Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (101 page)

He shrugged. ‘I make no secret of my pleasures. There is a house on that street where I spend certain nights in the company of a certain catamite. Having no wife at present . . .’

‘Then either of your cousins might have known that you would be coming home by that route this morning?’

‘I suppose,’ he said, shrugging. If he was too distracted to see the point, his cousins were not. Rufus and Appius both stared at me darkly, and glanced dubiously at one another.

At that moment a grey cat came sauntering into the room, its tail flicking, its head held high, apparently oblivious to the chaos outside the house or the despair of those within.

‘The irony of it!’ wailed Marcus Lepidus, suddenly breaking into tears. ‘The bitter irony! To be accused of killing a cat – when I, of all men, would never do such a thing! I adore the little creatures. I give them a place of honour in my home, I feed them from my own plate. Come, precious Nefer!’ He stooped down and made a cradle for the cat, who obligingly leaped into his arms. The cat twisted onto its back and purred loudly. Marcus Lepidus held the animal close to him, caressing it to soothe his distress. Rufus appeared to share his older cousin’s fondness for cats, for he smiled weakly and joined him in stroking the beast’s belly.

I had reached an impasse. It seemed to me quite certain that at least one of the cousins had been in league with the bearded Egyptian in deliberately plotting the destruction of Marcus Lepidus, but which? If only the little girl had been able to give me a better description. ‘All Romans look the same,’ indeed!

‘You and your cursed cats!’ said Appius suddenly, wrinkling his nose and retreating to the far corner of the room. ‘It’s the cats that do this to me. They cast some sort of hateful spell! Alexandria is full of them, making my life a misery. Every time I get close to one, the same thing happens! I never sneezed once in my life before I came here!’ And with that he sneezed, and snorted, and pulled a cloth from his tunic to blow his runny nose.

What followed was not pretty, though it may have been just.

I told Marcus Lepidus all I had learned from the little girl. I summoned him to the window and opened the shutters enough to point out the man with the Babylonian beard, who was now overseeing the construction of a bonfire in the square below. Marcus had seen the man before, in the company of his cousin Appius.

What outcome did I expect? I had meant to help a fellow Roman far from home, to save an innocent man from the wrath of an unreasoning mob, and to gain a few coins for my purse in the process – all honourable pursuits. Did I not realize that inevitably a man would die? I was younger then, and did not always think a thing through to its logical result.

The unleashed fury of Marcus Lepidus took me by surprise. Perhaps it should not have, considering the terrible shock he had suffered that day; considering also that he was a successful businessman, and therefore to some degree ruthless; considering finally that treachery within a family often drives men to acts of extreme revenge.

Quailing before Marcus Lepidus, Appius confessed his guilt. Rufus, whom he declared to be innocent of the plot, begged for mercy on his cousin’s behalf, but his pleadings were ineffectual. Though we might be hundreds of miles from Rome, the rule of the Roman family held sway in that house in Alexandria, and all power resided in the head of the household. When Marcus Lepidus stripped off his blue tunic and ordered that his cousin Appius should be dressed in it, the slaves of the household obeyed; Appius resisted, but was overwhelmed. When Marcus ordered that Appius should then be thrown from the window into the mob, it was done.

Rufus, pale and trembling, withdrew into another room. Marcus made his face as hard as stone and turned away. The grey cat twined itself about his feet, but the solace it offered was ignored.

The bearded Egyptian, not realizing the substitution, screamed to the others in the mob to take their vengeance on the man in blue. It was only much later, when the mob had largely dispersed and the Egyptian was able to get a closer look at the trampled, bloody corpse, that he realized the mistake. I shall never forget the look on his face, which changed from a leer of triumph to a mask of horror as he approached the body, studied its face, and then looked up at the window where I stood. He had overseen the killing of his own confederate.

