Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (14 page)

‘So they did it right there, in the rich woman’s house, right under his master’s nose. Good for them!’

‘No, Bethesda. Right under
my
nose.’ I pushed the bowl away and looked up at the sky. The glow of the city obscured the minor stars, but the greater constellations shone bright and glittering in the warm evening air. Far away to the west a band of thunderclouds loomed like the dusty wake of a mounted army. I lay back on the couch, closed my eyes, and listened to the stillness of the garden and all the little sounds inside it: the quiet sputtering of the torch, the chirr of a cricket beside the pond, the loud purring of Bast rubbing herself against the table leg. I heard the gentle clatter of dishes and Bethesda’s light footfall as she retreated into the house. The cat followed after her; the purring grew louder for an instant and then diminished into silence.

Bethesda returned. I heard the rustle of her gown, then felt her presence as she joined me on the couch. My head dipped from her weight, then soft hands lifted me and cradled my face on her lap. Another weight dropped onto the foot of the couch. Warm fur stroked against my bare feet, and I felt the vibration as much as heard it – the loud contented purr of a cat grown fat on delicacies from its master’s plate.

‘Did the meal displease you, Master? You ate almost nothing.’ Bethesda gently stroked my temple.

‘The meal was delicious,’ I lied. ‘It was the heat that killed my appetite. And all the walking I did today.’

‘You should not have walked so much in this heat. You should have made the rich woman hire you a litter.’

I shrugged. Bethesda stroked my neck and throat. I grasped her hand and ran her fingers against my lips. ‘So soft and smooth. You work so hard, Bethesda – I tease you for being lazy, but I know better – yet you keep your hands as soft as a vestal’s.’

‘Something my mother taught me. Even the poorest girl in Egypt knows how to care for her body and to keep herself beautiful. Not like these Roman women.’ Even with my eyes shut I could see the face she made, disdainful and haughty. ‘Putting creams and makeup on their faces as if they were laying mortar for bricks.’

‘The Romans have no style,’ I agreed. ‘No grace. Especially the women. The Romans became much too rich, much too quickly. They are a crude and vulgar people, and they own the world. Once upon a time they had manners, at least. A few of them still do, I suppose.’

‘Like you?’

I laughed. ‘Not me. I have no manners, and no money, either. All I own are a woman and a cat and a house I can’t afford to keep up. I was thinking of Cicero.’

‘From the way you describe him, he is a very homely man.’

‘Yes, Bethesda, Cicero has nothing that would interest you.’

‘But the boy . . .’

‘No, Bethesda, Rufus Messalla is too young even for your tastes, and far too rich.’

‘I meant the slave boy. The one who fetched you for his master. The one you saw with the girl. How did he look with his clothes off?’

I shrugged. ‘I hardly saw him. Or at least not the parts of him that would interest you.’

‘Perhaps you don’t know the parts that would interest me.’

‘Perhaps not.’ With my eyes shut I saw them again, crushed against the wall, moving furiously together, shuddering to a rhythm from which all the rest of the world was excluded. Bethesda slid her hand inside my tunic and softly stroked my chest.

‘What happened afterwards? Don’t tell me they were caught, or I shall be very sad.’

‘No, they weren’t caught.’

‘Did you let the boy know you had seen him?’

‘No. I made my way down the corridor until I found Cicero and Rufus in the garden, sitting with Caecilia Metella, all three of them looking very grim. We spoke for a few moments. Tiro walked in a bit later, looking appropriately embarrassed. Cicero made no comment. No one suspected a thing.’

‘Of course not. They think they know so much and he must know so little, being only a slave. You’d be surprised at the things a slave can do without getting caught.’

A tress of her hair fell against my cheek. I rubbed my face against it, breathing in the scents of henna and herbs. ‘Would I be surprised, Bethesda?’

‘No. Not you. Nothing surprises you.’

‘Because I have a suspicious nature. Thank the gods for that.’ Bast purred loudly against my feet. I settled my shoulders against Bethesda’s thigh.

‘So tired,’ she said softly. ‘Do you want me to sing?’

‘Yes, Bethesda, sing something quiet and soothing. Sing something in a language I don’t understand.’

Her voice was like still water, pure and deep. I had never heard the song before, and though I couldn’t understand a word of it, I knew it must have been a lullaby. Perhaps it was a song her mother had sung. I lay half-dreaming in her lap, while images of the most horrendous violence passed harmlessly before my eyes. The images were unnaturally vivid, yet somehow remote, as if I watched them through a thick pane of coloured glass. I saw the drunken gladiators and the embalmers and the stabbing in the street that morning and Tiro’s face flushed with excitement. I saw an old man set upon by thugs in an alley somewhere, stabbed over and over. I saw a naked man bound and whipped, pelted with excrement, sewn up in a bag with animals and cast alive into the Tiber.

At some point the lullaby ceased and changed into another song, a song I had often heard before, though I had never understood the words. It was one of the songs Bethesda sang to excite me, and while she sang it I sensed the movements of her body as she pulled off her robe, and I smelled the strong musk of her naked flesh. She rose up and over and beside me, until we lay close together upon the couch. She pulled my tunic above my hips, just as the daughter of Sextus Roscius had done for Tiro. I never opened my eyes, even as she bent down and swallowed me, even as I pulled her up and rolled atop her and pushed myself inside her. It was Bethesda’s body I embraced, but it was the girl I saw behind my closed eyes, standing naked and defiled with the seed of a slave glistening on her flesh.

