A Mist of Prophecies

by Saylor, Steven

  ‘Only now it’s changing. See how the mouth is bending. You might almost say it was a comedy mask.’

  ‘I see what you mean. But the whole shape is changing, isn’t it? It’s not really like a mask anymore. More like – nothing, really. Just a cloud . . .’ Rather like my pursuit of the truth about Cassandra, I thought. My interviews had yielded a continual series of impressions that flowed one into another, all slightly different, all somehow askew, none of them quite recognizable as the Cassandra I had known. The truth about her was as elusive as a cloud, holding its shape only until the next interview changed it into something else.

  ‘Only two more to go,’ I said.

  ‘Clouds?’ said Davus.

  ‘No! Only two more women to talk to, of those who came to watch Cassandra’s funeral pyre: Calpurnia and Clodia.’

  ‘Shall we go see one of them now, Father-in-Law?’

  ‘Why not? On such a beautiful day, I think I know where Clodia will be.’

  We crossed the bridge to the far side of the Tiber and turned to the right, keeping as close to the river as we could. Here, away from the bustle of the city’s centre, the wealthiest families of Rome kept little garden estates, called horti, along the waterfront. Clodia’s horti had been in her family for generations. It was there I had first met her eight years ago when she summoned me to investigate the murder of the Egyptian philosopher Dio. Marcus Caelius had been her lover, but they had fallen out, and Clodia had been determined to exact her revenge by prosecuting him for Dio’s murder.

  Clodia’s horti were also the last place I had seen her, when I came to her after her beloved brother’s murder on the Appian Way. Fulvia had been Clodius’ wife, but there were those who said Clodia was the true widow, no matter that she was the dead man’s sister.

  As Davus and I walked along the road, I caught only occasional glimpses of the river to our right. More often, high walls blocked our view. Once, access to the horti along the Tiber had been relatively open, but in recent years many owners had built high fences and walls to keep out strangers. When we did pass by an unwalled estate, I saw patches of woodland and tall grass interspersed with meticulously cultivated gardens. Through the foliage I caught glimpses of rustic sheds and charming little guest houses, shade-dappled fishponds and splashing fountains, stone-paved walkways adorned with statuary, and boat ramps projecting into the glimmering Tiber.

  Clodia’s horti were far enough from the city’s centre to feel secluded, yet close enough to reach by foot – an enviable location for a piece of riverfront property in the capital of the world. Cicero, who had done a thorough job of destroying Clodia’s reputation in the process of defending Caelius, had had the gall to try to buy her horti from Clodia only a few years later. Clodia had refused even to speak to his agent.

  Unlike many of her neighbours, Clodia had resisted the trend of encircling her horti with high walls. Coming upon the narrow lane that led off the main road into her grounds, I had the feeling of being somewhere far away from the city with all its crimes and riots. The lane was bordered by sprawling berry bushes that met overhead, shading the way. This tunnel-like path opened onto a broad swathe of high grass. Once, I remembered, that grass had been kept closely mown by a pair of goats. The goats were gone. What had once been a lawn had become a wild meadow.

  Facing the meadow and perpendicular to the river, which was almost entirely obscured by an intervening stand of dense trees, was a long, narrow house with a portico running along the front. The house was not as I remembered. Tiles were missing from the roof. Some of the shutters were askew, hanging from broken hinges. The shrubbery along the portico, perfectly trimmed in my memory, was overgrown and choked with weeds.

  I remembered Clodia’s horti echoing with music and the laughter of naked bathers on the riverbank. All I heard on this day was the buzzing of cicadas in the high grass. The place seemed utterly deserted, with not even a groundskeeper to look after it.

  ‘Doesn’t look like anyone’s here,’ said Davus.

  ‘Perhaps not. On such a beautiful day, it’s hard to imagine she wouldn’t be here. She used to love this place so much! But times change. People change. The world grows older.’ I sighed. ‘Still, let’s take a look down by the river.’

  Avoiding the high grass, we walked along the portico that fronted the house. Where the shutters hung off their hinges, I peeked inside the windows. The rooms were dark, but I could see that some had been stripped entirely of their furnishings. The place smelled of dust and mildew.

