Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (35 page)

‘Oh, in the name of jupiter, stop, Cicero!’ Rufus had finally reached his limit. I closed my eyes and rendered a prayer of thanks to the unseen gods that it was Rufus who had finally spoken and not me, for I had been biting my tongue so hard it nearly bled. ‘Can’t you see this is useless? Whatever crime Tiro has committed, it’s known only to those of us in this room, and to no one else who cares, at least so long as the girl keeps her mouth shut. It’s a matter to be handled between you and your slave. Sleep on it and put it out of your mind until after the trial, and meanwhile simply see that he’s kept away from the girl. As Gordianus says, save your voice and your anger for more important matters, such as saving Sextus Roscius. What matters now is discovering what Tiro told her and how the information got to our enemies.’

‘And why the girl would betray her own father.’ I looked wearily at Tiro. ‘Perhaps you have some idea about that.’

Tiro looked meekly at Cicero, as if to see whether he had permission to speak or even breathe. For a moment Cicero seemed on the verge of another outburst. Instead he only cursed and turned towards the dimly glowing atrium, tightly hugging himself as if to contain his fury.

‘Well, Tiro?’

‘It still seems impossible,’ he said softly, shaking his head. ‘Perhaps I’m mistaken. It’s only, when you said it had to be someone in this room who betrayed you, I thought to myself, not me, I’ve told no one, and then I realized I had told Roscia . . .’

‘Just as you told her all about me on the day I first interviewed Sextus Roscius,’ I said.

‘Yes.’

‘And the very next day Mallius Glaucia and another of Magnus’s thugs came to my house to frighten me off the case, killing my cat and leaving their message in its blood. Yes, it seems to me quite likely that your Roscia is the leak in our vessel.’

‘But how? She loves her father. She would do anything to help him.’

‘This is what she tells you?’

‘Yes. That was why she was always pressing me with questions about the investigation, asking what Cicero was doing to help her father. Sextus Roscius always made her leave the room when he talked business and wouldn’t tell her or her mother anything. She couldn’t stand not knowing.’

‘And so, in between, or during, or after your hurried little trysts, she plied you with detailed questions about her father’s defence.’

‘Yes. But you make it sound so sinister, so awkward and artificial.’

‘Oh, no, I’m sure she’s as smooth as burnished gold.’

‘You make her sound like an actor.’ He lowered his voice and glanced towards Cicero, who had turned his back and stepped into the atrium. ‘Or like a whore.’

I laughed. ‘Not like a whore, Tiro. You should know better than that.’ I saw him blush and look again towards Cicero, as if he expected me to mention Electra now and destroy him even further in his master’s eyes. ‘No,’ I said, ‘the motivations of a whore are always transparent, comprehensible precisely because they are suspect, bewitching only to a genuine fool, or to a man who devoutly wishes to be fooled.’ I rose from my chair, walked stiffly across the room, and laid my hand on his shoulder. ‘But even the wise may be taken in by that which seems young and innocent and fair. Especially if they are young and innocent themselves.’

Tiro glanced towards the atrium, where Cicero had stepped out of earshot. ‘Do you really think that’s
all
she wanted from me, Gordianus? Just a way to find out what I knew?’

I thought of what I had seen that first day at Caecilia’s, of the look on the girl’s face and the yearning arch of her naked body against the wall. I thought of the little leer that had flashed in the eyes of young Lucius Megarus at the memory of her stay in his father’s house in Ameria. ‘No, not entirely. If you mean, did she feel nothing at all when she was with you, I doubt that very much. Trust is seldom entirely pure, and neither is deceit.’

‘If she was collecting information,’ Rufus said, ‘perhaps she was passing it on in some innocent way herself. There might be a slave in the household she confides in, some spy placed there by Chrysogonus who plies her with questions the same way she plies Tiro.’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so. Tell me if I’m right, Tiro. So far you’ve only managed to see her whenever you could accompany one of us on an errand to Caecilia’s house, correct?’

‘Yes. . . .’ He drew out the word tenuously, as if he anticipated the next question.

‘But something tells me that Roscia made some proposal to meet you – tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘But how did you know that?’ asked Rufus.

‘Because the trial draws very near. Whoever is gathering their information from Roscia would press her for more regular reports as the final day approaches. They can’t rely on the haphazard chance of Tiro being able to see her every day. They would press her to plan for a tryst. True, Tiro?’

‘Yes.’

‘And tomorrow is here already,’ I said, looking into the garden where Cicero was still composing himself. The light had changed from rose to ochre and was rapidly fading to white. Already the coolness of the night was receding. ‘When and where, Tiro?’

He looked towards his master, who still gave no sign of hearing, then let out a deep sigh. ‘On the Palatine. Near Caecilia Metella’s house there’s a patch of ground with trees and grass, an open park between two houses; I’m to meet her there at three hours after noon. I told her it might be impossible. She said that if I was with you or with Rufus I should tell you that I had an urgent errand to run for Cicero, or vice versa. She said she was sure I could think of something.’

