A Mist of Prophecies

by Saylor, Steven

  Androcles stood to one side. ‘You missed a spot,’ he said.

  ‘I did not!’ said Mopsus.

  ‘Yes, you did. Right there, along the bottom.’

  ‘I don’t see anything.’

  ‘That’s because you’re blind.’

  ‘I am not!’

  ‘Did I say blind? I meant to say stupid.’

  I clapped my hands. ‘Boys, stop your squabbling! Mopsus, get back to work.’

  Mopsus began brushing again.

  ‘You missed another spot,’ said Androcles.

  ‘Are you deaf? The master told you to shut up. Didn’t you hear him?’

  ‘He said no such thing! He told you to get back to work.’

  I took the ivory brush from Mopsus and gave Androcles a sound smack on the head. He gave a cry and reached up to rub the spot. Mopsus clutched his sides and brayed like a donkey. I gave him a smack as well.

  Satisfied that I was presentable, I told the boys to wake Davus if he was not yet up and to dress him. Meanwhile, I looked in on Bethesda. She was still sleeping, but fitfully, tossing and muttering as if in the grip of a fever. I felt her brow, but it was cool. Was she suffering physical discomfort, or simply in the throes of a nightmare? I decided not to wake her. Sleep was her only respite from the malady that had been plaguing her.

  Davus was waiting for me in the garden, looking rather cramped in his toga. We left the house and set out on the rim road along the crest of the Palatine Hill.

  It was a fine morning, already warm but not yet hot. Golden sunlight slanted through a towering yew tree near my house. Birds sang and flitted amid the branches. A little farther on, I paused to take in a view of the Forum below and the hills beyond. To the right I could see the shallow valley of the Subura, crowded with ugly tenements. More to the centre and farther away, atop the Pincian Hill, I saw flashes of sunlight on the tile roof of Pompey’s grand house, now deserted and awaiting its master’s return. To the left, above the Capitoline Hill, a lone eagle was circling the Temple of Jupiter. Beyond the Capitoline I caught a glimpse of the Tiber, a gold ribbon lit by the sun, with wharves and markets along its banks. In a single, sweeping view I saw a microcosm of the whole world – palaces and slums, the dwellings of prostitutes and Vestal Virgins, temples where the gods were worshipped and markets where slaves were sold.

  ‘What a remarkable city!’ I said aloud. Davus responded with a nod. For good or ill, Rome was the centre of the world. In spite of all the world’s troubles and my own – my crushing debts, my rupture with Meto, Bethesda’s mysterious ailment, the murder of Cassandra – such a view on such a morning could still inspire me with that curious sense of hope that young men feel when they rise and greet the world on a sunny summer morning and anything seems possible.

  ‘Where are we going, Father-in-Law?’

  ‘Today, Davus, I intend to pay a visit to Marc Antony’s wife – and perhaps to his mistress, as well.’

  I had never met Antonia and knew her only by reputation. She was Antony’s first cousin and his second wife; his first had been Fadia, the daughter of a wealthy freedman. That marriage – for love, people said – had scandalized Antony’s family; even though Fadia brought him a handsome dowry, she had been his social inferior. But Fadia died young, and Antony’s second marriage had done much to repair his reputation among the Roman aristocracy. Antonia was handsome, well-to-do, and Antony’s exact social equal. But she also shared his weakness for adultery. While Antony had scandalized all Italy in the last year by travelling about with his mistress, the actress Cytheris, Antonia had been carrying on with Cicero’s dissolute son-in-law Dolabella. According to the chin-waggers in the Forum, the only bond still holding Antony and Antonia together in marriage was their six-year-old daughter.

  It was her shrieking I heard from within when a hulking slave opened the door at Antonia’s house. A moment later, beyond the slave, a tiny naked figure streaked by, followed by a stooped, hobbling nurse unable to keep up with her charge. ‘I will not! I will not!’ the little girl cried, then screamed again. Is there anything so ear-piercing as the scream of a six-year-old girl? I covered my ears. The girl dashed off.