  We came to the end of the portico. Here a little path wound among magnificent yew trees and cypresses, leading down to the water’s edge. I had given up on finding Clodia, but for nostalgia’s sake I wanted to stand for a moment at the place where I had first met her. She had been lounging on a high couch in her red-and-white-striped pavilion wearing a gown of sheerest gossamer, while she watched a band of young men, including her brother, Clodius, frolic naked in the water for her amusement.

  We made our way through the trees. To my surprise, a lone figure sat in a folding chair on the riverbank facing the water. It was a woman wearing a stola better suited for winter days; the wool was dark grey and the sleeves covered her arms. Her dark hair was streaked with grey and pulled back in a bun. What was she doing here? She hardly looked like the sort of woman to be a friend of Clodia’s.

  She must have heard us, for she turned about in the chair and peered up at us, shading her brow against the sun so that her face was obscured.

  ‘Does Clodia know you’re here?’ I asked.

  The woman laughed. It was her laugh I recognized – sly, indulgent, intimating unspoken secrets. ‘Have I really changed that much, Gordianus? You haven’t changed a bit.’

  ‘Clodia!’ I whispered.

  She lowered her hand. I saw her face. Her eyes were the same – emerald green, as bright as sunlight on the green Tiber – but time had caught up with the rest of her. It had been only four years since I had last seen her. How could she have aged so much in that time?

  To be sure, she had taken no pains to look her best. That in itself marked a change; Clodia had always been vain about her appearance. But on this day she wore no makeup to accentuate her eyes and lips, no jewellery to adorn her ears and throat, and a drab stola that did nothing to flatter her. Her hair, usually elaborately dressed and coloured with henna, was pulled back in a simple bun and showed an abundance of grey. The most subtle difference, and yet the most telling, was the fact that she seemed to be wearing no scent. Clodia’s perfume, a heady blend of spikenard and crocus oil, had haunted me for years. It was impossible to think of her without recalling that scent. Yet on this day, standing near her, I smelled only the rank green smell of the riverbank on a summer day.

  She smiled. ‘Whom did you expect to find here?’

  ‘No one. The house appears deserted.’

  ‘So it is.’

  ‘There’s no one else here?’ I said. ‘No one at all?’ Clodia had always surrounded herself with admiring sycophants who spouted poetry, beautiful slaves of both genders, and a veritable army of lovers – cast-off lovers, current lovers, would-be lovers awaiting their turn.

  ‘No one but me,’ she said. ‘I came by litter early this morning, then sent the bearers back to my house on the Palatine. I come here very seldom nowadays, but when I do, I prefer to be alone. Slaves can be so tiresome, standing about waiting for instructions. And there’s no one left in Rome worth inviting to a bathing party. All the beautiful young men are off getting themselves killed somewhere. Or they’re dead already . . .’ She looked past me, at Davus. ‘Except for this one. Who is he, Gordianus?’

  I smiled, despite a twinge of jealousy. ‘Davus is my son-in-law.’

  ‘Can your little girl really be old enough to be married? And to such a mountain of muscles! Lucky little Diana. Maybe he’d like to take a swim in the river.’ She stared at Davus like a hungry tigress. Perhaps she had not changed so very much after all.

  I raised an eyeb
row. ‘I think not.’

  Davus gazed at the sparkling water. ‘Actually, Father-in-Law, it’s such a hot day . . .’

  ‘By all means, go jump in the water,’ said Clodia. ‘I insist! Slip out of that silly toga . . . and whatever you’re wearing underneath. You can hang your things on that tree branch there. Just as all the young men used to do; I remember that branch piled high with cast-off garments . . .’

  Davus looked at me. His brow glistened with sweat. ‘Oh, very well,’ I said.

  Clodia laughed softly. ‘Stop glowering, Gordianus. Unless you’d like to take a swim as well, you’ll find another folding chair in that little lean-to over there. There’s also a box with a bit of food and some wine.’

  When I returned with the chair and the box, Davus was striding towards the river’s edge, barefoot and wearing only his loincloth.

