Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (6 page)

The apparent modesty of Cicero’s home signified little. We were, of course, in one of the most expensive neighbourhoods in Rome, where size gives little indication of wealth. Even the smallest house here might be worth the price of a block of villas in the Subura. Besides that, the wealthier classes of Rome have traditionally shunned any display of ostentation in their homes, at least as regards the exterior. They claim this is a matter of good taste. I suspect it has more to do with their fear that a vulgar show of wealth might kindle jealousy among the mob. Consider also that a costly decoration on the outside of a house is far easier to carry off than the same decoration safely displayed somewhere inside.

Such austerity and restraint have never ceased to be regarded as ideal. Even so, in my own lifetime I have seen a definite veering towards public opulence. This is notably true among the young and ambitious, especially those whose fortunes flowered in the wake of the civil war and Sulla’s triumph. They add a second storey; they build porticoes upon their roofs. They instal statuary imported from Greece.

Nothing of the sort appeared on the street where Cicero lived. Decorum reigned. The houses turned their backs upon the street, facing inward, having nothing to say to any stranger who might wander by, reserving their secret life for those privileged to enter within.

The street was short and quiet. There were no markets at either end, and wandering vendors apparently knew better than to disturb the silence. Grey paving stones underfoot, pale blue sky above, faded stucco stained by rain and cracked by heat on either side; no other colours were allowed, least of all green – not a single unruly weed could be seen sprouting through the cobbles or springing up beside a wall, much less a flower or a tree. The very air, rising odourless and hot from the paving stones, breathed the sterile purity of Roman virtue.

Even in the midst of such restraint, the house of Cicero was particularly austere. In an ironic way it was so unassuming that it actually drew attention to itself –
there
, one might say,
there
is the ideal dwelling for a wealthy Roman of the most rarefied Roman virtue. The little house looked so modest and so narrow that one might have assumed it to be the home of a once-wealthy Roman matron, now widowed and in reduced circumstances; or perhaps the town house of a rich country farmer who came to the city only for occasional business, never to entertain or enjoy a holiday; or perhaps (and so it was, in fact) such an austere house on such an unassuming street might belong to a young bachelor of substantial means and old-fashioned values, a citified son of country parents poised to seek his fortune among Rome’s higher circles, a young man of stern Roman virtue so sure of himself that even youth and ambition could not lure him into the vulgar missteps of fashion.

Tiro rapped upon the door.

A few moments later a greybearded slave opened it. Afflicted by some palsy, the old man’s head was in constant motion, nodding up and down and tilting from side to side. He took his time in recognizing Tiro, peering and squinting and extending his head on its slender neck in turtle fashion. The nodding never ceased. Finally he smiled a toothless smile and stepped aside, pulling the door wide open.

The foyer was in the shape of a semicircle with its straight wall to our backs. The curving wall before us was pierced by three doorways, each flanked by slender columns and capped with a pediment. The corridors beyond were concealed by curtains of rich red fabric, embroidered along the bottom with an acanthus motif in yellow. Standing Grecian lamps at either corner and a floor mosaic of no great distinction (Diana in pursuit of a boar) completed the decoration. It was as I had expected. The vestibule was adequately restrained and tasteful so as not to contradict the sternness of the stucco facade, yet so expensively appointed as to belie any impression of poverty.

The old doorkeeper indicated with a gesture that we should wait. Silent and smiling, he withdrew through the curtained doorway to our left, his wizened head bobbing above his narrow shoulders like a cork on gentle waves.

‘An old family retainer?’ I asked. I waited until he had passed from sight, and kept my voice low. Obviously the old man’s ears were sharper than his eyes, for he had heard well enough to answer the door; and it would have been rude to talk about him in his presence, as if he were a slave, for he was not. I had noticed the ring of manumission upon his finger, marking him a freedman and citizen.

‘My grandfather,’ Tiro answered, with more than a little pride in his voice, ‘Marcus Tullius Tiro.’ He craned his neck and looked towards the doorway, as if he could see through the red curtain to watch the old man’s shuffling progress down the corridor. The embroidered bottom edge of the curtain wavered slightly, lifted by a breeze. Thus I deduced that the hallway to the left led somehow to fresh air and sky, probably to the atrium at the heart of the house, where presumably Master Cicero was taking comfort in the heat of the morning.

‘Then your line has been serving the family for at least three generations?’ I said.

‘Yes, though my father died when I was very small, before I had the chance to know him. As did my mother. Old Tiro is the only family I have.’

‘And how long ago did your master free him?’ I asked, for it was Cicero’s first and family names that the old man now bore in addition to his old slave name: Marcus Tullius Tiro, freed by Marcus Tullius Cicero. Such is the tradition, that an emancipated slave will take the first two names of the man who frees him, giving them precedence to his own.

‘Going on five years now. Cicero’s grandfather back in Arpinum owned him until that time. Owned me as well, though I’ve always been with Cicero, since we both were boys. The old master transferred ownership as a gift when Cicero completed his studies and set up his own household here in Rome. That was when Cicero freed him. Cicero’s grandfather would never have bothered. He doesn’t believe in manumission, no matter how old a slave becomes, no matter how long or how well he serves a master. The Tullius family may have come from Arpinum, but they’re Roman to the core. They’re a very stern and old-fashioned family.’

‘And you?’

‘Me?’

‘Do you suppose Cicero will one day free you as well?’

Tiro coloured. ‘You ask the strangest questions, sir.’

‘Only because it’s my nature. My profession, as well. You must have asked yourself the same question already, more than once.’

