Roman Blood (34 page)

" N o t now, Tiro," I said, as gently as I could. "Our little tryst is not quite over. I suspect we are being watched even now—no, don't look over your shoulder; look straight ahead and notice nothing. Every afternoon, she said. She would not have seen the man before your visit; she will see him after. He's only waiting for us to leave. Follow me to that willow tree that stands at the corner of Caecilia's house. If we stand behind it, I think we shall be able to watch the approach to Roscia's hiding place unobserved."

We did not have long to wait. Only moments later a man in a black tunic stole across the open street and disappeared into the green defile.

I motioned for Tiro to follow. We hurried back and made our way into the greenery until I began to hear their voices. I motioned for Tiro to stop. I strained my ears but caught only a few words before I glimpsed Roscia in a break between the yew trees. As luck would have it she saw me as well. For an instant I thought she would be silent, but she was loyal to her father's enemies to the end.

" G o ! " she shouted. " R u n ! They've come b a c k ! "

There was a sound of crashing foliage as the man blundered toward us.

" N o ! " she screamed. " G o the other way." But the man was too panic-stricken to hear. He crashed headlong into my arms, butting his head against mine and knocking me to the ground. An instant later he was on his feet again, knocking Tiro aside. Tiro ran after him, but the pursuit was useless. I followed and met him in the open street, returning 221

with a defeated look on his face and streaming sweat. He was holding his forearm, where a thorn on one of the rose bushes had scratched him.

"I tried, Gordianus, but I couldn't catch him."

" G o o d ; if you had you'd probably have gotten a knife in your ribs. It makes no difference. I got a close enough look at his face."

" Y e s ? "

"A familiar face in the Subura, and in the Forum for that matter. A hireling of Gaius Erucius the prosecutor. I thought as much. Erucius stops at nothing to obtain his evidence."

We made our way wearily down the slope of the Palatine, and though the way was downhill it nevertheless seemed long and hard. For interrogating the girl so harshly I felt a deep and bitter shame, but I had done it for Tiro's sake. He had loved her before; the revelation of her suffering made him love her even more—I had seen it blossom before my eyes.

Such a hopeless passion could only bring him unending pain and regret.

Only her own rejection could set him free, and so I had striven to stir up all her bitterness for him to see. But now I began to wonder if Roscia had conspired with me for Tiro's sake, for the final look she had given me before she spoke had told me she understood, and when she spoke of Tiro with such naked scorn it may have been the truth, or it may have been the last gift of tenderness she could give him.

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TWENTY-FOUR

WE returned to the house on the Capitoline to find Rufus gone. Cicero was resting, but had left word that I should be shown to him at once.

While Tiro quietly busied himself in the study, Old Tiro, the doorkeeper, led me deeper into the house, into a region I had not seen before.

Cicero's bedchamber was as austere as the one he had given me. The only concession to luxury was the small private garden which opened onto the room, in which a tiny fountain sparkled and wept, reflecting in gentle waves the pensive face of the Minerva which stood over it. Cicero's idea of rest was apparently to work lying down rather than standing up. I found him lying flat on his back, poring over a sheaf of parchment in his hands. More bits of parchment lay scattered about the floor.

I told him in cold, simple language the facts of Roscia's treachery—her father's abuse, her bitterness, Gaius Erucius's wiliness in turning the girl's desperation to his own advantage. The news seemed to have no effect on Cicero at all. He asked a few questions for clarification, nodded to show that he understood, then resumed reading with a curt wave of dismissal.

I stood over him, puzzled and uncertain, wondering if the revelation of Roscius's character could have no effect on him at all. " I t means nothing to y o u ? " I finally said.

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" W h a t ? " He wrinkled his brow in irritation, but did not look up.

"Parricide or not, what kind of man is this Sextus Roscius?"

Cicero lowered the parchment to his chest and met my gaze for a long moment before he spoke. "Gordianus, listen to me carefully. At this moment I have no interest in weighing the character of Sextus Roscius, or in assessing his moral peccadillos. The information you've brought me yields nothing that might be of help to me in my preparations; I have no use for it. I have no time for it—no time for anything that distracts from the simple, closed circle of logic I'm striving so earnestly to build in Sextus Roscius's defense. Your duty, Gordianus, is to help me build that edifice, not to go kicking at its foundation or pulling out bricks I've already mortared in place. Do you understand?"

