‘You’re raising your voice now, Cicero.’
He pressed a hand against his chest and took several deep breaths. I had never seen him so overwrought; it unnerved me. Whatever their flaws, Pompey and Cicero represented models of Roman self-assurance and self-discipline, the military giant and the political genius. Both had known setbacks, but always triumphed in the long run. Now something was different, and both seemed to sense it. Born the same year, they were a few years younger than me, yet I felt like the child who sees his parents in a panic: if they have lost control, then all must be chaos.
He went on at a lower pitch. ‘It’s a mistake for Pompey to flee. If Caesar is allowed to enter the city without opposition, he’ll break into the treasury and squander the wealth of our ancestors to bribe the street gangs. He’ll call together whatever’s left of the Senate – debtors, discontents, rabble-rousers – and claim it’s the legitimate government. Then it will be Pompey and those who fled who are outlaws.’
‘Have you said as much to Pompey?’
‘Yes. Do you know what he replied? “Sulla could do it, why not me?” It always comes back to Sulla!’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Sulla abandoned the city to his enemies and then retook it, with Pompey as one of his generals. Thirty years later, Pompey thinks he can do the same if the need arises. Can you imagine the city under siege? Disease, hunger, fires spreading out of control – and then the horror of the conquest . . .’
He stared into the flames of the brazier and again tried to calm himself. ‘For a long time now, Pompey’s mind has been set on playing Sulla. Once Caesar is defeated, Pompey will do what Sulla did. He’ll make himself dictator and purge the Senate. He’ll draw up a list of enemies. Confiscations, heads on stakes in the Forum . . .’
‘But surely not your head, Cicero.’ I tried to make light of his fear, but the look he shot back at me was ghastly.
‘Why not? If I’m still in Rome tomorrow, Pompey will call me his enemy.’
‘Follow him, then.’
‘And make myself Caesar’s enemy? What if Caesar wins? I shall never be able to return. I was exiled from Rome once. Never again!’ He circled the brazier until he stood opposite me. His eyes flashed, catching the light. The flickering flames and shadows transformed his face into a grim mask. ‘We must all choose sides, Gordianus. No more argument, no more procrastination. This side, or that. But towards what end? No matter who wins, we shall end up with a tyrant. What a choice – beheaded if I pick the wrong side, a slave if I pick the right one!’
I stared back at him across the flames. ‘You sound as if you have yet to make up your mind between Caesar and Pompey.’
He lowered his eyes. ‘In the next hour . . . I keep telling myself, before another hour passes, I shall cast the dice, and let Fortune choose for me!’
He stared at the floor with his hands tightly clasped before him, his brow rigid, his mouth turned down. He raised his eyes at a sound from the doorway. A female slave stole into the room and whispered in his ear.
‘My wife calls me, Gordianus. Poor Terentia! Shall I leave her here, in charge of the household, or take her with me? And what of my daughter? While I was off in Cilicia, behind my back Tullia married that wastrel Dolabella! The young fool has both feet firmly in Caesar’s camp. He’ll do his best to drag her along with him. And now she’s expecting his baby! What a world for my grandchild to be born into. And my son! Marcus turns sixteen this year. When the day comes for him to put on his toga of manhood, will we be in Rome for the ceremony? By Hercules, will we even be in Italy?’
On that abrupt note, Cicero left the room and the slave hurried after him.
I was left alone.
I took a deep breath. I warmed myself at the fire. I studied the images on the walls. The face of one shepherd in particular fascinated me; he reminded me of my old bodyguard, Belbo. I looked up at the ceiling, where firelight and shadow flickered across the black spot made by the smoke. I turned my eyes down and traced my toe over the geometric pattern of the carpet.
Alone and forgotten in another man’s house, surrounded by silence, I felt overcome by a curious paralysis, unable to depart. It was the only moment of peace I had experienced all day. I was reluctant to give it up. To be abandoned and forgotten by the world, to be left alone, truly alone, without fears or obligations – for a few brief moments in that quiet room I indulged in a fantasy of what that would be like, and savoured it, sank into it like a man into dark, deep, soothing water.
