A Gladiator Dies Only Once (10 page)

But Sertorius was a Roman general, and not given to undue sentimentality, even about his own destiny. After a while, he put down the fawn and turned to the two Spaniards we had captured. He spoke to them in their own dialect. Lacro whispered a translation in my ear.

They had treated the fawn well, Sertorius said, and had not harmed her; that was wise, and showed a modicum of respect for the goddess. But they had flouted the dignity of a Roman general and had interfered with the will of the goddess; and a young virgin had been murdered. For that they would be punished.

The two men comported themselves with great dignity, considering that they were likely to be slain on the spot. They conferred with each other for a moment, then one of them spoke. They were only hirelings, they explained. They knew nothing of a murdered girl. They had merely agreed to meet a man at the edge of the camp two nights ago. He had brought the fawn to them, wrapped in a blanket. They were to hide with the fawn in the marsh until Sertorius and his army were gone. They would never have harmed the creature, nor would they have harmed the girl who kept her.

Sertorius told them that he had suspected as much, that one of his own men—indeed, someone on his own staff, with adequate knowledge of the general’s routine and the workings of the camp—must have been behind the kidnapping. If the two Spaniards were willing to point out this man, the severity of their own punishment might be considerably mitigated.

The two men conferred again. They agreed.

Sertorius stepped back and gestured to the members of his assembled staff. The two Spaniards looked from face to face, then shook their heads. The man was not among them.

Sertorius frowned and surveyed his staff. He stiffened. I saw a flash of pain in his eye. He sighed and turned to me. “One of my men isn’t here, Finder.”

“Yes, I see. He must have stayed behind.”

Sertorius ordered some of his men to stay and guard the fawn. The rest of us hurried back with him to the camp.

“Look there! His horse is still here,” said Sertorius.

“Then he hasn’t fled,” I said. “Perhaps he had no reason to flee. Perhaps he had nothing to do with the kidnapping—”

But I knew this could not be the case, even as Eco and I followed Sertorius into his tent. Amid the clutter of folded cots and chairs, Mamercus lay quivering on the ground, transfixed on his own sword. His right hand still gripped the pommel. In his left hand, he clutched the virgin’s white scarf.

He was still alive. We knelt beside him. He began to whisper. We bent our heads close. “I never meant to kill the girl,” he said. “She was asleep, and should have stayed that way . . . from the drug . . . but she woke. I couldn’t let her scream. I meant to pull the scarf across her mouth . . . but then it was around her throat. . . and she wouldn’t stop struggling. She was stronger than you might think . . .”

Sertorius shook his head. “But why, Mamercus? Why kidnap the fawn? You were my man!”

“No, never,” said Mamercus. “I was Pompey’s man! One of his agents in Rome hired me to be Pompey’s spy. They said you would trust me . . . take me into your confidence . . . because of my father. They wanted someone to steal the white fawn from you. Not to kill it, just to steal it. You see, Gordianus, I never betrayed my grandfather. Tell him that.”

“But why did you take up with Pompey?” I said.

He grimaced. “For money, of course! We were ruined. How could I ever have a career in Rome, without money? Pompey offered me more than enough.”

I shook my head. “You should have come back to Rome with me.”

Mamercus managed a rueful smile. “At first, I thought you were a messenger from Pompey. I couldn’t believe he could be so stupid, to send a messenger for me into the camp, in broad daylight! Then you said you came from my grandfather . . . dear, beloved grandfather. I suppose the gods were trying to tell me something, but it was too late. My plan was set for that very night. I couldn’t turn back.” He coughed. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. “But I turned your visit to my advantage! I showed Sertorius the letter . . . vowed that I had no intention of leaving him . . . not even to please my grandfather! How could he not trust me after that? Sertorius, forgive me! But Gordianus—”

He released his sword and blindly gripped my arm. With his other hand he still clutched the scarf. “Don’t tell grandfather about the girl! Tell him I was a spy, if you want. Tell him I died doing my duty.