  ‘Young man!’ called Clodia.

  Davus looked over his shoulder.

  ‘Come back here, young man.’

  Davus headed back, a questioning look on his face. As soon as he was within range, Clodia reached out, gripped his loincloth, and deftly pulled it off. She sat back in her chair and spun the loincloth on her forefinger for a moment before tossing it with perfect aim atop the toga draped over the tree branch. ‘There, that’s better. A fellow as handsome as you should go into the river just as the gods made you.’

  I expected Davus to blush and stammer, but instead he grinned stupidly, let out a whoop, and ran splashing into the water.

  I sighed. ‘You still have the power to make grown men into little boys, I see.’

  ‘Every man except you, Gordianus. By Hercules, look at the thighs on that fellow – and what’s between them. He’s a veritable stallion! Are you sure he’s not too much for little Diana to handle?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Perhaps we could speak of something else.’

  ‘Must we? On such a day, how pleasant it would be to speak only of youth and beauty and love. But knowing you, Gordianus, I suppose you’ve come to talk about misery and murder and death.’

  ‘One death, in particular.’

  ‘The seeress?’

  ‘She was called Cassandra.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘You were there to see her burn.’

  Clodia was silent for a moment, watching Davus splash in the water. ‘I thought perhaps you had come to bring me . . . other news.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘That monster Milo . . . and Marcus Caelius. This silly, doomed revolt of theirs.’

  ‘What do you care about that?’

  ‘They shall both get themselves killed.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Caelius . . .’ She stared at the water, lost in thought. ‘Long ago when we were lovers, Caelius used to swim out there while I watched. Just the two of us, alone on this stretch of the riverbank; we needed no one else. I remember him standing just where your son-in-law is standing now, naked, with his back to me – Caelius had a delicious backside – then slowly turning around to show me his grin . . . and the fact that he was rampant and ready for love.’

  ‘You must have seen many men since then, bathing naked out there.’

  ‘None like Caelius.’

  ‘Yet you came to hate him.’

  ‘He deserted me.’

  ‘You tried to destroy him.’

  ‘But I didn’t succeed, did I? I only did harm to myself. And now, without any assistance from me, Caelius seems determined to destroy himself She closed her eyes. ‘Gone,’ she whispered, ‘all gone: my dear, sweet brother; Fulvia’s beloved Curio; so many of the beautiful young men who used to come here, cavorting in the water without a care. Even that pest Catullus with his wretched poems. Whom shall the Fates take next? Marcus Caelius, I suppose. After so many years of laughing in their faces, the Fates shall snatch him up and send him straight to Hades.’

  ‘You’ll be revenged on him at last.’

  She nodded. ‘That’s one way of looking at it.’

  ‘I came to talk about Cassandra, not Caelius.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The seeress.’

  ‘You say that with irony in your voice. Did she prophesy for you?’

  ‘Why do you ask, Gordianus?’

  ‘She was murdered. I want to find out why she died, and who killed her.’

  ‘Why? It won’t bring her back.’ She tilted her head and looked at me keenly, then made a face. ‘Oh, dear. Is that it? Now I see. Well, well. Cassandra succeeded where Clodia failed.’

  ‘If you mean—’

  ‘You were in love with her, weren’t you?’

  I had never said that word aloud, not even to Cassandra herself. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘At any rate, you made love to her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She released a sigh of mingled exasperation and amusement. ‘Fortune’s wheel spins round and round! Now Clodia finds herself celibate – and the ever-faithful Gordianus is an adulterer! Who would ever have thought it? The gods must be laughing at us.’

  ‘So I have long suspected.’

  She stared abstractedly at the glinting sunlight on the water and bit her thumbnail. ‘That was rude of me, to speak so glibly. You must be quite devastated.’

  ‘Cassandra’s death was a blow to me, yes, among many other blows of late.’

  ‘Gordianus the stoic! You should learn to vent your emotions. Drink yourself into a stupor. Destroy some irreplaceable object in a rage. Spend an hour or two torturing one of your slaves. You’ll feel better.’

  ‘I’d rather find out who killed Cassandra, and why.’

