Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (31 page)

As I told the tale I paid careful attention to Rufus’s face. Sulla was his brother-in-law, after all. Rufus professed only disdain for the dictator, and in any event Titus Megarus’s tale implicated not Sulla but Chrysogonus, his exslave and deputy. Nevertheless, I feared he would be offended. For an instant I considered that it might have been Rufus who betrayed me to the enemies of Sextus Roscius and set Mallius Glaucia invading my house, but I could see no guile in his brown eyes, and it was hard to imagine that those quizzical eyebrows and freckled nose belonged to a spy. (Red hair on a woman is a warning, the Alexandrians say, but put your trust in a redheaded man.) Indeed, when the tale turned to Sulla and cast him in a poor light, Rufus seemed quietly pleased.

When I was done with my tale and Cicero began plotting his strategy, Rufus was eager to be of help. Cicero wanted to send him down to the Forum, but I suggested that Rufus come with me instead and tend to legal errands later. Now that I had uncovered the truth I wanted to confront Sextus Roscius with it, to see if I couldn’t break through his shell, and for propriety’s sake I preferred to drop in on Caecilia Metella not as a lone inquisitor but as a humble visitor in the company of her dear young friend.

Tiro was busy completing his summary of my account. As soon as I mentioned visiting Caecilia, I saw him look up furtively. He bit his lip and furrowed his brow, trying to think of some legitimate excuse to come with us. He was thinking of the young Roscia, of course. As Rufus and I made ready to go, he became more and more agitated, but said nothing.

‘And, Cicero,’ I finally said, ‘if you could possibly spare Tiro – that is, if you don’t need him for something relating to the case – I’d appreciate your sending him along with us.’ I watched Tiro’s face light up.

‘But I thought he and I might go over your account. I may want to make some notes and observations of my own.’

‘Yes, well, I only thought – that is, there were some details of my conversations when he went with me the other day, the interrogation at the House of Swans in particular, that I need to discuss with him – holes in my memory that need patching, that sort of thing. Of course it could wait for another day, but there aren’t that many days left. Besides, I suspect I may need him to take down some new material from Roscius himself.’

‘Very well,’ Cicero said. ‘I’m sure I can manage for the rest of the afternoon without him.’ In his elation at the prospect of a stunning victory in the Rostra he went so far as to pour himself another cup of wine and to reach for a crust of bread.

Tiro looked so happy I thought he might weep.

I had lied to Cicero; I had nothing to ask Tiro. It was Rufus I talked to as we walked through the Forum and up the Palatine to Caecilia’s house. Tiro trailed behind us, distracted and glassy-eyed.

I had taken little notice of Rufus when I first met him. Each of his qualities had been eclipsed by those around him. As a noble, Caecilia Metella exuded greater prestige, being more comfortable with her power and more conscious of it; Cicero outshone him as a scholar; and for the exuberance of youth, he could not compete with Tiro. Finally speaking to him alone, I was impressed by his reserve and his manner, and equally by his quick wits. Apparently Cicero had kept him busy in the Forum every day since he had taken the case, trusting Rufus to file the necessary papers and arrange court business in his name. As we walked through the Forum, he gave a nod or exchanged a few words with those he knew – deferentially to the older nobles, less so to those nearer his age or of a lower class. Despite the fact that he did not yet wear the toga of manhood, he was obviously known to important people and had earned their respect.

A man is known in the Forum for the size and impressiveness of his retinue. Crassus is legendary for strutting through with bodyguards, slaves, secretaries, sycophants, fortune-tellers, and gladiators in tow. We are a republic, after all, and the sheer mass of bodies surrounding a politician draws attention. The quantity rather than the quality of his supporters often lends a man prestige in the open Forum; some office seekers are said to purchase their retinues wholesale, and there are Romans who make a living off the crumbs they receive for showing up to follow a powerful man about the city. Midway through the Forum I realized that Tiro and I, however inadequate, were being looked upon as Rufus’s retinue. The idea made me laugh.