Perhaps it was fitting that Appius received the fate which he had intended for his cousin. No doubt he thought that while he waited, safe and sound in the family house, the bearded Egyptian would proceed with the plot as they had planned and his older cousin would be torn to pieces on the Street of the Breadmakers. He did not foresee that Marcus Lepidus would be able to elude the crowd and flee all the way to his house, where all three cousins became trapped. Nor did he foresee the intervention of Gordianus the Finder – or for that matter, the intervention of the grey cat, which caused him to betray himself with a sneeze.

Thus ended the episode of the Alexandrian cat, whose death was terribly avenged.

Some days after telling this tale to Lucius Claudius, I chanced to visit him again at his house on the Palatine. I was surprised to see that a new mosaic had been installed on his doorstep. The colourful little tiles pictured a snarling Molossian mastiff, together with the stern caption CAVE CANEM.

A slave admitted me and escorted me to the garden at the centre of the house. As I approached I heard a yapping noise, accompanied by deep-throated laughter. I came upon Lucius Claudius, who sat with what appeared to be a gigantic white rat on his lap.

‘What on earth is that?’ I exclaimed.

‘This is my darling, my sweet, my adorable little Momo.’

‘Your doorstep shows a Molossian mastiff, which that animal most certainly is not.’

‘Momo is a Melitene terrier – tiny, true, but very fierce,’ said Lucius defensively. As if to prove her master’s point, the little lapdog began to yap again. Then she nervously began lapping at Lucius’s chin, which he appeared to enjoy immensely.

‘The doorstep advises visitors to beware the dog,’ I said sceptically.

‘As indeed they should – especially unwelcome visitors of the foor-footed variety.’

‘You expect this dog to keep cats away?’

‘I do! Never again shall my peace be violated by those accursed creatures, not with little Momo here to protect me. Is that not right, Momo? Are you not the fiercest cat chaser who ever lived? Brave, bold little Momo – ’

I rolled my eyes, and caught a glimpse of something black and sleek on the roof It was almost certainly the very cat who had terrified Lucius on my last visit.

An instant later the terrier was out of her master’s lap, performing a frantic circular dance on the floor, yapping frantically and baring her teeth. Up on the roof, the black cat arched its back, hissed, and disappeared.

‘There, you see, Gordianus! Beware this dog, all you cats of Rome!’ Lucius scooped the terrier up in his arms and kissed her nose. ‘There, there, Momo! And disbelieving Gordianus doubted you . . .’

I thought of a truism I had learned from Bethesda: there are those in this world who love cats, and those who love dogs, and never shall the two close ranks. But we could at least share a cup of wine, Lucius Claudius and I, and exchange the latest gossip from the Forum.

THE HOUSE OF THE VESTALS

‘What do you know about the Vestal Virgins?’ said Cicero.

‘Only what every Roman knows: that there are six of them; that they watch over the eternal flame in the Temple of Vesta; that they serve for no less than thirty years, during which time they take a vow of chastity. And that once every generation or so a terrible scandal erupts – ’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Cicero. The litter gave a small lurch, pitching him forward. It was a moonless night, and the litter-bearers, proceeding over the rough paving stones by torchlight, were giving us a bumpy ride. ‘I bring up the matter only because one never knows nowadays – we live in such irreligious times – not that I myself set any store by mindless superstition . . .’

The sharpest mind in Rome was rambling. Cicero was uncommonly agitated.

He had arrived at my door in the middle of the night, called me from my bed, and insisted I accompany him to an unspecified destination.

The bearers trotted along at a quick pace, jostling us about; I would almost have preferred to get out and trot myself. I parted the curtains and peered outside. Within the covered box I had lost my bearings; the darkened street looked like any other. ‘Where are we going, Cicero?’

He ignored my question. ‘As you noted, Gordianus, the Vestals are particularly vulnerable to scandal. You have heard, no doubt, of the pending case against Marcus Crassus?’