He didn't bother to see whether I nodded or not. With a sigh and a wave he dismissed me and went back to studying his notes.

I found Bethesda in my bedchamber. She was busy staining her nails with a new henna compound she had discovered at a market near the Circus Flaminius, where she had spent most of the day strolling and gossiping.

She was just finishing her big toe. She sat leaning forward with her leg bent so that her gown folded back to bare her thigh. She smiled and wiggled her toes like a child.

I stepped close to her and stroked her hair with the back of my hand.

She narrowed her eyes and raised her cheek, brushing the soft, smooth skin against my knuckles. I felt like an animal suddenly, weary of thoughts and craving only to sink into the body's sensations.

Instead I found myself beset by confusion. The image of Roscia kept flitting at the edges of my mind, inflaming me, making my face burn with a heat that was neither purely lust nor shame but both mixed together.

I ran my hand over Bethesda's flesh, closed my eyes and saw the girl's naked, quivering body locked between the wall and Tiro's thrusting flanks. I put my lips to Bethesda's ear; she sighed and I shuddered because I imagined I heard her whisper the little girl's name, "Minora, Minora." Surely I had seen the child when I first interviewed Sextus Roscius, but I couldn't remember her face at all. I could only see Roscia's face contorted with anguish while I interrogated her, the same look she had worn when Tiro had his way with her.

Lust, shame; ecstasy, anguish; all things were one thing, and even my 224

own body was no longer distinct as it melted into Bethesda's. She clamped her cool thighs around my sex and squeezed, laughing softly. I remembered young Lucius on the road to Ameria, smirking and blushing; I pictured Roscia, her thighs still wet with Lucius's seed, offering herself to the boy's father. How had Titus Megarus refused her—with a sigh of regret, a shudder of loathing, a hard fatherly slap across her face? I saw the brutal, farm-hardened hands of Sextus Roscius slithering between the girl's cool thighs, his calluses rasping against her sleek flesh. I shut my eyes tight and saw his eyes staring back at me as hot as coals. Bethesda embraced me and cooed in my ear and asked why I shivered.

When the crisis came I pulled myself from her and spent myself between her legs, flooding the sheets already crumpled and moist from the steam of our bodies. A great void opened and then winked shut. My head lay between her breasts, which gently heaved like the deck of a ship far at sea. Slowly, slowly she withdrew her henna-stained nails from my back, like a cat retracting its claws. Above the sound of her heartbeat in my ear I heard a thin voice from the garden:

"Nature and the gods demand absolute obedience to the father. Wise men declare, to their credit, that even a mere facial gesture can be a breach of duty . . . no, no, I've been over that part enough. Where is it, the section where I . . . Tiro, come and help me! Ah, here: But let us now turn to the part played by this Chrysogonus—hardly born golden, as his foreign name suggests, but born rather of the basest metal, disguised and cheaply gilded by his own insidious efforts, like a tin vessel plated with pilfered gold . . . ."

party at Chrysogonus's mansion did not begin until after sunset. By that time Cicero had already eaten and changed into his nightclothes.

Most of the slaves were asleep, and the house was darkened except for the rooms where Cicero would work on his oration before retiring to bed.

At my urging he had begrudgingly stationed some of his sturdier slaves to keep watch from the roof and to guard the foyer. It seemed unlikely that our enemies would dare to strike at Cicero directly, but they had already shown themselves capable of terror and bloodshed beyond my expectations.

I had originally thought that Tiro and I might accompany Rufus in the guise of his slaves, but that seemed out of the question now; there 225

was every reason to think that someone among the guests might recognize one or both of us. Instead, Rufus was to attend the party on his own, leaving from his family's house and arriving with his own retinue. Tiro and I would wait in the shadows outside.