‘Doesn’t every slave?’ There was no bitterness in Tiro’s voice, only a pale and unassuming note of sadness, a particular melancholy I had met before. I knew then, in that instant, that young Tiro was one of those slaves, naturally intelligent and brought up amid wealth, who bears the curse of realizing how arbitrary and capricious are the whims of Fortune, which make one man a slave all his life and another a king, when at root there is no discernible difference between them. ‘One of these days,’ he said quietly, ‘when my master is established, when I’m older. Anyway, what’s the use of being free unless you want to start a family? It’s the only advantage I can see. And that’s something I don’t think about. Not often, anyway.’

Tiro turned his face away, looking towards the doorway, staring at the spot where his grandfather had stepped through the curtain. He looked back at me and his face rearranged itself. It took me a moment to realize that he was smiling. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘better to wait until my grandfather dies. Otherwise there’ll be two freedmen named Marcus Tullius Tiro, and how would men tell us apart?’

‘How do they tell you apart now?’

‘Tiro and Old Tiro, naturally.’ He smiled a more genuine smile. ‘Grandfather won’t answer to the name Marcus. He thinks it’s bad luck somehow if you call him that. Tempting the gods. Besides, he’s too old to get used to a new name, even if he is proud of it. And it’s no use calling him, anyway. These days he’ll answer the door and that’s about it. He can take a very long time. I think my master likes it that way. Cicero thinks it’s good manners to keep guests waiting at the door, and even better manners to keep them pacing here in the anteroom, at least on a first visit, while Old Tiro announces them.’

‘Is that what we’re doing now? Waiting to be announced?’

Tiro crossed his arms and nodded. I looked around the room. There was not even a bench to sit upon. Very Roman, I thought.

At length Old Tiro returned, lifting the curtain for his master. How shall I describe Marcus Tullius Cicero? The beautiful all look alike, but a plain man is plain according to his own peculiarity. Cicero had a large forehead, a fleshy nose, and thinning hair. He was of medium height, with a thin chest, narrow shoulders, and a long neck with a prominent knob protruding from the gullet. He looked considerably older than his twenty-six years.

‘Gordianus,’ Tiro said, introducing me. ‘The one they call the Finder.’

I nodded. Cicero smiled warmly. There was a restless, inquisitive sparkle in his eyes. I was immediately impressed, without quite knowing why.

And in the next instant dismayed when Cicero opened his mouth to speak. He said only two words, but that was enough. The voice that came from his throat was high and grating. Tiro, with his sweet modulations, should have been the orator. Cicero had a voice fit for an auctioneer or a comic actor, a voice as peculiar as his name. ‘This way,’ he said, indicating that we should follow him through the red curtain.

The hallway was quite short, hardly a hallway at all. We walked between unadorned walls for only a few paces, and then both walls ended. To the right was a broad curtain of pale yellow gauze, so fine I could see straight through it into the small but immaculately kept atrium beyond. Open to the sun and sky, the atrium was like a well carved out of the house, a reservoir spilling over with heat and light. At its centre a tiny fountain splashed. The gauzy curtain rippled and billowed gently, like a mist disturbed by a puff of air, like a living membrane sighing at the slightest breeze.

Facing the atrium was a large, airy room lit by narrow windows set high in the ceiling. The walls were of white plaster. The furniture was all of dark polished wood in rustic designs, embellished by subtle flourishes of woodwork, silver clasps, and inlays of mother-of-pearl, carnelian, and lapis.

The room was filled with an astonishing number of scrolls. This was Cicero’s library and his study. Such rooms are often the most intimate in the homes of wealthy men, revealing more about their owners than do bedchambers or dining rooms, which are the domain of women and slaves. It was a private room, indelibly marked by its owner, but a public room as well – testifying to this were the number of chairs scattered about, some of them pulled close together, as if they had just been vacated by a huddled group of visitors. Cicero gestured to a group of three chairs, seated himself, and indicated that we should do likewise. What kind of man greets guests in his library rather than in his dining room or veranda? A man with Greek pretensions, I thought. A scholar. A lover of knowledge and wisdom. A man who would open a conversation with a total stranger with a gambit such as this:

‘Tell me something, Gordianus the Finder – have you ever considered murdering your father?’

IV

What must my face have looked like? I suppose I gave a start, winced, looked askance. Cicero saw all and smiled in that demure way that orators smile whenever they successfully manipulate an audience. Actors (I have known more than a few) feel much the same sort of satisfaction, the same thrill of power. The herdsman reveals the truth to Oedipus, and with a single word elicits gasps of shock and dismay from a thousand throats, all responding on cue. Behind his mask the herdsman smiles and makes his exit.

I pretended to gaze with an abstracted air at some nearby scrolls; I could see from the corner of my eye that Cicero still watched me, intent on gauging my every reaction. Orators think they can control everyone and everything with their words. I strained to bleed every hint of expression from my face.

‘My father,’ I began, and then had to pause to clear my throat, hating the interruption, for it seemed a sign of weakness. ‘My father is already dead, esteemed Cicero. He died many years ago.’ The mischief in his eyes receded. He frowned.

‘My apologies,’ he said quietly, with a slight bow of his head. ‘I meant no offence.’

‘None was taken.’

‘Good.’ After a suitable interval the frown vanished. The look of mischief returned. ‘Then you won’t mind if I pose the same question again – purely as a hypothetical matter, of course. Suppose then, only suppose, that you had a father you wished to be rid of. How would you go about it?’