‘It’s the talk of every tavern in town – the richest man in Rome is accused of corrupting a Vestal. And not just any Vestal, but Licinia herself.’

‘Yes, the Virgo Maxima, high priestess of Vesta and a distant cousin of Crassus. The charge is absurd, of course. Crassus is no more likely to involve himself in such an affair than I would be. Like myself, and unlike so many of our contemporaries, Crassus is above the base appetites of the flesh. Even so, there are plenty of witnesses ready to testify that he has been seen in Licinia’s company on numerous occasions – at the theatre during festivals, in the Forum – hovering about her in an unseemly fashion, appearing almost to badger her. I am told also that circumstantial evidence exists to indicate he has visited her, during daylight hours in the House of the Vestals, without chaperones present. Even so, there is no crime in that, unless poor judgment is a crime. Men hate Crassus only because he’s made himself so rich. That, too, is not a crime . . .’

The great mind had begun to wander again. The hour, after all, was late. I cleared my throat. ‘Will you be defending Crassus in the courts? Or Licinia?’

‘Neither! My political career has entered a very delicate phase. I cannot be seen to have any public connection with a scandal involving the Vestals. Which is why the events of this evening are such a disaster!’

At last, I thought, we shall get down to business. I peered between the curtains again. It seemed that we were approaching the Forum. What possible business could we have among the temples and public squares in the middle of the night?

‘As you probably know, Gordianus, one of the younger Vestals happens to be a relative of mine.’

‘No, I didn’t know.’

‘A relative by marriage, anyway; Fabia is my wife’s half sister, and therefore my sister-in-law.’

‘But the Vestal under investigation is the Virgo Maxima, Licinia.’

‘Yes, the scandal involved only Licinia . . . until the events of this evening.’

‘Cicero, are you being deliberately obscure?’

‘Very well. Something occurred earlier tonight in the House of the Vestals. Something quite terrible. Unthinkable! Something which threatens not only to destroy Fabia, but to throw calumny upon the very institution of the Vestals, and to undermine the whole religious establishment of Rome.’ Cicero lowered his voice, which had begun to rise to orator’s pitch. ‘I have no doubt that the prosecution of Licinia and Crassus is somehow related to this latest disaster; there is an organized conspiracy afoot to spread doubt and chaos in the city, using the Vestals as a starting point. If my years in the Forum have taught me anything, it is that some Roman politicians will stop at nothing!’

He leaned forward and clutched my arm. ‘You are aware that this year marks the tenth anniversary of the fire which razed the Temple of Jupiter and destroyed the Sibylline oracles? The masses are superstitious, Gordianus; they are quite ready to believe that on the tenth anniversary of such a terrible catastrophe, something equally terrible must occur. Now it has. Whether it was manufactured by gods or by men,
that
is the question.’

The litter gave a final lurch and came to a halt. Cicero released his grip on my arm, sat back and sighed. ‘We have reached your destination.’

I pulled back the curtains and saw the colonnaded facade of the House of the Vestals.

‘Cicero, I may not be an expert in religious matters, but I do know that for a man to enter the House of the Vestals after dark is an offence punishable by death. I hope you don’t expect me – ’

‘Tonight is not like other nights, Gordianus.’

‘Cicero! Back at last!’ The voice from the darkness was oddly familiar. A shock of red hair entered the circle of torchlight and I recognized young Marcus Valerius Messalla Rufus – called Rufus on account of his flaming hair – whom I had not seen, close at hand, in the seven years since he had assisted Cicero with the defence of Sextus Roscius. He had been only sixteen then, a boy with red cheeks and a freckled nose; now he was a religious official, one of the youngest men ever elected to the college of augurs, entrusted with interpreting the will of the gods by reading omens in lightning and the flights of birds. He still looked very much like a boy to me. In spite of the obvious gravity of the moment, his eyes shone brightly and he smiled as he stepped towards Cicero and took his hand; it seemed that his love for his mentor had not diminished over the years.