‘They?’
‘My eyes and ears.’
‘Your spies?’
Fulvia shrugged. ‘There’s very little that happens in Rome that doesn’t reach me.’
‘What else do you know about her murder?’
‘If you’re asking me who might have done such a thing or how or why, I can’t tell you. I don’t know. But a woman like Cassandra might have been dangerous to any number of people. She couldn’t just see the future, you know; she had visions of faraway events.’
‘Could she see the future?’
‘She was a witch,’ said Sempronia, interrupting. Her tone implied that I had already received my answer and should pay closer attention.
‘A witch, you say? Did she cast spells, place curses, heal the sick?’
‘She did none of those things in this household,’ said Sempronia, ‘but who can say what powers she possessed? She most certainly was able to see beyond the present moment and the four walls surrounding her.’
‘How do you know that?’
Sempronia opened her mouth to answer, but Fulvia raised a hand to silence her. ‘Let me tell him, Mother.’
Sempronia huffed. ‘Why should we tell this fellow anything?’
‘Have you forgotten, Mother? When Clodius was murdered, Gordianus was among the first to come to this house to pay his respects. He cared enough to seek out the truth.’
‘But he’s an old lackey of Cicero’s!’ Sempronia spat the name.
Fulvia’s eyes narrowed. She and Cicero were old and very bitter enemies. ‘It’s true that you made your reputation working for Cicero, isn’t it, Gordianus?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. I would say, rather, that Cicero made his reputation while I was working for him. I was never his lackey. Over the course of many years, we’ve had our ups and downs. Of late, I’ve lost touch with him completely. I haven’t heard from him in months.’
‘Yet you visited his house only today,’ noted Fulvia. I raised an eyebrow. ‘I told you, Gordianus, there’s little that happens in Rome that I don’t know about.’
‘Yes – your eyes and ears. Yet you don’t know who killed Cassandra?’
Fulvia smiled ruefully. ‘I’m not omniscient. I do have . . . blind spots.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, I went to Cicero’s house this morning to see Terentia for the same reason I’ve come to see you. You made an appearance at Cassandra’s funeral, which suggests that you must have known her in more than a casual way. Who was she? Where did she come from?’
I addressed Fulvia, but her mother answered. ‘She was an Egyptian witch! It stands to reason. All the most powerful witches come from Egypt these days. They carry Greek blood in their veins – which explains Cassandra’s blond hair and blue eyes – but unlike the modernday Greeks, they haven’t forgotten the old magic. The traditions are still kept alive in Egypt – the making of amulets, the memorizing of curses, the arts of fortune-telling. Cassandra was an Egyptian witch.’
‘We don’t know that for a fact, Mother,’ objected Fulvia. ‘It’s only a supposition.’
‘Your eyes and ears never told you where Cassandra came from?’ I asked.
‘Where she was concerned, I was strangely deaf and blind,’ admitted Fulvia. ‘It was as if Cassandra dropped to earth on a comet – and for all I know, she did.’
‘When did you first encounter her?’
‘Many months ago.’
‘How many?’
‘It was in November of last year.’
If that were so, Fulvia had encountered Cassandra even before the day in Januarius when I saw the Vestal Fabia take her into the temple. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am! How could I forget that bitter day?’ Her face darkened. ‘Just how much shall I tell you, Gordianus? Everything? Yes, why not?’ She raised a hand to silence her mother, who seemed poised to object. ‘Caesar was still here in Rome, flush from his triumphs in Spain and Massilia. Word from the Adriatic Sea was not so good; Dolabella was powerless against Pompey’s fleet. But from Sicily . . .’ She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘From Sicily there had come the excellent news of my husband’s conquest of the island, followed by the even more promising news that Gaius had pressed on . . . to Africa.’ She lowered her eyes and cleared her throat.
