"Of course not. You said to hide." It was Mopsus.
"He said for me to hide." That was Androcles.
"No, I was to hide, and you were to run back and tell him."
"No, you were to run back, while I stayed to watch."
"Boys," I interrupted, "you can both come out now."
One head emerged, then another. Both had bits of twigs and red berries stuck in their unruly hair. "Isn't that right, Master?" said Mopsus. "I was to stay and watch, and Androcles was to run back and tell you."
I sighed. "Meto says that one mark of a great general is that he never gives an unambiguous order. Clearly, I'm no Caesar. And you two are as bad as Domitius Ahenobarbus and Pompey Magnus, squabbling like that instead of doing what needs doing."
"Did you hear that?" said Mopsus to Androcles, emerging into the street and swaggering a bit. "He compared you to Redbeard, and me to the Great One!"
"He did not. I'm Pompey and you're Domitius!"
"Boys, enough! Tell me where the fellow went and what you saw."
"We followed him here, to Cicero's house," said Androcles, eager to deliver the news ahead of his older brother.
"And he went in the door?"
"Not exactly…"
"They let down a ladder from the roof. He climbed up. Then they drew back the ladder," explained Mopsus.
I nodded. "Thank you, boys. You both did a good job. Better than Pompey and Domitius seem to be doing, anyway. Now you can both run along home."
"And leave you alone, Master?" said Mopsus, alarmed. "But isn't the fellow terribly dangerous? A thief or a murderer?"
"I don't think so." I smiled at the thought of mild, bookish Tiro as an assassin.
Once the boys were off, I banged on the door. There was no answer. I stepped back and surveyed the roof, but saw no signs of life. I banged on the door again. At last, the peephole opened and a brown eye peered out.
"No one's home," said a gruff male voice.
"You are," I said.
"I don't count. The Master's gone. The house is closed."
"Even so, I have business with someone inside."
The eye disappeared, then reappeared some moments later.
"Who-?"
"My name is Gordianus. Cicero knows me. I saw him the night before he left Rome."
"We know who you are. Who is it you want to see?"
"The man who arrived ahead of me. The one you let up by ladder."
"No such person."
"He wasn't a phantom."
"Maybe he was."
"No more games! Tell Tiro I need to see him."
"Tiro? The Master's secretary is away in Greece. Too sick to travel-"
"Nonsense. I know he's here. Tell him that Gordianus needs to see him."
The eye disappeared and was gone for a long time. I stood on tiptoes and tried to peer inside through the peephole, but could see only shadows. Something moved among the shadows. I drew back. The eye reappeared.
"No, there's no Tiro here. No one by that name."
I banged on the door. The brown eye gave a startled blink and drew back. "Tiro!" I shouted. "Let me see you! Or shall I stand here in the street, shouting your name until every wretched soul left in Rome knows that you're back? Tiro! Tiro!"
A hissing issued from the peephole. "All right, all right! Stop shouting."
"Very well, then, open the door."
"Can't."
"What? Tiro!"
"Shhhh! Can't open the door."
"Why not?"
"It's barricaded shut."
"Barricaded?"
"Boards nailed across the door, and sandbags piled behind the boards. I have to crawl through a tunnel just to get to this peephole! Step back into the street."
I backed up to the middle of the street and looked up. A few moments later two men appeared on the roof. I recognized them as the two guards who had been posted at Cicero's door the night I last saw him. Together they lowered a long wooden ladder to the street.
"Don't tell me Cicero's wife and his pregnant daughter go up and down this thing every time they leave the house!" I eyed the spindly steps and felt the brittleness in my bones.
"Of course not," said the older one. It was he who had been addressing me from behind the door. "The Mistress and Tullia left days ago. Stayed with Cicero's friend Atticus here in the city for a while, then went to join the Master down at the villa in Formiae, on the coast. There's nobody at all in the house now, except some of us slaves left behind to guard the valuables."
"Nobody else?" I said.