Tell him I had the courage to fall on my own sword. But not about the girl. . .”

His grip loosened. The light went out of his eyes. The scarf slipped from his fingers.

I looked at Sertorius. On his face I saw anger, disappointment, grief, confusion. I realized that Mamercus Claudius, like the white fawn, had meant more to him than he would say. Mamercus had been a sort of talisman for him, in the way that a son is a talisman—a sign of the gods’ love, a pointer to a brighter future. But Mamercus had been none of those things, and the truth was hard for Sertorius to bear. How had he described Mamercus to me? “Bright, curious, clever, wholly committed to the cause.” How painfully ironic those words seemed now!

I think that in that moment, Sertorius saw that the white fawn counted for nothing after all; that his days were numbered; that the might of Rome would never cease hounding him until he was destroyed and all traces of his rival state were obliterated from the earth. He picked up the scarf and pressed it to his face, covering his eye, and for that I was thankful.

The voyage back to Rome seemed long and tedious, yet not nearly long enough; I was not looking forward to meeting with Gaius Claudius and giving him the news.

I had done exactly as he asked: I had found his grandson, delivered the letter, invited Mamercus to flee. I had accepted the task and completed it. When Sertorius asked me to find the white fawn, how could I have known the end?

None of us could have known the outcome of my trip to Spain, least of all Gaius Claudius. And yet, if Gaius had not sent me to find his grandson, Mamercus might still have been alive. Would the old man be able to bear the bitterness of it, that seeking only to bring the boy safely home, he himself had instigated the events that led to the boy’s destruction?

And yet, surely Mamercus alone was responsible for his downfall. He had deceived his grandfather, no matter that he loved him; had been a spy for a man and a cause he did not care about; had murdered an innocent girl. And for what? All for money; nothing but that.

I should not waste a single tear on the boy, I told myself, leaning over the rail of the ship that carried me back to Rome. It was night. The sky was black and the moon was full, her face spread upon the dark waters like a great pool of white light. Perhaps I did shed a tear for Mamercus Claudius; but the cold breeze plucked it at once from my cheek and dropped it into the vastness of the salty sea. There it was lost in an instant, and surely never counted for anything in the scales of justice, either as reckoned by mortals or by the gods.

SOMETHING FISHY IN POMPEII

“Taste it,” said Lucius Claudius. “Go on—taste it!”

I wrinkled my nose. Strange as it may sound, I was not particularly fond of garum. Never mind that ninety-nine out of a hundred Romans adore it, and add it to ninety-nine out of a hundred dishes, spooning it over everything from sausages to egg custard, from asparagus to honey cakes. “Garum goes with everything,” goes the popular saying.

We sat in the garden of Lucius’s opulent house on the Palatine Hill. A slave stood before me—a rather beautiful young slave, for in all things Lucius was used to having the best—holding a small silver dish in each hand. In each dish was a dark, glistening dollop of garum.

“Taste it!” insisted Lucius.

I dabbed a finger into the thick, oily sauce in the dish to my left. I smelled it first, breathing in the sharp odor of pickled fish; reluctantly, I popped my finger into my mouth. The taste was powerful: salty and slightly tangy, the spices playing with remarkable complexity upon my tongue.

I smiled. “Actually, that’s not bad. Not bad at all.”

“Of course it’s not bad!” said Lucius, his fair, chubby cheeks blushing as red as the curls on his head. “That’s the finest garum on the market, made exclusively at my manufactory outside Pompeii. The only reason you claim not to be fond of garum, Gordianus, is because you’re used to the awful stuff that’s passed off as garum—smelly pots of fermented fish entrails with a few crushed olives and a sprig of rosemary thrown in for seasoning. Foul stuff!
This
is the real thing, made from farm-fattened sardines macerated in salt and seasoned with my own secret recipe of spices and herbs, aged for a full month before it’s scooped into amphorae for shipment—not the mere twenty days that some of my competitors try to get away with.”