  Before the door slave could ask our names or business, Antonia herself appeared, following after the child and the nurse. It was early in the day, so I was not surprised to see her wearing only a simple yellow stola without jewellery, and with her hair undressed, hanging down almost to her waist. With or without adornment, she was a beautiful woman. I thought of poor, plain Tullia, and wondered if the rumours about Dolabella and Antonia were true.

  She looked past the door slave at Davus and me, put her hands on her hips, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you from my husband?’

  ‘No. My name—’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘From Dolabella?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what business have you got knocking on my door at such an early hour? No, wait – I know you from somewhere, don’t I? Ah, yes, you’re the one who buried Cassandra.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Gordianus, isn’t it? The so-called Finder? I’ve heard of you from my husband. You’ve got the son who goes about with Caesar, taking his dictation. Dictation from the dictator!’ She uttered a crude laugh. I winced at this reference to Meto.

  Before I could answer, the naked child came racing by in the opposite direction. Antonia stooped down, captured her, and held her wriggling until the nurse arrived. As the screaming child was led off, Antonia shook her head. ‘She’s as wilful as her father. The little monster inherited his temperament. And my looks, don’t you think? Juno help the man who marries her!’ She saw the nonplussed expression on my face and laughed. Then her smile faded. ‘I suppose you’re here to talk about Cassandra. Come along, then. There’s a nice spot of sun in the garden, and peacocks to amuse us.’

  There were indeed peacocks in the garden, three of them, all strutting about with their fans in fall display. Chairs were brought, along with pitchers of water and wine. Antonia had not yet taken her breakfast; she told the serving slave to bring enough for all three of us. When I saw the plate of delicacies he delivered, I let out a gasp. I had not seen a date stuffed with almond paste in months; the plate was heaped with them. It seemed that the shortages that plagued ordinary citizens did not affect the household of Caesar’s right-hand man.

  Davus gobbled up a date. He licked his fingertips and was about to reach for another when I stopped him with a look.

  Antonia laughed. ‘Let the big fellow eat his fill. I have more dates and figs and olives than I know what to do with. Before he left to join Caesar, my husband spent months travelling all over Italy – with that strumpet of his, for all the world to gawk at – and he did a very good job of gathering provisions. Rather like a squirrel gathering acorns for the winter. Ostensibly his mission was to cow the locals and impose great Caesar’s will, but he was really just extorting everyone. He’s a pirate at heart, you know. A lying, drinking, whoring pirate.’ She snapped her fingers and pointed to her empty cup. The slave poured a measure of wine. Antonia put it to her lips before he could add an equal measure of water.

  ‘My husband won’t last, you know. His days are numbered. I don’t think Caesar much liked the way Antony ran Italy in his absence, parading about with his whore, bleeding the countryside, getting stinking drunk, and generally making a spectacle of himself. Once Caesar’s disposed of Pompey, he’ll come back to run the show himself. If they haven’t been disposed of already, he’ll deal in short order with this insurrection that Milo and Marcus Caelius are hatching. He won’t need a drunken bully to do it for him. Antony shall simply be an embarrassment to him.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I should have divorced him before he left Italy. That would have been the smart thing to do. But perhaps, if I’m lucky, the gods will make me a widow soon enough and spare me the bother. Anything can happen on a battlefield, they say.’

  She paused in her tirade to drain her cup, then continued. ‘I only married him because my mother wanted
me to. “What a stroke of fortune!” she said. “Fadia, that awful creature he married, is dead; and now’s our chance to rehabilitate your dear cousin, and you’re just the one to do it. The whole family is counting on you. You always got along so well as children.” Ha! I remember him pulling my hair. And I remember kicking him in the shins. If only I’d kicked him a bit higher up, hard enough to crack his eggs, I’d have done everyone a favour. What’s the matter, big fellow? Don’t you care for the pickled figs?’

  Davus, caught with his mouth full, finished chewing and swallowed. ‘I prefer the dates,’ he said.

