruel mouth, and held the rein in his left hand. His friend had coarse, straw-coloured hair and the look of a brute, ugly and slow; he was so big that his horse looked like an overburdened pony, and across one cheek were three slender, parallel red scabs, the unmistakable mark of a cat's claw.

  My heart pounded so fiercely that I thought they must surely hear it. They stared at me coldly as I passed. I managed a nod and a feeble greeting. They said nothing and turned their eyes to the road. I quickened Vespa's pace and after a moment dared to look over my shoulder. Above the shallow rise I saw them turn onto the road that led to Capito's house.

  18

  'The dark-haired one,' said my host, 'yes, that would be Magnus. Yes, he limps on the left, and has for years; no one knows exactly why. He tells different stories. Sometimes says it was done to him by a crazy whore in Rome, sometimes claims it was a jealous husband, or then again, a gladiator on a drunken rampage. Always claims he killed the one who did it to him, and he probably did.'

  'And the other, the big ugly blond?'

/>   'Mallius Glaucia, I have no doubt. Magnus's ex-slave and now his right-hand man. Magnus spends a lot of time in Rome these days, while his cousin Capito is busy remaking the Roscius villa; Glaucia runs back and forth between them like a dog fetching bones.'

  The world was dark and full of stars. Moonlight played over the low, rolling hills, turning them to silver. I sat with Titus Megarus on the rooftop of his house, situated so that we had a wide view to the south and west. On the horizon ran a line of high hills that marked the farther edge of the valley; somewhere beyond lay the course of the Tiber. Close by, a few scattered lights and moonlit roofs marked the sleeping town of Ameria, and to the left, obscured by the intervening trees, I could just make out the upper storey, no bigger than my thumbnail, of the house where Capito and Magnus and Mallius Glaucia were all gathered for the night. A single window was lit, sending out a pale ochre light.

  Titus Megarus was not a worldly man, but he was an excellent host. He met me himself at his door and immediately saw that Vespa was given a place in his stables. He declined to converse about anything controversial at his dinner table, saying it caused indigestion. Instead, over the course of the meal, each of his five children took turns singing a song. The food was plentiful and fresh; the wine was excellent. Slowly I relaxed and shed my fear until I found myself half-reclining on a divan on the roof garden of his house. In the open peristyle below, the women and children of the house were gathered. One of Titus's daughters sang while another played the lyre. The sound rose sweet and low on the warm evening air with a vague echo, as if it came from a well. At his father's invitation the boy Lucius sat near us, listening but not speaking.

  I was so weary and saddle sore I could hardly move, and so comfortable I didn't want to. I lay on the divan with a cup of warm wine in one hand, struggling against sleep, gazing out over the utter peacefulness of the valley and wondering at the murderous secrets hidden there.

  'It was this Mallius Glaucia who came to my house last night,' I said, 'along with some other assassin. I'm sure of it — the claw marks leave no doubt. The same man who rode like a demon all night to get the news of Sextus Roscius's murder to Capito here in Ameria. Surely he was sent on both errands by the same master.'