The house of Chrysogonus was only a short walk from Caecilia's mansion and very near Tiro's trysting place with Roscia. In the dying light I saw him glance furtively into the dense shadows as we passed, as if she might still be waiting for him there. He slowed his pace until he stopped entirely, staring into the darkness. I allowed it for a moment, then tugged at his sleeve. He gave a start, looked at me dumbly, then quickly followed.

The entrance to Chrysogonus's mansion was alive with sound and light. Torches surrounded the portico, some placed in sconces, others held by slaves. A group of slaves playing lyres, cymbals, and flutes stood nearby as a constant stream of guests arrived. Most of them were carried in litters by slaves left gasping from the climb up the hill. Some who lived on the Palatine were modest enough to come on foot, surrounded by hosts of fawning, superfluous attendants and slaves.

Litter bearers, having delivered their masters, were sent trotting around the corner to the back of the house. Attendant slaves were dispersed to whatever place slaves are sent to congregate and wait while their masters are entertained. The evening was warm; many of the guests lingered on the threshold to listen to the players. Their music seemed to float in the twilight sweeter than bird song. Chrysogonus could afford to purchase the best.

" O u t of our way!" The voice was familiar and came from behind us.

Tiro and I leaped aside as a lumbering litter swept by. It was an open sedan carried by ten slaves. The passengers were none other than Rufus chaperoned by his halfbrother, Hortensius. It was Rufus who had called out; he seemed to be having a fine time, laughing and flashing a conspiratorial grin at us as he passed. From the flush in the cheeks I suspected he had already been drinking to fortify himself for the evening.

Hortensius, luckily, was looking the other way and did not see us. If he had, he would certainly have recognized me. I suddenly realized how conspicuous we were and pulled Tiro into the deep shadow beneath the overhanging branches of a fig tree. There we waited for some time, watching the revelers and their retinues arrive and disappear within the house. Chrysogonus, if he was greeting his guests in person, was doing 226

so within the foyer; no handsome blond demigod showed himself on the steps.

At last the rush of guests slowed and dwindled until it seemed that everyone must have arrived, and yet the torchbearers remained stiffly in place and the musicians continued to play. The scene became uncanny and slightly unreal and then eerie: On a deserted street bathed by moonlight, unattended slaves in opulent clothing made light and music for an invisible audience. The guest of honor had not yet arrived.

At last I heard the tramp of many feet. I looked back, to the way we had come, and saw a box of yellow gauze approaching in the darkness, bright and fluttering as if it were borne on invisible waves. It seemed to float without any means of propulsion or support, and for one brief moment the illusion was absolutely convincing, as if all had been contrived to fool my eyes at that very instant.

Then waves of motion took shape about the yellow box. For a confused moment the waves were only that, suggestions of something still unseen; then they abruptly became flesh. The litter bearers, to a man, were Nubians. Their skin was absolutely black and they were dressed in black loincloths and black sandals. In shadow they were very nearly invisible; when they stepped beneath the rising moon they seemed to swallow the light, giving back only a dull gleam to mark the width of their massive shoulders. There were twelve of them in all, six on either side, far more than needed to carry a private box with a single occupant. The strength of their numbers allowed them to move with uncanny smoothness. Behind them came a large retinue of slaves, attendants, secretaries, bodyguards, and hangers-on. It might be true, as Rufus claimed, that Sulla had taken to crossing the Forum alone in broad daylight, but at night he still moved through the streets with all the pomp and precaution requisite to a dictator of the Republic.

At last Chrysogonus showed himself. As the retinue approached, one of the torchbearers on the portico dashed into the house. A moment later Chrysogonus, dressed all in yellow and gold, stepped out onto the portico. Somehow, in my various dealings, I had never seen him before, only heard of his reputation. He was indeed quite strikingly handsome, tall and strongly built, with golden hair, a broad jaw, and glittering blue eyes.

In the wavering torchlight I read the shifting mask of his face: anxious and uncertain at first, like any host awaiting a tardy guest of honor, then suddenly harsh and intense, as if mustering his strength, and then suf-227

fused with a charm so abrupt and overpowering that it was difficult to imagine any other expression on his face. He made a slight motion with one hand. The musicians, whose playing had flagged, abruptly played louder and with more spirit.