I pondered Cicero’s dilemma. Pompey and Caesar were not only tearing apart the state; they were tearing apart families. Rome was not easily split into two factions. Rome was a hopelessly tangled skein of blood ties overlaid and interlinked with ties of politics, marriage, honour and debt. How could such a complex web of mutual obligations be severed down the middle without being destroyed altogether? How many households in Rome that night mirrored Cicero’s house, with the occupants rushing about in an agony of indecision? Without eyes to see the future, how could any man be sure of his choice?
At last I forced myself to leave the peaceful room. I passed a few scurrying slaves as I made my way through the house, but none took notice of me. In the vestibule, the slave on duty lifted the bar and opened the door for me.
There was more activity in the street than there had been when I arrived. Handcarts and litters, messengers and torchbearers hurried back and forth. The Palatine Hill was home to many of Rome’s richest and most powerful men, those who had the most to lose, or gain, in the event of civil war. Pompey’s decision to abandon the city had stirred up the neighbourhood like a stick poked into an anthill.
The same two guards were stationed in front of Cicero’s house. They had moved to one side, where the trunk of a great yew tree shielded them from the hubbub of the street. I considered asking one of them to walk me home – a common courtesy Cicero would surely have approved – but I decided against it. However unwittingly, I had got them into enough trouble already, arousing their master’s suspicion against them.
But if they were as loose with their tongues as Cicero seemed to think, it seemed foolish not to ask them a few questions.
‘A wild night,’ I commented.
‘Inside and out,’ noted the older one.
‘Inside? In the house, you mean?’
‘It’s crazy in there. Has been all day. Glad I’m out here, never mind the cold.’
‘I understand there was shouting earlier.’
‘Well . . .’
‘Your master himself told me so.’
This freed the man’s tongue. ‘It was him who did most of the shouting.’
‘This was when that fellow Numerius was here, Pompey’s kinsman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did Numerius come often to see your master?’
The guard shrugged. ‘A few times since the Master got back to Rome.’
‘So they had quite a shouting match, did they? For you to hear them all the way out here, I mean.’
He ducked his head a bit and lowered his voice. ‘Funny thing, how the sound from the courtyard in the middle of the house seems to carry over the roof and land right here in front of the door. Acoustics, they call that. This spot by the yew tree is like the last row of seats in Pompey’s theatre. You may be too far away to see the stage, but you can hear every word!’
‘Every word?’
‘Well, maybe not quite. Every other word.’
‘Words like . . . ?’
The older guard frowned and drew back a bit, realizing that I was fishing, but the younger one now seemed eager to speak up. ‘Words like “traitor”,’ he said. ‘And “secret” ... and “liar” ... and “the money you owe to Caesar” . . . and “what if I tell Pompey?” ’
‘Was this Cicero speaking, or Numerius?’
‘Hard to tell, the way they were talking on top of each other. Though I’d say the Master’s voice carried better, probably on account of his training.’
Poor Cicero, betrayed by his oratorical expertise. ‘But which of them said what? Who said the word “traitor”? Who owes a debt to – ?’
The older guard stepped forward, brusquely elbowing his companion aside. ‘That’s enough questions.’
I smiled. ‘But I was only curious to know –’
‘If you’ve got more to ask, you can ask the Master. Do you want to be announced again?’
‘I’ve already taken up enough of Cicero’s time.’
‘Well, then.’ He crossed his arms. His bristling beard grazed my chin as he backed me into the street.
‘Just one more question,’ I said. ‘Numerius came to this house alone and left alone – so your master told me. But did he come alone? Was there no one loitering in the street while he visited Cicero? And when he left, did you notice anyone who joined up with him – or who might have been following him?’
The guard said nothing. His companion now joined him in backing me farther into the street, almost into the path of a careening handcart pushed by two reckless slaves. The handcart swerved and almost struck a team of litter-bearers. The litter lurched and almost ejected its passenger, a fat, bald merchant who appeared to be wearing every jewel and bauble he possessed, fleeing the city and loath to leave behind anything of value.
