‘Yes. Still, you do manage to climb up and down that ladder, don’t you?’ I likewise tried to keep my tone light.
I excused myself to go to the privy, which was out the back door and across an alley in a little lean-to. There were several holes in the paved floor, but the drunken patrons of the Salacious Tavern were poor marksmen and the place stank of standing urine. It occurred to me that the Cloaca Maxima, the central sewer line into the Tiber, was probably located just beneath my feet.
When I returned to the corner bench, Tiro had vanished. I stayed and drank another cup of wine, in no hurry to go home. The interview had yielded more than I expected. Where were the documents of which Numerius had boasted to Tiro only days before his death? Who else knew about them? Like poor Numerius, I felt I was sitting on something enormous, if only I could lay my hands on it.
IX
The remaining days of Februarius brought despair for Pompey’s supporters, joy for Caesar’s.
Flush with an unbroken chain of victories, Caesar continued his southward advance and surrounded Corfinium. Domitius Ahenobarbus, trapped in the city, sent desperate messages to Pompey begging for reinforcements. Pompey curtly replied that he had no intention of relieving Corfinium because Domitius had no business making a stand there in the first place.
Domitius concealed the contents of the letter from his officers and claimed that Pompey was on his way, but his agitated demeanour fooled no one. Behind his back, his officers decided to hand the city over to Caesar without a fight.
Domitius’s longstanding grudge against Caesar was personal. Domitius’s grandfather and father had begun the settlement of southern Gaul, conquering the Allobroges and the Arverni, building roads, establishing Roman colonies on the coast, and along the way amassing an enormous family fortune. The family had come to think of the region as their personal domain, to which Domitius should be heir. Caesar they considered an upstart who had built on their achievements to launch his own conquests. When Domitius made his first bid to acquire governorship of southern Gaul, six years ago, Caesar successfully thwarted him and held on to command of the region. Now Caesar’s tenure had at last expired. Legally he was obliged to relinquish Gaul and let Domitius succeed him. Caesar’s answer had been to cross the Rubicon with his army. Domitius had good reason to hate him, and better reason to fear him.
Finding himself betrayed and despairing of an ignoble death at the hands of Caesar or, even more ignobly, at the hands of his own rebellious men, Domitius asked his physician to give him poison. No sooner had Domitius swallowed the dose than word arrived that Caesar was treating all captives, even his bitterest enemies, with mercy and respect. Domitius wailed and tore his hair and cursed himself for acting too soon – until the physician, who knew his master better than his master knew himself, revealed that the dose was not poison, but a harmless narcotic. Domitius surrendered to Caesar and was allowed to keep his head.
In Rome, copies of Caesar’s public pronouncement on entering Corfinium were posted in the Forum by his supporters:
I did not leave my province with intent to harm anybody. I merely want to protect myself against the slanders of my enemies, to restore to their rightful positions the tribunes of the people, who have been expelled because of their involvement in my cause, and to reclaim for myself and for the Roman people independence from the domination of a small clique.
Fence-sitters among the rich and powerful were heartened by the news of Caesar’s clemency. Some who had fled now began to return to the city.
His army swelled by the troops of Domitius Ahenobarbus and by fresh reinforcements from Gaul, Caesar continued his southward advance. Pompey fell back and ordered all loyalist troops to rendezvous at Brundisium, in the heel of Italy.
‘Davus will die there,’ Diana said. ‘He’ll die in Brundisium, trapped with the rest of Pompey’s men. Caesar will put his foot into the boot of Italy and grind them all beneath his heel.’
‘Caesar has shown mercy, so far,’ I said cautiously. ‘He took Corfinium without spilling a drop of blood.’
‘But this is different. This is Pompey. He’ll never surrender to Caesar.’
‘Perhaps Pompey will flee, rather than fight.’
‘Across the sea? But Davus can’t swim!’
I tried not to smile. ‘I imagine they’ll take ships, Diana.’