‘Every day, here in this house, we waited for word of his progress. A messenger arrived with the news that he had taken Utica. We rejoiced. Then a second report arrived that contradicted the first, saying that Utica was still under siege but would fall into Gaius’ hands at any moment. The mood in this house was one of joyful restraint. We lived in anticipation of great and glorious news. My mother made a joke, that soon . . .’ Her voice broke. ‘Soon Gaius would have a new honourific to append to his name, and we would thereafter be the family of Gaius Scribonius Curio Africanus – conqueror of Africa!’ Fulvia shook her head. ‘It’s bitter to be left behind. A woman should be allowed to follow her husband onto the field of battle.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Pompey’s wife went with him when he fled from Rome. I understand she’s with him even now.’
‘I don’t mean that – to follow along like baggage! In a better world I should have been allowed to go along with Gaius, not merely as his wife, but as his co-commander! Yes, I know, the notion is absurd; no centurion would ever take commands from a woman. But I should have been there – to counsel Gaius, to help him weigh the advice of his subordinates, to evaluate intelligence from the field, to plot strategy. If I had been there . . .’
Sempronia touched her arm to comfort her. Fulvia gripped her mother’s hand and went on. ‘Instead of going with him, I waited here in Rome. Is there any torture worse than waiting and not knowing? Some days I felt as if I were riding a storm-tossed ship, pitched between hope and despair until I thought I’d go mad. Other days were so still and quiet it was like being trapped on a ship in flat water – hours passing without a word, without a sign, only endless waiting and watching and wondering. Until . . .’
She drew a deep breath. ‘As I said, it was on a day last November. I had been to the house of one of Gaius’s relatives to see if they had had any news of him, but they knew no more than I did. I was on my way home, passing through the Forum in my litter. The curtains were drawn. No one could see in, but because it was a bright day and the curtains are not entirely opaque, I could see out, at least well enough to tell that we were passing by the Temple of Castor and Pollux. I was thinking about Gaius, of course. Then I heard a voice.
‘It was a woman’s voice. It came from outside the litter. But the quality of that voice was so strange . . . and because of the words it spoke . . . it seemed almost to come from inside my head. The voice said: He’s dead now. He died fighting. It was a brave death.
‘Those words sent such a chill through me that I thought I might faint. It suddenly seemed dark inside the litter, as if a cloud had swallowed the sun. I called on the litter bearers to halt. My voice must have been very nearly a scream. The litter stopped so abruptly that I was pitched forward. Thraso stuck his head through the curtains, looking alarmed. He asked me what was wrong.
‘ “Did you not hear it?” I asked. He looked at me blankly. “A woman’s voice,” I said. “She spoke to me as we passed the temple.”
‘Thraso looked back, towards the way we had come. “There’s no one there,” he said, “except a crazy woman muttering to herself and pacing the temple steps.”
‘ “Bring her!” I told him. He went to fetch her. A few moments later he pulled back the curtains of the litter, and I first saw Cassandra.
‘She was dressed in a filthy tunica. She looked frightened and confused. Thraso had to hold onto her tightly, or else she would have fled. “You spoke to me just now,” I said, “as my litter passed the steps.” She shook her head and looked at me as if I were the mad one. “You spoke!” I insisted. “Say it again. Say the words you said before!”
‘The voice that emerged from her was so otherworldly that even Thraso quailed a b
it. It didn’t match her body, you see. The voice was too old for such a young woman. It didn’t quite seem to come from her open lips, yet there was nowhere else for it to have come from. It was uncanny, unnerving. “He’s dead now,” she said. “He died fighting. It was a brave death.”
‘The words were even more disturbing the second time I heard them. They shattered me. I began to shiver and weep. I ordered Thraso to take me home as quickly as possible. “What shall I do with this one?” he asked. I could see he wanted nothing to do with the woman, but I told him to bring her along with us. He made a face, but he tightened his grip on the woman’s arm. He let the curtains drop and ordered the bearers to hurry homeward.
‘When we arrived, I told Thraso to bring the woman here, to this room. She was even dirtier than I had realized. Her clothes were ragged and worn. She had a distinct odour, as if she hadn’t been to the public baths in days. In a voice as normal as anyone else’s, she told me she was hungry. There was nothing menacing or uncanny or even odd about her. She seemed intimidated at being in such a grand house, and rather pathetic. I told Thraso to fetch some food and drink for her. Then I asked her what she had meant by what she said.’