The string of near collisions momentarily distracted the guards. They backed away, then moved towards me again. I stood my ground and looked from one to the other. The situation suddenly seemed comic, like a pantomime in the theatre. The menace the guards projected was all for show. They were overgrown boys compared to the brute Pompey had stationed in my house.
I took a deep breath and smiled, which seemed to confound them. As I turned to walk away, I saw the older guard cuff the younger against the back of the neck. ‘Loudmouth!’ he muttered. His companion cringed and accepted the rebuke in silence.
The rim road around the crest of the Palatine Hill is wider than most roads in Rome. Two litters can pass one another and still leave room for a pedestrian to walk on either side without brushing against a sweaty litter-bearer. Such congestion would be rare; the rim road is less travelled than most in Rome, lined by large houses and situated high above the turbulence of the Forum and the marketplaces. But on that night, the road was crowded with vehicles and people and lit up as bright as day with what seemed to be an army of torchbearers. Illuminated by those torches I saw a succession of unhappy faces – dazed citizens fleeing the city, weary slaves toting loads, determined messengers shoving past the rest.
Several times I imagined I was being followed. Whenever I turned around to look, the confusion in the street made it impossible to tell. My sight and my hearing were not what they once had been, I told myself. I was mad to be out without protection on such a night.
I arrived at the door of my house and took one last look behind me. Something caught my eye. It was the man’s carriage and his overall bearing that attracted my notice. I felt that I recognized him at once, in the way that one often knows a familiar person at a distance or from the corner of one’s eye. The man turned about before I could get a clear look at his face and headed back in the direction I had come from, walking very fast. He vanished into the crowd.
I could have sworn by Minerva that the man I had just seen was Cicero’s secretary, Tiro, who was supposed to be in Greece, too sick to leave his bed.
V
I passed a cold, fitful, sleepless night. It would have been warmer if Bethesda had been beside me. She slept in Diana’s room. I suspected that her abandonment of our bed was as much to punish me as to comfort our daughter; if Diana had to sleep without her spouse, then so should I. I rose several times to pass water and pace the house. From Diana’s room I heard the two of them talking in low voices, sometimes weeping, long into the night.
The next morning, before I had dressed or eaten, even before my first disparaging glance of the day from Bethesda, who remained shut away with Diana, a slave arrived at the front door with a message. Mopsus ran into my room without knocking and handed me a wax tablet. I wiped the sleep from my eyes and read:
If you are still in Rome and this message finds you, I beg you to come to me at once. My messenger will show you the way. We do not know one another. I am Maecia, the mother of Numerius Pompeius. Please come as soon as you can.
While the messenger waited in the street, I withdrew to the garden, still wearing my nightclothes. I paced back and forth before the statue of Minerva, looking furtively up at her. On some days her eyes gazed back, but not that morning. What could the virgin goddess know of a mother’s grief?
My stomach was empty but I had no appetite. I shivered in my woollen gown and hugged myself. After a certain age, a man’s blood grows thinner year by year, until it becomes like tepid water.
At last I returned to my bedchamber. To show respect for the dead, and for a dead man’s mother, I would put on my best toga. Wearing it would also serve to demonstrate to anyone who saw me that Gordianus, at least, was going about his business as calmly as on any other day. I opened the trunk and smelled the chips of cedar scattered inside to ward off moths; nothing looks sadder than a moth-eaten toga. The garment was just as it had come from its last washing at the fullers, lamb-white, neatly folded, and loosely bound with twine.
I summoned Mopsus and Androcles to help me dress. Usually Bethesda assisted me in donning my toga; she had grown so skilled that the procedure was effortless. Mopsus and Androcles had helped a few times before, but still had only a vague idea of what to do. Following my instructions they laid the irregular oblong of wool over my shoulders, wrapped it across my chest, and attempted to arrange the folds. There seemed to be four of us in the room: myself, two slave boys, and a very unruly toga intent on thwarting the rest of us. As soon as one fold was tucked, another came untucked. The boys became flustered and sniped at one another. I rolled my eyes, admonished myself to be patient, and kept my voice low.