‘I know that! I’m thinking of the weather. No one sails at this time of year if they can help it. It’s too dangerous, especially crossing the Adriatic. Storms and shipwrecks – I keep seeing Davus clinging to a scrap of flotsam, waves crashing over his head, lightning all around . . .’
The curse of an overactive imagination was something she inherited from her mother. ‘Davus is cleverer than you think,’ I said. ‘He can take care of himself.’
‘That’s not true! He’s sweet as honey on a cold morning and just as slow, and you know it. And what if Pompey doesn’t flee, and there is a battle, Caesar’s men against Pompey’s? Davus would never do the sensible thing and run away. He’ll feel obliged to stay and fight, for the sake of the other soldiers. It’s like that for men in battle, isn’t it? Comrades and loyalty, to the last drop of blood?’
I had no answer to that. I had been in one battle in my life, fighting with Catilina at Pistoria; what she said was true.
Diana grimaced. ‘Meto says you don’t even feel the wounds when they happen. You just keep fighting until you can’t fight any more.’ She looked at me with sudden horror in her eyes. ‘Davus and Meto could be in the same battle, on different sides. They could kill each other!’
Now her imagination was definitely getting the better of her. I rose from my chair and crossed my study. I laid my hands on her shoulders. She leaned back against me and I circled her with my arms.
‘Davus was trained to be a bodyguard, not a soldier. You know that, Diana. That’s how Pompey will use him – to guard his person. He’ll keep Davus close to him, day and night. Now I ask you, where could Davus be safer? Pompey is no fool. Look how cautious he’s been so far, retreating two steps every time Caesar advances one. Davus is probably safer with Pompey than he would be in Rome.’
‘But what if there is a battle, and Pompey is at the head of the charge, leading his men? Caesar does that; Meto says so. Davus would be doomed then. It’s as you say, he was trained to be a bodyguard. He’ll sacrifice himself rather than let Pompey be harmed. He won’t even stop and think. If there’s a sword aimed for Pompey’s heart, he’ll throw himself on it!’
‘Diana, Diana! You must stop imagining such things!’ I sighed. ‘Listen, I want you to close your eyes. Now picture Davus. What’s he doing this very instant? I’ll tell you. He’s standing at attention outside Pompey’s tent, bored out of his mind, struggling not to yawn. There, can you see him? I can. I can even see the fly buzzing about his head. If he yawns, it may fly into his mouth!’
‘Oh, Papa!’ Diana sniffled and laughed in spite of herself. I held her close.
‘What do you suppose Davus is thinking about right now?’ I said quietly.
She laughed. ‘His next meal, probably!’
‘No. He’s thinking about you, Diana. About you and little Aulus.’
Diana sighed and snuggled against me. I congratulated myself on having successfully comforted her – prematurely, as it happened, for the next moment she trembled and burst into tears and pulled herself from my embrace.
‘Diana, what now?’
‘Oh, Papa, I can’t stand to think of Davus like that, so far from home, so lonely for us! He must be utterly miserable, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Papa, you must promise me that you’ll get him back. You must do whatever it takes to bring him back to us!’
‘But Diana –’
‘You must find whoever killed Pompey’s kinsman, and tell Pompey, and make him give back Davus!’
I shook my head. ‘You don’t know what you’re asking, daughter.’
She gave me a puzzled, dissatisfied, desperate look. In her eyes I saw
something I had never seen before. For the first time, it occurred to her that her beloved father, upon whom she had always relied as upon a rock, might simply be too old now, too far past his prime to keep his family safe. I wanted to assure her that nothing could be farther from the truth, but my tongue was like lead in my mouth.
That particular day, the first day of Martius, seemed to be my day to deal with distraught young women.
Diana had hardly left my study when Mopsus ran in. In my irritable state of mind, it occurred to me that he and his brother never seemed to walk anywhere, indoors or out. They had only two states of being: at rest, or scampering like hounds.
‘Master, there’s a visitor for you.’
‘Does he have a name?’
‘It’s not a he. It’s a she.’
I leaned back. ‘Still, I imagine she has a name.’