"Nobody except me." The speaker stepped into view between the two men on the roof, put his hands on his hips and looked down at me. He wore a green tunic and a dark cloak. I suddenly realized that I must have been mistaken all along, or else they were playing another game with me. The man was Tiro's height and bore a rough resemblance to him, but had to be younger. His skin was as dark as an Egyptian's, his hair had a reddish tinge without a hint of gray, he was slender as a youth and he wore a neat little beard of the sort that Tiro had despised ever since Catilina made it popular.
"I'm not sure what you're playing at," I said, "but I mean to find out." I stepped onto the ladder.
"No, don't come up," said the stranger. "I'll come down."
I backed away as he descended. His movements on the spindly steps gave him away; he wasn't nearly as young as he looked at a distance. By the time he reached the bottom rung and turned to face me, the stranger had been transformed back into Tiro- Tiro with skin stained and hair dyed with henna, with a thinner face and sporting a very unlikely beard, but Tiro nonetheless.
"You seem to have made a miraculous recovery," I said. "How did you get here from Greece so swiftly- riding Pegasus?"
He silenced me with a finger to his lips. Behind us the ladder withdrew. The two guards vanished.
"We can't talk here," he said. "But I know of a quiet place, where the host never eavesdrops…"
VIII
Directly across the road from Cicero's house, amid the shrubbery where Mopsus and Androcles had hidden themselves, Tiro pulled back a branch covered with little red berries and appeared to step into empty space.
"Mind that the branch doesn't fly back and hit you," he cautioned. "And watch your step on the trail. It's steeper than it looks."
That hardly seemed possible. The trail was hardly a trail at all, just a descending series of little cleared spots large enough for a man to place his foot amid the gnarled trees and thorny bushes sprouting out of the western face of the Palatine Hill. Directly below us was the congested warehouse district.
"Tiro, where are you taking me? If we're heading down, why not take the Ramp?"
"Too much risk of being recognized."
"But you don't avoid the Ramp. I've seen you on it twice myself."
"Oh, I'm not worried about being recognized. But you would be. And then someone would start to wonder, 'Who was that swarthy bearded fellow I saw with Gordianus the Finder today?' "
"Then why not talk privately inside Cicero's house?"
"The guards, for one thing. They tend to hear things they shouldn't. Then they talk."
That was true enough.
"And also…" Tiro hesitated, deliberating where next to put his foot. "To be candid, Cicero doesn't want people coming and going in the house while he's not there."
"You think I might snoop?"
"I didn't say that, Gordianus. But it's Cicero's house. While he's away, I'll obey his wishes."
A loose stone slipped from under my foot and skittered down the hillside. I gripped the branch of a cypress tree for balance, caught my breath, and cautiously sought the next foothold.
At last we reached the lower slopes of the Palatine, where the path gradually flattened and meandered amid trash heaps piled behind the warehouses. Tiro led me this way and that, undaunted by the maze of narrow alleys stinking of urine. At length we turned a corner and I saw ahead of us a familiar sign- an upright post surmounted by an erect marble
phallus.
"Not the Salacious Tavern!"
"We ran into each other here after Milo's trial," said Tiro. "Remember? That was the last time I saw you- over two years ago."
"I remember the hangover," I said, but I was thinking of my last visit to the tavern, and the host's account of a swarthy, bearded foreigner…
Tiro laughed. "You were getting over a hangover the very first time we met. Do you remember that?"
"A bright-eyed young slave came to my house on the Esquiline Hill and asked if I'd help his ambitious young master defend an accused parricide."
"Yes, but before I could speak, you demonstrated a cure for your hangover."
"Did I? What was it?"
"Concentrated thought, so as to flush the brain with fresh blood. It was quite remarkable."
"You were hardly more than a boy, Tiro. You were easily impressed."
"But it was amazing! You deduced who'd sent me and why, without my saying a word."
"Did I? A pity I can no longer concentrate my mind so keenly. I can't begin to imagine, for instance, why Cicero's right-hand freedman is wandering about Rome incognito."