At last I was ready. On my way out I encountered Bethesda emerging from Diana’s room. She coolly looked me up and down, as if I had no right to wear such finery when my daughter’s life was ruined. Her unpinned hair hung in tangles and she could scarcely have had more sleep than me; even so, she looked remarkably beautiful to me at that moment. Time had never yet diminished the lustre of her dark eyes. Perhaps she read my thoughts. She paused to give me a fleeting kiss and whispered in my ear, ‘Be careful, husband!’
In the foyer I encountered Cicatrix. The hulking monster was leaning with his back against the front door, arms crossed, idly scratching the ugly scar across his face. He gave me an impertinent look, then stepped away from the door to let me pass.
I cleared my throat. ‘Let no one in while I’m gone,’ I told him. ‘Take orders from no one except my wife or my daughter. Do you understand?’
He nodded slowly. ‘I understand that I’m to keep an eye on this house for my Master, the Great One.’ He gave me an unsettling smile.
As I stepped out of the door to join the waiting messenger, I whispered a prayer to Minerva to watch over my household.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked the slave.
‘Yonder.’ The big fellow pointed beyond the Forum, towards the Esquilme Hill. I suspected he was a bit simple. The powerful often prefer to use illiterate slaves to carry messages, and only a slave too simple-minded to learn to read can be trusted not to.
The rim road was as busy in the early morning as it had been the night before. We crossed to the other side, threading between litters and carts, and onto the Ramp, which would take us down to the Forum. The pathway was so crowded that people were pressed shoulder to shoulder and no vehicles could possibly have passed. The descent was slow and tedious. We found ourselves pressed against the sheer rock face of the Palatine, the view of the Forum to our right blocked by the crowd. People jostled, stepped on each other’s feet, squealed in pain and spat insults. At one point a fist fight broke out nearby.
As we descended farther, any glimpse of the Forum was blocked by the m
assive rear wall of the House of the Vestals. At last we reached the bottom of the incline, packed as tightly as sheep in a run. Here the Ramp narrowed even more as it made a sharp right turn into the gap between the House of the Vestals and the Temple of Castor and Pollux. The crush became dangerous. Behind me I heard a woman scream.
Panic spread through the crowd like a wave of prickling heat. A stampede began.
I clutched the messenger’s arm. He looked over his shoulder and gave me a simple-minded grin, then gripped my arm and pulled me forward, practically lifting me off my feet. Around me swirled a sea offices. Some grimaced in pain. Some shouted. Some screamed. Some were wild-eyed with fear, while others stared blankly, dumbfounded. I was punched and prodded from all directions by elbows and flailing arms. I felt as helpless as a pebble in an avalanche.
Then, all at once, the narrow path emptied into the open space of the Forum. The messenger pulled me around a corner. We staggered onto the steps of the Temple of Castor and Pollux. I sat down, gasping for breath.
‘We could have been trampled to death!’ said the big fellow. His penchant for stating the obvious reminded me of Davus. As we watched, people spilled out of the narrow passageway into the Forum, looking dazed and shaken, many of them weeping. At last the torrent thinned, and the trickle of stragglers emerging from the Ramp seemed utterly unaware of the panic that had preceded them.
As soon as I caught my breath, we set out again. The Forum had an air of unreality, a continuation of the nightmare that had begun on the Ramp. I felt as if we were walking through a succession of theatrical scenes staged by some maniacal director. People ran in and out of temples, waving votive tapers and shouting prayers to the gods. Huddled family members took leave of one another, holding hands and weeping, kneeling together to kiss the ground of the Forum, while street urchins perched on nearby walls threw pebbles at them and made rude remarks. Angry crowds outside the banks and exchanges threw stones against doors that were locked up tight. Despondent women wandered through empty market stalls picked clean by hoarders and profiteers. The oddest thing was how little notice strangers seemed to take of one another. Everyone appeared to be boxed inside his own little tragedy, to which the rushing panic of others was merely a backdrop.
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