  ‘And then what? I saw the other women who came to watch Cassandra’s funeral pyre. If it was one of them, what action could you possibly take? The courts are a shambles. No magistrate will show any interest in the murder of a nobody like Cassandra. And every one of those women is too powerful for you to take on by yourself. You’ll never find justice.’

  ‘Then I’ll settle for finding the truth.’

  ‘How strange you are, Gordianus! They say each mortal has a guiding passion. Seeking pleasure seems endlessly more sensible to me, but if finding truth is yours, so be it.’ Clodia shrugged. Even though the gesture was almost swallowed by her voluminous stola, even though age and suffering had changed her outwardly, in that eloquent rise and fall of her shoulders I caught a glimpse of the essential Clodia. That shrug summed up everything about her in an instant. She had lived a life larger than most men dreamed of, had devoured every sensation flesh could offer, had followed every emotion to its utmost extremity – and in the end, Clodia shrugged.

  I knew in that moment why I had succumbed to my desire for Cassandra, yet had never quite succumbed to Clodia. It was impossible to imagine Cassandra shrugging like that. The intensity with which she lived in the moment made such a gesture unthinkable. Once Clodia had seemed to me the most vital woman alive, but only because I mistook a raging appetite for a love of life, and I had no one to show me the difference until I met Cassandra.

  ‘You can’t tell me anything that might be of use to me?’ I said.

  ‘About Cassandra? Tell me what you know about her already.’

  It seemed to me that Clodia was intentionally avoiding my question. ‘I know that she was invited into the houses of some of the most powerful women in Rome,’ I said. ‘Some of those women think she was a genuine seeress. Others think she was a fraud. I know she came from Alexandria, where she acted in the mimes. But her seizures – at least some of them – were entirely real.’

  ‘What else do you know?’

  I took a breath. ‘I think she may have been involved in some way – how, I’m not sure – in this business with Milo and Caelius.’

  Clodia raised an eyebrow. ‘I see. And why is that?’

  ‘I have my reasons.’

  Clodia turned her gaze to Davus, who had swum a considerable distance up the river and was now swimming back. ‘What a pair of shoulders,’ she murmured. ‘I hope your daughter appreciates them.’
/>   ‘I think she does.’

  ‘He’s going to be hungry when he climbs out. A good thing my pantry slave always packs more food into that box than I could possibly eat by myself. What else do you know about Cassandra? I think, Gordianus, that you’re leaving something out.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Don’t you? The most important thing of all. You were in love with her. Hopelessly in love, from the look on your face. But did she love you? Ah! Really, you should go take a look at yourself in the water, Gordianus. You’d see the face of a man who’s just been poked where he can least stand to be touched. That’s what this is really about. Not, “Who killed Cassandra?” but, “Who was Cassandra?” What was she really up to? And most important of all, what did she really want – not just from those lofty Roman matrons, but from a humble fellow called the Finder. But if you don’t already know the answer to that question, you’ll never find it now.’

  Davus emerged from the water, glistening wet and shaking the water from his hair. ‘Magnificent arms,’ whispered Clodia, growling like a tigress. ‘The war has turned Rome into a city of old men and boys. I thought Pompey and Caesar had snatched up all the worthy specimens to feed to Mars, but they somehow overlooked this one.’

  Davus fetched his loincloth and covered himself, moving with a natural, unselfconscious grace that did him credit, given that he must have felt Clodia’s eyes following his every move. Clodia sent him to fetch a third folding chair, then offered him the contents of her box. She gazed at him, enthralled, as if no better amusement could exist than watching a hungry young man devour a roasted chicken and suck the juice from his fingers.

  I sensed that I would learn no more about Cassandra from her, at least not on this occasion. I decided not to press her. Only later would I realize how deftly she had avoided telling me anything of importance, and how completely she had disarmed me with the charms she still exerted over me.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘you think that Milo and Caelius are doomed to fail?’

  A shadow crossed her face. ‘It seems impossible that they could succeed.’

  ‘Your brother’s old nemesis and the man you hate most in the world, both destroyed once and for all. I should think that prospect would make you very happy.’