Tiro looked at me shrewdly. "You haven't grown less keen, Gordianus, just craftier. You could work it out, if you cared to, but you'd rather draw it out of me."
Over the door of the tavern, the hanging phallus-shaped lamp cast a faint glow to brighten the chilly, overcast afternoon. "A waste of oil," I remarked to Tiro, "considering the shortages in the city."
"Words like 'shortage' have no meaning at the Salacious Tavern," said Tiro, knocking on the door. "Have you been here in the last year or so?"
I shrugged. "Once, I think."
"The place is under new management," he went on. "But nothing's changed. Same girls, same smells, same foul wine- but the taste improves after the second cup."
The peephole opened, then the door. "Soscarides!" the eunuch practically shrieked, gripping Tiro's hands. He failed, as yet, to notice me. "My favorite customer, who also happens to be my favorite philosopher!"
"You've never read a word I've written, you dog. You told me so the first day I came here, two months ago," said Tiro.
"But I keep meaning to," insisted the eunuch. "I placed an order with a book dealer down in the Forum. Really, I did! Or I tried to. The fellow claimed he'd never heard of Soscarides the Alexandrian. Practically laughed at me. The idiot! Now all the book dealers have closed their shops and left town. I shall have to remain ignorant of your wisdom."
"Sometimes ignorance is the truest wisdom," quipped Tiro.
"Oh! Is that one of your famous sayings, Soscarides? I like having philosophers in the tavern. Cleaner than poets, quieter than politicians. Is your friend a famous philosopher, too?" The eunuch finally looked at me. His face fell.
"As much a philosopher as I am," said Tiro, "and even more famous. That's why we're here, to seek some peace and quiet."
The eunuch was nonplused for a moment, then recovered. He acted as if he had never seen me before. "Will a corner in the public room do? The private rooms upstairs are all taken by gambling parties."
"We'll take that corner bench over there," said Tiro, indicating a region so dark I could only conjecture the existence of a corner, let alone a bench. "And two cups of wine. Your best."
Tiro set out for the corner. I followed close behind him. "I didn't realize there was more than one quality of wine offered in this establishment," I said.
"Of course there is. For the best, you pay a bit more."
"And what do you get?"
"The same wine, but poured through a strainer. No nasty surprises floating in the cup."
I grunted as I bumped into something that grunted back. I apologized to a murky, growling shape and moved on, glad when we at last reached the far side of the room. The corner bench was built into the wall. I leaned back and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. Our wine arrived. It was as foul as I remembered. The Salacious Tavern seemed unusually crowded, considering that the sun was still up. With all normal activities in the city at a standstill, what better way to pass the time on a cloudy afternoon than to indulge in a bit of vice? Amid the murmur I heard laughter and cursing and the rattle of dice.
"The die is cast!" shouted one of the players. A round of drunken laughter followed. It took me a moment to catch the joke. Caesar had uttered the same words to his men when he crossed the Rubicon.
"They've immortalized him with a throw, as well," remarked Tiro.
"A throw?"
"Of the dice. The Venus Throw is the highest combination and beats all else. The gamblers are all calling it the Caesar Throw nowadays, and shouting 'Gaius Julius' when they cast the dice. I don't think it means they've taken Caesar's side, necessarily. They're just superstitious. Caesar claims to be partly divine, descended from Venus. So the Venus Throw becomes the Caesar Throw."
"Which beats all else. Is there such a thing as the Pompey Throw?"
Tiro snorted. "I think that must be when the dice skip off the table."
"Is Pompey's position as bad as that?"
"Do you know what Cicero says? 'When he was in the wrong, Pompey always got his way. Now that he's in the right, he fails completely.' Caesar took them all by surprise. Not even his supporters believed that he'd dare to cross into Italy with his troops. You saw the panic that resulted. Pompey led the stampede! Ever since, he's been struggling to get a grip on the situation, day by day. In the morning he's elated and full of bluster. Come afternoon, he falls into a funk and orders his troops to retreat farther south."
I looked at him wryly. "You seem to be awfully well informed for a man who's been lying in a sickbed in Greece since November."