I dabbed my finger into the garum and took another taste. “It’s really quite delicious. This would be very good on meats. Or vegetables. Or you could simply eat it on a piece of flatbread. Or straight out of the jar! Yes, I could get used to eating this. I suppose it’s expensive?”

“Very! But help me with my problem, Gordianus, and you shall have a lifetime supply, free of charge.”

“And what would that problem be?”

“Taste the other sample.”

I took a sip of wine to cleanse my palate, then dipped my finger into the dollop of garum to my right. I smelled it; popped my finger between my lips; closed my eyes to savor the heady aftertaste that suffused my entire mouth; then dipped my finger to try a second helping.

Lucius leaned toward me. “And?”

“Obviously, I’m no expert on garum, but . . .”

“Yes, yes?”

“I would say that these two samples are . . . identical. The same robust yet subtle taste; the same sublimely slippery texture. No difference whatsoever.”

Lucius nodded gravely. “And that’s the problem! The first sample you tasted is my own brand of garum. The second is from my competitor, that blasted Marcus Fabricius.”

“Fabricius?”

“His little garum manufactory is just a stone’s throw from my own, down in Pompeii. I ship all over the world, while Fabricius sells most of his product out of a little shop here in Rome. Every so often I purchase some of his garum, just to remind myself what an inferior recipe tastes like. I bought this batch today. Imagine my shock when I tasted it!”

“It does seems unlikely that garum from different makers could be so completely identical.”

“Unlikely? Impossible! Fabricius must have stolen my secret recipe!”

So it happened, for the promise of a lifetime’s supply of the world’s best garum—and because Lucius Claudius is my good friend and steadfast patron—that I found myself in the vicinity of Pompeii a few days later, taking a tour of Lucius’s garum manufactory with the foreman, a tall, wizened slave named Acastus. I carried a letter of introduction from Lucius and posed as a would-be investor.

The impressive compound was situated beside a stream that emptied into the bay at the foot of Mount Vesuvius. Patios surrounded large sunken tanks in which the sardines were fattened; the murky water glistened with masses of darting silver fish. A warehouse held great stores of salt, herbs, and spices. Nearby there was a shed where artisans crafted clay vessels; storage pots for spices, as well as special pots for making the garum and amphorae for transporting it, were made on-site. There was a large stable full of horses and wagons for transporting the finished product overland to various Italian cities, as well as a waterfront facility for loading ships that would take the garum to markets as far away as Alexandria. Among those who could afford it, the garum of Lucius Claudius was a much sought-after, highly valuable commodity, the integrity of which he wished devoutly to safeguard.

At the center of the compound was the large, charmingly rustic house where Lucius stayed when he was in residence. Attached to the house were the guest quarters where I would be staying. The upper story contained Acastus’s office, where pigeon-hole shelves were stuffed with correspondence and tables were stacked high with ledgers. From his balcony, beyond the warehouse, I could see the glittering bay dotted with sails. Closer at hand, beyond the wooded cleft by the stream, I could see the roofs and terraces of a neighboring compound.

“What’s that place?” I asked.

Acastus squinted. “Oh, that’s the manufactory of Marcus Fabricius. They make garum, too, or something they call garum. Of no interest to a serious investor, I assure you. Their product is quite inferior.”

“I see. Can you show me exactly how the garum is prepared?”

“What’s that you say?”

I repeated my request, more loudly.

“Certainly,” wheezed Acastus. He seemed so old and frail that any master but Lucius would likely have replaced him long ago; but Lucius had a kindly streak, despite his patrician snobbery. Acastus, he had assured me, was the most trustworthy of all the foremen on all his farms and manufactories (for garum was only one of Lucius’s money making enterprises). Acastus oversaw production, scheduled shipments, billed customers, and kept the books. At all these tasks, Lucius told me, Acastus excelled. But a foreman must be watchdog as well as overseer; if something odd was going on at the garum manufactory, were Acastus’s eyes and ears sharp enough to notice?