We lay together for a long time, unmoving, our bodies joined by heat and sweat, as if flesh could melt and fuse. Bast, who at some point had fled, returned and lay purring amid the tangle of our legs. I heard a peal of thunder and thought I only dreamed it, until a scattering of warm raindrops fell against my flesh, blown in from the garden. The torch sputtered and failed. More thunder, and Bethesda huddled against me, murmuring in her secret language. The rain fell thick and straight, hissing on the roof tiles and paving stones, a long, steady rain, powerful enough to wash the foulest sewers and streets of Rome, the cleansing rain that poets and priests tell us comes from the gods to purify the sins of fathers and sons alike.

IX

The next morning I rose early and washed myself from the fountain in the garden. The parched earth had grown plump and moist from the night-long rain. The vegetation dripped with heavy dew. The sky above was milky pearl touched with coral, as opalescent as the inner surface of a shell. As I watched, the glaze of colour evaporated into mist; by imperceptible degrees the sky became a proper blue, suffused with light, cloudless, harbinger of the heat to come. I dressed in my lightest tunic and cleanest toga and ate a mouthful of bread. I left Bethesda sleeping on the couch. She lay clutching her robe as a coverlet against the still-cool morning, with Bast curled against her neck like a collar of black fur.

I made my way at a quick stride to Cicero’s house. We had parted the day before with the understanding that I would pass by on my way to inspect the site of Sextus Roscius’s murder. But when I arrived Cicero sent word by Tiro that he would not rise until noon. He suffered from a chronic malady of the bowels, and blamed the present relapse on having broken his regimen to eat a prune at Caecilia Metella’s. He kindly offered the use of Tiro for the day.

The streets still gleamed with rain and the air had a clean, scrubbed smell when we set out. By the time we reached the foot of the Capitoline, passed through the Fontinal Gate, and entered the neighbourhood of the Circus Flaminius, the heat of the day had already begun to reassert its power over the city. The paving stones began to steam. Brick walls began to ooze and sweat. The freshness of morning turned humid and stifling.

I mopped my forehead with the edge of my toga and silently cursed the heat. I glanced at Tiro and saw that he was smiling, staring straight ahead with a stupid look in his eyes. I could imagine the reason for his high spirits, but I said nothing.

All about the Circus Flaminius is a network of mazelike streets. Those nearest the Circus, especially those that face the long structure itself and are thus most able to exploit the heavy traffic that surrounds it, are thick with shops, taverns, brothels, and inns. The outlying web of streets is crammed with tenements three and four storeys tall, many of which overhang the street and thus block out the sunlight. One street looks very much like another, and all are a hodgepodge of every age and quality of architecture. Given the frequency of fires and earthquakes, Rome is constantly being rebuilt; as the population has grown and vast tracts of property have been amassed under the control of great landlords, the newer buildings tend to be of the poorest imaginable design and construction. Surrounding a venerable brick-and-mortar apartment building that has somehow withstood a century of catastrophes, one may see ramshackle tenements without the slightest ornament, looking to be made of nothing more than mud and sticks. Under Sulla, of course, these problems have only become worse.

We followed the route that Sextus Roscius had described, as copied down the day before by the young Messalla. Rufus’s script was atrocious, almost unreadable. I remarked to Tiro that it was a pity he had been busy elsewhere and unable to take down the notes in his own firm, clean hand. ‘Being a noble, Rufus has never bothered to learn how to make his letters, at least not so well that anyone else could read it. But you seem to have considerable skill in wielding your stylus.’ I made the comment as offhandedly as I could, and smiled to see his ears turn red.

I had no doubt that the route was correct; it followed a natural path from the house of Caecilia Metella into the heart of the Circus district, taking the broadest streets, avoiding the more narrow and most dangerous shortcuts. We passed by several taverns, but old Sextus would not have stopped there, at least not on that night, not if he was so eager to reach the sender of the cryptic message.

We came into a broad sunlit square. Shops faced inward towards the central cistern where the locals came to draw their daily water. A tall, broad-shouldered woman in dingy robes seemed to be the self-appointed mistress of the cistern, regulating the small line of slaves and housewives who stood about gossiping while they waited their turn. One of the slaves threw half a bucket of water on a group of ragged urchins loitering nearby. The children screamed with pleasure and shook themselves like dogs.

‘Through there,’ Tiro said. He studied the directions and bunched his eyebrows. ‘At least I think so.’

‘Yes, I remember from yesterday: a narrow passage between a wine shop and a tall red-stained tenement.’ I looked about the irregular square, at the six streets that radiated outward. Of them all, the street that old Sextus had taken that night was the narrowest, and because it took a sharp turn early on, it afforded the least visibility. Perhaps it was the shortest way to the woman called Elena. Perhaps it was the only way.

I looked about and spotted a man crossing the square. I took him to be a minor merchant or a shopkeeper, a man of some means but not rich, to judge from his worn but well-made shoes. From the easy way he comported himself, looking idly about the square without seeming to notice a thing, I assumed he was a local who had crossed it many times, perhaps every day. He paused beside the public sundial mounted on a low pedestal, furrowing his brow and wrinkling his nose at it. I stepped up to him.

‘ “May the gods confound him,” ’ I quoted, ‘ “who first invented the hours, and who placed the first sundial in Rome!” ’

‘Ah!’ He looked up, smiling broadly, and instantly picked up the refrain: ‘ “Pity me, pity me! They have segmented my day like the teeth of a comb!” ’

‘Ah, you know the play,’ I began, but he was not to be interrupted.

‘ “When I was a boy my stomach was my clock, and it never steered me wrong; now even if the table overflows there’s no eating till shadows are long. Rome is ruled by the sundial; Romans starve and thirst all the while!” ’