He smiled. "Tiro is still in that sickbed, and will be for some time yet. I'm Soscarides, an Alexandrian philosopher thrown out of work and cast adrift by the crisis."
"What's the point of this elaborate deception?"
"Cicero and I concocted the scheme together, on the trip back from Cilicia. At every stage of the journey, the news from Rome was more and more disturbing- Caesar mocking the constitution, refusing to give up his troops in Gaul, demanding to be allowed to stand for the consulship without coming back to Rome. Pompey likewise digging in his heels, refusing more concessions to Caesar, brooding outside the city gates and clinging to his own legions in Spain. And the Senate- our pathetic, confused, cowardly, grasping, greedy collection of the so-called best men in Rome- breaking down into acrimonious debates on the verge of open violence. You didn't have to be Cassandra to see that the situation was drawing to a crisis. Cicero decided it would be prudent if I were to arrive in Rome ahead of him; there was no one else he could trust to send back accurate reports."
"But why incognito?"
"So as to gather information without drawing attention to Cicero. The disguise is simple. A beard, a change of coloring; that's all."
"But you're slender again, as thin as when I first met you. It changes the shape of your face."
"As it happened, I did fall ill on the way back from Cilicia, early on, and lost quite a bit of weight. I decided to keep myself slim as part of the charade. No more sesame and honey cakes for me, I'm afraid! Altogether, the changes hardly constitute a disguise, but the combined effect suffices. No one seems to recognize me at a distance, or if they do, they decide they must be mistaken, because Cicero made a point of letting everyone know that his beloved Tiro is suffering a prolonged illness back in Greece. People put more faith in what they 'know' than in what they see. Except for you, Gordianus. I should have known you'd be the one to find me out."
"Since you got back, have you spent the whole time here in the city?"
"By Hercules, no! I've been all over Italy, visiting Caesar's garrisons, scouting Antony's movements, checking on Domitius's situation in Corfinium, relaying messages between Cicero and Pompey…"
"You've become Cicero's secret agent."
Tiro shrugged. "I rehearsed for the role during his term as governor of Cilicia. No one would ta
lk to Tiro, the governor's secretary. Soscarides the Alexandrian, on the other hand, was everyone's friend."
I gazed at him over my wine cup. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Having made up your mind you'd seen me back in Rome, you'd have figured it out for yourself, sooner or later. And you might have jumped to some wrong conclusions."
"You could have refused to see me today."
"While you shouted my name in the street, and set those two little boys to dog my every step? No, Gordianus, I know how tenacious you can be, like a hound who can't remember where he buried a bone. Better to point you straight to it than have you digging holes all over the place. Holes are dangerous. They can hurt innocent people. So can jumping to wrong conclusions."
Our host brought more wine. The second cup was better than the first, but only by a little. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness. In the orange haze of the smoky lamps I could make out faces, but only vaguely. The noise would keep anyone from overhearing us.
I thought of something. "The guards told me that Cicero writes letters to you all the time, back in Greece."
"So he does. Our host in Patrae, who supposedly is nursing me back to health, is in on the scheme. As soon as he receives the letters, he posts back false ones, bearing my name."
"So Cicero's letters to you are blank?"
"Hardly! They're full of gossip, quotations from plays, exhortations to get better. You see, he always has the letters done in duplicate. Nothing unusual about that, except that he posts both copies. One goes by regular messenger all the way back to Patrae, to keep up the deception. The other is sent by secret messenger to me, wherever I actually happen to be."
"But if the messages are identical, Cicero is merely sending you gossip and get-well wishes."
"On the surface, yes. Safer that way." He smiled, seemed to mull something over, then produced a pouch from his tunic. From the pouch he pulled out a folded piece of parchment. He called for one of the serving girls to unhook a hanging lamp and bring it to our table. By its sputtering glow, I read the letter. It was dated the first day of the month, some fifteen days previous.
AT FORMIAE, ON THE KALENDS OF FEBRUARIUS.
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