He frowned, and I saw that between the foyer and my study he had forgotten the visitor’s name. Humans are like Aesop’s animals, I thought; they never change their essential nature. Davus would always be a bodyguard. My son Meto would always be a scholar and a soldier. And Mopsus, raised in a stable to look after beasts, would never make a decent door slave.
‘What sort of woman is she?’ I asked. ‘High or low?’
He thought. ‘She has bodyguards. Otherwise, it’s hard to tell, from how she’s dressed. All in black.’
Could it be Maecia, come to inquire after my progress, or lack of progress, into her son’s murder? I didn’t relish the idea of seeing her again . . . unless she had found in her house new evidence of Numerius’s activities – perhaps even the documents which gave details of the plot on Caesar’s life . . .
‘Old or young?’
Mopsus thought. ‘Young. Maybe Diana’s age.’
Not Maecia, then, but dressed in black, nonetheless. I frowned. Numerius had not been married. Nor had there been a sister. But perhaps . . .
‘Show her in,’ I said.
‘And her bodyguards?’
‘They must remain outside, of course.’
Mopsus grinned. ‘There’s three of them, but I bet even three couldn’t get past Scarface!’ Of late, Mopsus and his brother had grown rather fond of Cicatrix. Curiously, the ugly monster seemed to return the sentiment; I often heard the three of them laughing in the foyer or outside the front door, Cicatrix’s harsh bark making odd counterpoint to the boys’ giggles. I remained suspicious of the fellow and would gladly have been rid of him, but I was not as afraid of him as I had been at first. He did an excellent job of guarding the front door. His demeanour to Bethesda and Diana was sullen but not threatening. He clearly preferred guarding the Great One and considered service in the household of a nonentity such as myself to be beneath him, but the two of us had worked out a begrudging means of communicating. I gave curt orders. Cicatrix scowled and grunted, but did as he was told.
Mopsus ran from my study. I stepped into the garden, thinking it a more suitable place to greet a young woman. The weather was mild for the Kalends of Martius, with little wind and only a few high, fleecy bands of clouds streaking the cold blue sky.
A few moments later, the visitor entered. She wore not a married woman’s stola but a maiden’s long tunic, all in black and covered by a heavy cloak as black as her hair, which was done up with pins and combs atop her head in a fashion too mature for her face. Her perfume seemed too mature for her, as well; I caught a whiff of jasmine and spikenard. Mopsus had estimated her to be Diana’s age. She looked younger to me, no more than seventeen or eighteen. Her hands and face were as white as a dove’s breast.
She looked at me warily from beneath her dark brows. ‘Are you Gordianus?’
‘I am. Who are you?’
‘My name is Aemilia, the daughter of Titus Aemilius.’
I looked expectantly at the door through which she had come. ‘Where is your chaperone?’
Aemilia looked uncomfortable and lowered her eyes. ‘I came alone.’
‘A girl of your age and station, walking about Rome without a companion?’
‘I brought bodyguards.’
‘Even so . . . Does your father know you’re out?’
‘My father is away. With Pompey.’
‘Of course. Your mother?’
‘We returned to Rome only a few days ago. We were at our villa on the coast, but Mother says it’s probably safer here in Rome now. She’s busy today visiting the shops and markets. I was supposed to go with her. I told her I felt unwell and needed to stay at home.’
‘But instead you came here.’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you unwell? You look pale.’
She didn’t answer, but looked nervously about the garden until her eyes fixed on the Minerva behind me. The sight of the goddess seemed to give her strength. It was Minerva’s face she looked at while she spoke, not mine. She probably had little experience addressing a grown man directly.
‘I just came from Maecia’s house. She told me about you.’
‘What did Maecia say?’
‘That you were looking into . . .’ Her nerve seemed to falter. She lowered her eyes to the ground. ‘Is this where it happened?’
I took a deep breath. ‘If you mean the death of Numerius Pompeius, yes, it happened in this garden.’
She shuddered and clutched the black cloak to her throat.
‘Were you kin to him?’ I said.