Rufus seemed to read my thoughts. ‘My brother-in-law,’ he began, speaking the words in such a way that he could mean only Sulla, ‘has fallen into the habit lately of walking through the Forum with no retinue at all, not even a bodyguard. In preparation for his retirement, he says, and his return to private life.’

‘Can that be wise?’

‘I suppose he’s so great that he doesn’t need a retinue to impress others. So brilliant that any companions would simply be invisible, obscured by his blinding light like candles beside the sun.’

‘And whereas candles may be blown out on a whim, no man can extinguish the sun.’

Rufus nodded. ‘Who thus needs no bodyguard. So Sulla seems to think. He’s taken to calling himself Sulla, Beloved of Fortune – as if he were married to the goddess herself. He thinks he has a charmed life, and who would argue with that?’

Rufus had taken the first step, showing a willingness to speak frankly of his sister’s husband. ‘You have a sincere dislike for Sulla, don’t you?’ I said.

‘I respect him greatly. I think he truly must be a great man. But I can hardly stand to be in the same room with him. What Valeria sees in him I can’t imagine, though I know she truly loves him. How she wants to have his child! I hear her talking about it endlessly with the women of the household whenever she’s home. Being the beloved of the Beloved of Fortune, I suppose she’ll get what she wants.’

‘You’ve come to know him well, then?’

‘As well as I have to, being his wife’s little brother.’

‘And you’ve grown acquainted with his circle?’

‘You want to ask me about Chrysogonus.’

‘Yes.’

‘All the stories are true. Of course there’s nothing between them now except friendship. In matters of the flesh they say Sulla is very fickle, but at the same time faithful, because he never casts his lovers away; once he’s given his affection he never withdraws it. Sulla is nothing if not steadfast, as a friend or an enemy. As for Chrysogonus, if you saw him I think you’d understand. It’s true, he began as a mere slave, but sometimes the gods like to put the soul of a lion in the body of the lamb.’

‘Chrysogonus is a ferocious lamb, then?’

‘A lamb no longer. Sulla sheared his fleece, true enough, but the second growth was a mane of pure gold. Chrysogonus wears it well. He is very rich, very powerful, and completely ruthless. And as beautiful as a god. Sulla has an eye for that.’

‘It sounds like you care for Sulla’s favourite even less than Sulla.’

‘I never said I disliked Sulla, did I? It’s not as simple as that. It’s hard to put into words. He’s a great man. The attention he pays me is flattering, even if it is unseemly since he’s married to my sister.’ He glanced at me sidelong, looking far older than his sixteen years. ‘I suppose you thought Caecilia was joking or off her head the other day when she suggested I charm Sulla on behalf of Sextus Roscius.’ He grunted and wrinkled his nose. ‘With Sulla? I can’t imagine it.’

We passed a group of senators. Some of them, recognizing Rufus, paused to chat, asking after his studies and saying they had heard from his brother Hortensius that he was somehow involved in a case before the Rostra. With men of his own class Rufus displayed an exact approximation of perfect behaviour, at once charming and obsequious, self-effacing and at the same time self-promoting as all Romans are; but I could see that a part of him remained aloof and detached, the observer and critic of his own artificial decorum. I began to see why Cicero was so pleased to have him for a protégé, and I began to wonder if it was not Cicero who was the pupil, learning from Rufus how to rise above his own country-born anonymity to mimic that effortless self-assurance of a young noble born into one of Rome’s great families.

The senators moved on, and Rufus resumed as if we had never been interrupted. ‘In fact, I’m invited to a party tomorrow night, at Chrysogonus’s house on the Palatine, quite near Caecilia’s place. Sulla and his closest circle will be there; Valeria won’t. I got a message from Sulla just this morning, saying I definitely should come. “You will soon be inducted into the toga of manhood,” he writes. “It is time for your manly education to begin. What better place than in the company of the best people in Rome?” Can you imagine – he’s talking about his friends from the stage, all actors and comedians and acrobats. Along with the slaves he’s made into citizens to take the place of the ones he’s beheaded. My parents are urging me to go. Hortensius says I’d be a fool not to. Even Valeria thinks I should.’

‘So do I,’ I said quietly, drawing a deep breath to begin the climb up the Palatine.