  ‘As you wish. More dates!’ she called to the slave. ‘And a bit more wine for me. To the brim! That’s better. Where was I?’ She looked at me crossly. ‘You’re all alike, you men. Worthless. I’d divorce my cousin and marry Dolabella, but he’s no better. I’d only be spoiling my own amusement. “Good lovers make bad husbands,” as the saying goes. Poor Tullia! That stupid girl worships him. She has no idea; she must be blind and deaf. Dolabella treats her with utter contempt. I’d say she deserves it, the little fool, but didn’t the gods curse her enough already by giving her that lout Cicero for a father? And Dolabella’s no more promising than Antony in the long run. He’s made a complete mess of the naval command Caesar gave him. He’s likely to end up like wretched Curio, with his head on a stick – of no use to me whatsoever if that happens. Ah, well . . . but you didn’t come here to talk about me, did you?’

  She gave me a sidelong, heavy-lidded look. I began to suspect she had taken her first cup of wine even before we arrived. I had found her rather good-looking earlier, and her candour refreshing; but with every word she spoke and with each sip of wine she became more and more unattractive, until her vivacity seemed merely vulgar. A weakness for wine was her cousin’s vice. Perhaps it ran in the family.

  ‘I came here to talk about Cassandra,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Ah, yes, Cassandra. Well, she never fooled me. Not for an instant.’

  I felt a prickling across the back of my neck, a premonition of something unpleasant. But I had come to seek the truth, after all, or at least Antonia’s version of it. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All that folderol, swooning and sputtering and rolling her eyes back in her head. Oh, she was very convincing, I’ll grant her that.’

  ‘You’re talking about her fits of prophecy?’

  Antonia made a rude exhalation. ‘Prophecy! That’s what she wanted everyone to believe. Well, I didn’t fall for it. Oh, perhaps a little, at first. I’ll admit I was curious. Who wasn’t? Everyone was talking about her and how she’d been invited into some of the best homes in Rome because of her “gift.” My dear husband himself was convinced of it. After Caesar, he was the first man in Rome to know about Curio’s death; yet when he went to Fulvia to give her the bad news, Fulvia already knew because Cassandra had told her. Now that was a bit uncanny, I confess.’ She suddenly looked thoughtful, as if reconsidering her earlier judgment. Then she shook her head. ‘But no, the woman was mostly a fake. Perhaps not entirely. Perhaps there was a tiny bit of truth to this notion that she had a gift for prophecy. I’ll say that she was nine parts a fake and one part genuine. What do you say to that?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Didn’t you know the truth about her, Finder? You buried her.’

  ‘If I knew everything about Cassandra already, believe me, I wouldn’t be sitting here now.’

  Antonia perceived an insult and bristled, then smiled. ‘It’s all coming back to me now, the things my husband told me about you and your dictation-loving son. You’re awfully impertinent, aren’t you? My husband admires that in common people.’ She sighed. ‘It’s a holdover from his younger days when he was married to that daughter of a freedman, Fadia. He comes from one of the best families in Rome, yet he’s always had a taste for mucking in the dirt. I suppose it gives him a certain advantage when it comes to endearing himself to the soldiers under his command. They appreciate the common touch. And no one is more common than my husband when he’s in his cups, belching and farting and fondling that actress. Cytheris! Do you know where he first saw her? Performing some lewd mime after dinner one night at the house of Volumnius the banker. From that moment on, the two of them commenced to make fools of themselves from one end of Italy to the other. He even wanted to take her along with him when he left Italy to join Caesar. Can you imagine? I told him not to be an idiot. “Caesar’s locked in a life-or-death struggle to make himself master of the world, and you’re going to show up at his headquarters with your plaything in tow, both of you reeking of wine and perfume? Do you know what Caesar’s going to tell you? ‘For Jupiter’s sake, Antony, put away your sword for once in your life, and get rid of that whore!’ ” ’

  She had strayed a long way from the subject of Cassandra. I cleared my throat.

  ‘Ah! But you came here to talk about that other actress, didn’t you?’

  ‘Actress?’

  ‘Cassandra, I mean. I’d sooner call her that than a seeress. Come to think of it, perhaps she was an actress. Like Cytheris, I mean. A trained professional. That would explain . . .’

  ‘Explain what?’

  She looked at me glumly. ‘All right, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything. Hades, where is that slave? Ah, there you are! I see you skulking behind that pillar. Get over here and pour me more wine. Mind the peacocks don’t bite you. And bring more stuffed dates for the big fellow. It amuses me to watch him eat.’ She poured another cupful of wine down her throat. ‘There now, that’s better. Back to Cassandra. Cassandra the fake! Cassandra the actress? Maybe. I kept hearing so much about her that finally I went looking for her one day—’

  ‘When was this?’