‘No.’
‘Yet you’re dressed in mourning.’
She bit her lips, which looked blood red against her pale cheeks. ‘He was . . . he and I . . . we were to marry.’
I shook my head. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘No one did.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘No one knew. Pompey had plans for him to marry someone else. But I was the one he chose. Numerius chose me.’
From the way she touched herself, one hand unconsciously coming to rest above her belly, I suddenly understood. ‘I see.’
‘Do you?’ Her face registered a confusion of pride and alarm. ‘Maecia could tell, too. Is it that obvious?’
I shook my head. ‘It doesn’t show yet, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Not here.’ She looked down and touched her belly. ‘But it must show on my face. And why not? I should have been his widow. The baby should have been born with his name. But now . . .’
‘Why did you come here, Aemilia? To see the place where he died?’
She grimaced. ‘No. I don’t like to think about that.’
‘Then why are you here? What do you want from me?’ Her eyes met mine for an instant, then she looked beyond me, to Minerva, as she struggled to put her thoughts into words. I raised my hand. ‘Never mind. I know already. You want from me what everyone else wants – Pompey, Maecia, even Diana . . .’ I shook my head. ‘Why was I able to tell at once with you, and yet with my own daughter, I practically had to be struck by lightning before I saw the obvious? And people think Gordianus is so clever, able to see what others don’t!’
Aemilia looked at me, mystified. I sighed. ‘How long have you known?’
‘About the baby? I knew before Mother and I left Rome. I wasn’t certain, but I knew. Since then, the moon waxed and waned, and waxes again, and now there’s no doubt. I can feel it inside me! I know it’s too early for that, but I swear I feel it sometimes.’
‘His child . . .’ I said. Like Aemilia imagining she felt the new life inside her, I seemed to sense another, very different kind of presence in the garden. What stronger lure than his unborn child might serve to call back the lemur of a murdered man to the spot where he was killed? I turned about and gave a start, almost certain I saw a shadow move behind the statue of Minerva. It was only a trick of the light.
‘Did he know? Did you tell Numerius?’
She nodded. ‘The last time I saw him . . . the day before he died. We had a secret place to meet.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘We . . . afterwards . . . I told him. I was afraid he’d be angry. But he wasn’t. He was happy.
I’d never seen him so happy. He said, “Now Pompey will have to give up his plans for me and let us marry. I’ll tell him tonight.” The next day Numerius was supposed to meet me again, to tell me what Pompey said, but he never came.’ She bit her lip. ‘That was the day everyone thought Caesar was coming, and Pompey decided to leave Rome, and my father decided to send Mother and me to the villa, and we spent the whole night madly packing our things and I didn’t sleep at all . . .’
She took a breath, lifted her eyes, and stared hard at the face of Minerva. ‘The next morning we were in our wagon, lined up with all the other wagons to leave through the Capena Gate. A friend of Mother’s came over. They talked about whether Caesar was really coming, and who was taking sides, and then – it was just another bit of gossip to her – the woman said, “Did you hear? Numerius Pompeius was murdered yesterday! Strangled . . .” She said it so quickly, then moved on to something else so fast, I thought I must have imagined it. But I knew I hadn’t. I knew it was true. I felt something sharp in my chest, like a jagged stone. I think I must have fainted. The next thing I knew we were out on the Appian Way. For an instant I thought I’d dreamed it, but I knew better. The stone was still in my chest. It hurt to breathe.’
‘Who else knows about the baby?’
‘I kept it from my mother as long as I could. She knew something was wrong, but she thought I was only worried for Father, and upset by all that was going on. But once we started back to Rome, I couldn’t keep it from her. She wasn’t as angry as I thought she’d be.’
‘Then your father doesn’t know?’
She lowered her face. ‘Mother says he must never know.’
‘But how can that be? Even if Pompey leaves Italy and takes your father with him, they may return before you come to term. And when you have the child, someone will talk; someone always does. You can hardly expect –’ Then I fell silent, because I understood what she had told me.
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