‘And parry Sulla’s advances all night long? For
that
I’d have to be an acrobat, actor, and comedian all in one.’

‘Do it for Sextus Roscius and his case. Do it for Cicero.’

At the mention of Cicero his face became earnest. ‘How do you mean?’

‘I need access to Chrysogonus’s household. I need to get inside, to see which of Sextus Roscius’s slaves are still in his possession. I want to question them if I can. It would be easier if I had a friend inside his house. Do you think it’s an accident that this party coincides with our need? The gods are smiling on us.’

‘Fortune I hope, and not Venus.’

I laughed, even though it cost me a precious breath, and trudged up the hill.

‘It’s true, then?’ I said, staring into Sextus Roscius’s eyes and trying to make him blink before I did. ‘Every word of the story Titus Megarus told me? But if that’s so, why didn’t you tell us in the first place?’

We were seated in the same stuffy, squalid room where we had met before. This time Caecilia Metella, having been told the tale in brief, came with us. The idea that her beloved Sextus had been proscribed as an enemy of Sulla was absurd, she said, obscene. She was eager to hear what his son had to say about it. Rufus sat close beside her, and one of her slave girls stood quietly in the corner fanning her with peacock plumes on a long handle, as if she were a Pharaoh’s queen. Tiro stood at my right arm with his tablet and stylus, fidgeting.

Sextus stared back at me, unwilling to blink. The effect became as unnerving as the heat. If he was hiding something he gave no sign of it. Most men, stalling for time to think up a lie or evasion, will glance away, shifting their gaze to something, anything, that doesn’t stare back at them. Sextus Roscius stared me straight in the eye with no expression on his face at all, until finally I blinked. I thought he smiled then, but I may have only imagined it. I began to think he might truly be mad.

‘Yes,’ he finally said. ‘True. Every word.’

Caecilia made a peculiar titter of distress. Rufus stroked her wrinkled hand.

‘Then why didn’t you tell Cicero? Did you tell Hortensius when he was your advocate?’

‘No.’

‘But how can you expect these men to defend you if you won’t tell them what you know?’

‘I never asked either of them to take my case. She did.’ He rudely pointed at Caecilia Metella.

‘Are you saying you don’t want an advocate?’ Rufus snapped. ‘What chance do you think you’d have if you stood before the Rostra alone, against a prosecutor like Gaius Erucius?’

‘What chance do I have now? Even if I somehow escape them in court, they’ll find me afterwards and have their way with me, just as they did with my father.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Rufus argued. ‘Not if Cicero is able to expose the lies of Capito and Magnus in court.’

‘But to do that he’ll have to drag in the name of Chrysogonus, won’t he? Oh, yes, there’s no way to pick the fleas without wrestling the dog, and no way to do that without pulling at the master’s leash. The dog may snap, and the master isn’t going to like being publicly embarrassed by an upstart advocate. Even if he wins the case, your precious Master Chickpea will only end up with his head on a stick. Don’t tell me that there’s an advocate in Rome who’s willing to run the risk of spitting in Sulla’s face. And if there is such a man, he’s far too stupid to handle my case.’

Rufus and Tiro were both exasperated. How could Roscius say such a thing about Cicero, their Cicero? Roscius’s fears meant nothing to them; their faith in Cicero was absolute.

But I feared that Sextus Roscius was right. The case was exactly as dangerous as he had described it. Someone had already made a threat on my life (a fact I intentionally had not mentioned under Caecilia’s roof). If they had not done so to Cicero it was only because he was at that time still one step removed from the investigation, and a man with more powerful connections than my own.

Still, there was something disingenuous in Roscius’s words. Yes, his case was a dangerous one and pursuing it could incur the wrath of the mighty. But what could that matter to him, if his only alternative was a hideous death? By fighting the case, by arming us with the truth that could prove his innocence and the guilt of his persecutors, he had everything to gain: his life, his sanity, perhaps even the reversal of his father’s proscription and the return of his estates. Could he have sunk to such a level of hopelessness that he was paralysed? Can a man become so demoralized that he longs for defeat and death?