‘And what did she tell you?’
‘She said she couldn’t remember saying anything at all. I was already shaken. I became angry . . . confused . . . I pressed her. She cowered and wept. Suddenly she began to quiver and twitch. Her eyes rolled back. She spoke again in that strange, hollow voice that seemed to come from the ether. She described to me a desert plain, blinding sunlight, a hot wind. She heard men shouting, saw flashing swords, heard the sizzle of blood spattered on hot sand. She saw Gaius – it could only have been Gaius, for she described him to me perfectly: his curling black hair, his glittering blue eyes, his defiant jaw, the half smile that would light his face when prospects were grim. She saw him clothed in shimmering armour, though his head was bare, for he had lost his helmet. He was alone, cut off from his men, surrounded, slashing his sword through the air, until finally . . . he fell. They swarmed over him. And then—’
‘Fulvia, no!’ Her mother gripped her arm with white knuckles, but Fulvia pressed on.
‘And then . . . she saw Gaius’ face rise up again, as if by some miracle he had gotten to his feet, even amid all that murderous swarm. Not only that, but he was . . . smiling. Grinning like a boy, she said. But then . . . then she saw the vision more clearly and realized . . . there was no body below his neck, which was severed and dripping with blood. His head was being held aloft by the Numidian who had beheaded him. He only seemed to smile because . . . because the fist clenching his black curls pulled taut the muscles of his face, opening his mouth, baring his teeth . . .’
Throughout this long recitation, Fulvia kept her eyes on mine as if daring me to look away. At last I did, unable to bear the pain I saw there. It was not the glimmer of eyes brimming with hot tears, but a hard, dry grief, tearless and cold.
Fulvia drew a deep breath. ‘As abruptly as it began, the spell ended. She was simply a meek beggar again, dazed, hungry, with no recollection of what she had just said. I was stunned, shocked, speechless. Food was brought. I watched her eat. She was like a beast, with no manners at all. Her odour offended me, so I sent her to be bathed. I ordered that her old rags should be burned and told one of my slaves to find a proper tunica for her. The slave found an old blue one that suited her. When I saw her cleaned and properly dressed, I realized how beautiful she was. I told Thraso that she should be given a place to sleep, and that he should keep watch on her.
‘At dawn Thraso came to me and told me that the woman had slept the night through, quite soundly. I myself had slept not at all. I told Thraso to keep the woman in the house, to offer her whatever food and drink she wanted, to lock her in her room if he had to. But I was the one who behaved like a prisoner. I shut myself in this room. I saw no one, spoke to no one, not even my mother. I simply waited, sick with dread. From these windows I watched the sun rise and fell over the city. I passed another night without sleep.
‘It was on the next day – two days after the woman related her vision to me – that Caesar summoned his inner circle and told them that he had just received word from Africa. Marc Antony came at once to give me the bad news. I received him in this room, my heart beating so hard that I could barely hear him. He knew I would demand to know every detail. He carefully recited everything the messenger had told Caesar. The battle in the desert, the stifling heat, Gaius’ last stand, even the fact that he had lost his helmet before the enemy swarmed over him – every detail matched what the woman had told me. Strangest of all, the messenger reported a rumour that King Juba had laughed when he received Gaius’ head, not out of spite, but because Gaius appeared to be grinning at him. Do you understand, Gordianus? The woman had seen everything – everything – as clearly as if she had been there.
‘I contained my emotions as best I could – after all, I was prepared for the worst even before he arrived – but still I wept. Antony did his best to comfort me. In the end I think it was I who comforted him; he and Gaius had been close ever since they were boys, as close as two men can be, even closer in some ways perhaps than Gaius and myself.
‘Eventually I told Antony about the woman in my house, and the fact that she had already delivered the news to me two days before. Antony said that was impossible – word had only just reached Caesar, and Caesar would tell Antony before anyone else. I tried to tell him how precisely the woman had seen the details of Gaius’ death, but Antony wouldn’t listen. We had drunk quite a bit of wine by then, and his senses were muddled. He wasn’t in a listening mood. I put him to bed in the guest quarters, then went to find the woman.