  She shrugged. ‘Late in the month of Martius, not long after Antony left Italy. I still hadn’t received word about the crossing, whether he’d made it safely or not. That was my excuse to seek her out, with that particular question in mind. Anyway, I found her near the marketplace by the river, sitting on a wharf with her feet dangling over the edge, mumbling to herself. Pretty, I suppose, in a common sort of way, but awfully scruffy.’ Antonia wrinkled her nose. ‘Ordinarily I can’t stand being near such people, but I forced myself to make an exception in her case. I sent a slave to ask her to join me in my litter, but the slave came back and said that Cassandra wouldn’t respond. “She’s in some sort of trance,” the stupid slave told me. So I actually climbed out of the litter and went to her myself. “On your feet,” I said. “You’re coming with me. I’ll have you washed and fed, and then we’ll see what you’re good for.” Cassandra looked up at me and didn’t say a word. I was about to speak more sternly to her, but then she slowly got to her feet and followed me back to the litter. She didn’t say a word all the way back to my house; she just sat there and stared at me and let me chatter on and on like a fool.’

  ‘Imagine that,’ I muttered under my breath.

  ‘As I said, I sought her out especially to ask about Antony and whether he’d made the sea crossing successfully. I thought I’d test her, you see. When a messenger did arrive with the news, I’d see whether she’d been right or wrong. But she was more slippery than I expected.’

  ‘How so?’

  Antonia’s face darkened. ‘When we arrived here at the house, I offered her food. She took nothing. That surprised me; I’d heard she was a beggar. Aren’t beggars always hungry? Was my food not good enough for her? I offered her clean clothes. She ignored me. I offered her money. She wouldn’t take it. I began to think she truly was mad. I asked her what she wanted. She looked at me and said, “Nothing. You’re the one who brought me here. You’re the one who wants something.”

  ‘I very nearly struck her, the impertinent bitch! But I decided to test her. “They say you have second sight,” I said, “so why should I need to speak to you at all? Can’t you tell what I want from you simply by using your gift?” She said, “It doesn’t work like that.” “Then how does it work?” I asked.

 
‘She explained that over time she’d discovered a way to induce her fits by staring into a flame. So I had a lamp brought. She sat on one side; I sat on the other. And that was when she put on her little performance.’

  ‘A performance?’

  ‘What else shall I call it? She suddenly pitched forward, knocking the lamp aside, and gripped my forearm with both hands. “How dare you touch me?” I said. But she wouldn’t let go. She only squeezed me harder, until I gave a cry. Some of the slaves came running; but when they arrived, they kept their distance. They were afraid of her, you see – more afraid of her than of me! I could hardly blame them. Her back was arched, and her head was thrown back. Her eyes were wide open but showed only white. She trembled and shuddered and pitched her head about as if her neck had snapped, but she never loosened her grip on my arm.’

  ‘Did she speak?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She babbled nonsense for a while . . .’

  ‘What sort of nonsense?’

  Antonia raised an eyebrow. ‘Why are you so keen to know, Finder? And how is it that you don’t know already? You buried her. Weren’t you in league with her?’

  ‘In league with her? How do you mean?’

  ‘Surely you know more about her than I do. Why do you think I’ve allowed you into my house? Because I thought you could tell me what Cassandra was really up to. Did she put on those performances merely to ingratiate herself, to obtain a bit of food when she was hungry, perhaps a few coins or some cast-off clothing? Did she think she might find a permanent patron, someone who would keep her indefinitely, so long as she kept uttering that mindless drivel? Or was it more sinister than that? Was she deliberately worming her way into this household and that, looking for things to steal? You always have to watch that sort; I knew better than to leave her alone even for a moment! Or perhaps she was looking for information she could use to her advantage. I can imagine her more credulous victims – Cicero’s wife comes immediately to mind – opening up to her and spilling all sorts of embarrasing secrets, secrets that could be used against others later. Was that it? Was Cassandra a blackmailer?’