‘But she was gone. She had vanished somehow, even with Thraso watching her. I realized that I knew nothing about her, not even her name or where she lived, if indeed she had a fixed abode. I thought of sending Thraso to search for her, but at that moment I saw no point. She had told me what I wanted to know, and the knowledge had only served to make me wretched for two sleepless nights before the news arrived from a more trustworthy source. And also . . . also I was a little frightened of her. She was a witch of some sort. If she could see events in Africa, who knew what other powers she might possess? She herself seemed not to understand her gifts and how to use them. She might be dangerous. I didn’t want her in my house.’
I nodded, taking in all that Fulvia had told me. ‘That was the last you saw of her, then?’
Something in her eyes changed, as if a door that had been open was abruptly shut. She seemed evasive. ‘Thraso reported to me later that she had become something of a fixture in the Forum and the markets, and that people had given her a name: Cassandra. I asked him to find out more about her, but there was very little he could discover, except that others in the city besides myself were availing themselves of Cassandra’s gifts.’
‘Others?’
‘You saw them – the women who appeared at her funeral. If you want to find out what they knew about Cassandra, ask them yourself. If you do discover something of interest about her – if you do find out who killed her – come tell me, Gordianus. I’ll pay you well for the information. I’d like to know, simply out of curiosity. I’ve been entirely open with you, after all.’ As if to contradict her words, the faint smile that had been absent from her face since she began the tale of how she met Cassandra returned, and I had the feeling that she was holding something back from me.
‘You never saw her again, face-to-face?’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps, briefly. But that meeting was of no particular consequence. There’s nothing more of any significance I can tell you.’ She sighed. ‘I’m tired now. I think I shall rest a bit before taking dinner. I’m afraid I must say farewell, Gordianus, to you and to your taciturn but very ornamental young son-in-law. Thraso will show the two of you out.’ She turned her gaze from me to the window. After a moment, her mother did likewise. Together they stared at the framed image of a distant cloud lit by the twil
ight’s last blush of lurid pink against a backdrop of lapis lazuli. A scattering of faint, early stars twinkled in the darkening firmament.
The slave showed us down the stairs and through the long hallways. We had reached the soaring atrium when another slave, running at a trot, caught up with us and told us to wait. Thraso raised an eyebrow, then saw the reason we were being detained. At the far end of the hallway we had just traversed, coming towards us at a surprisingly fast clip for a woman her age, was Sempronia. As she drew closer, her gaze fixed on me as if I were a rabbit and she a descending hawk.
With a curt wave she dismissed the slaves. We stood at the base of one of the immense black marble columns that supported the skylight far above our heads. Sempronia drew close to me, speaking in a hoarse whisper. The vast space swallowed up her voice without giving back an echo.
‘My daughter was not entirely forthcoming with you, Gordianus.’
I raised an eyebrow, afraid that any comment might put her off. For some reason, despite her earlier suspicion, she had decided to trust me. What did she want to tell me?
Sempronia frowned. ‘My daughter has endured a great deal of suffering in her life. It’s because she’s so ambitious, of course; even more ambitious than I was at her age.’ She flashed a thin smile that contained no warmth. ‘I sometimes think: If only she’d been born a boy. But of course, if that were the case, she’d probably have gotten herself killed already – like Clodius, like Curio – or perhaps not. Fulvia is smarter than either of those fellows were. That’s a curse for a woman, to be smarter than her husband. Fulvia’s carried that curse twice in a row. Clodius and Curio – at least their ambitions and their dreams matched hers, if not their wits.’ She shook her head. ‘Now she’s a widow again, with children from both her marriages, children who must be given the best possible chance in the world that’s about to be created on some battlefield far from Rome.’
‘What if Pompey wins that battle?’ I said.
She drew a sharp breath through her nostrils. ‘Such a disaster doesn’t bear considering. No, Caesar will win. I’m sure of it.’
A Mist of Prophecies Page 9