‘And now you won’t have to. Because I’m going with you.’

‘What?’ It was Cicero, outraged, stepping into the room.

‘Out of the question! Impossible! There will be no more contact between them.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘there will be. Because I say so. Because every minute from now until the trial my life is at stake, and I will leave no path that might lead to the truth unexplored.’

‘But we know the truth already.’

‘Do we? Just as you knew the truth an hour ago, before Tiro made his confession? There is always more of the truth to discover, and more and more and more. Meanwhile I suggest we all try to get some sleep. We have a busy day ahead. Rufus has business in the Forum, Tiro and I have an appointment with the young Roscia. And tonight, while you, Cicero, work on your notes and polish your oration and drink leek soup, the three of us shall attend a little party given by the gracious Chrysogonus in his mansion on the Palatine. Now good morning, Cicero, and if you will show me to a place where I might sleep, good night.’

XXIII

How long my host slept or whether he slept at all I never knew; I only know that when Tiro came to wake me gently that afternoon in my tiny cubicle opposite the study, I heard Cicero declaiming in his harsh, reedy voice as he paced back and forth in the tiny garden.

‘Consider, gentlemen, that story from not so long ago of a certain Titus Cloelius of Tarracina, a pleasant town you’ll find sixty miles southeast of Rome on the Appian Way. One night he finished his dinner and then went to bed in the same room as his two grown sons. The next morning he was discovered with his throat slashed. Investigation uncovered no suspects or motives; the sons insisted they had both slept without hearing a thing. Yet they were charged with parricide – and indeed, the circumstances were certainly suspicious. How, the prosecution argued, could they have slept through such an event without waking? Why did they not rouse themselves and defend their father? And what sort of murderer would have dared to venture into that room with three sleeping men with the intent of killing one and then disappearing?

‘And yet the good judges acquitted the sons and cleared them of all suspicion. And what was the conclusive bit of evidence? The sons were found the next morning
fast asleep.
How could this be so, it was argued, and the judges unanimously agreed, if they were guilty? For what man could first commit a crime unspeakable and repugnant before every law of god or man, and then afterwards fall blissfully asleep? Surely, it was argued, men who have perpetrated so outrageous an offence against heaven and earth could not possibly have slept soundly in the same room, snoring beside the still-warm corpse of their father. And so the two sons of Titus Cloelius were acquitted. . . .

‘Yes, yes, that part’s very good, very good, not a word needs changing.’

He loudly cleared his throat, then whispered rapidly to himself before raising his voice again. ‘Legend tells us of sons who killed their mothers to avenge their fathers: Orestes who slew Clytemnestra to avenge Agamemnon, Alcmaeon who murdered Eriphyle to avenge Amphiaraus . . . or was it Amphiaraus who killed Eriphyle? No, no, that’s right. . . . And yet even when these men are said to have acted in accordance with divine will, obeying oracles and the very voices of the gods, even so the Furies haunted them afterwards, ruthlessly depriving them of all rest, for such is the nature, even when justified by committing an act of filial duty on behalf of a murdered father, of the nature . . . No, no, wait, that won’t do. No, it doesn’t make sense at all. Too many words, too many words . . .’

‘Shall I open the curtains?’ Tiro asked. I sat on the divan, rubbing my eyes and licking my parched lips. The room was like an oven, oppressively hot and airless. The yellow curtains were suffused with a light as harsh as Cicero’s voice.

‘Absolutely not,’ I said. ‘Then I’d have to watch him as well as listen. Besides, I’m not sure I could stand the brightness. Is there anything to drink?’

He walked to a small table and poured me a cup of water from a silver ewer.

‘What time is it, Tiro?’

‘The ninth hour of the day – two hours past noon.’

‘Ah, then we have an hour before our appointment. Is Rufus up?’

‘Rufus Messalla has been down at the Forum for hours. Cicero gave him a whole list of errands.’

‘And my slave?’

Tiro smiled demurely. What had Bethesda done – kissed him on the cheek, flattered him, teased him, or simply flashed her eyes? ‘I’m not sure where she is now. Cicero gave orders that she needn’t do anything except attend to your needs, but she volunteered to help in the kitchen this morning. Until the head cook insisted that she leave.’

‘Screaming after her and tossing pots, I assume.’

‘Something like that.’

‘Ah, well, if you see the steward tell him he can confine her to my room if he wants. Let her sit here and listen to Cicero declaiming all day. That should be punishment enough for any broken bowls.’

Tiro frowned to show his disapproval of my sarcasm. A slight breeze wafted the yellow curtains and carried Cicero’s voice with it: ‘And it is because of the very enormity of the crime of parricide that it must be quite irrefutably proven before any reasonable man will believe it. For what madman, what utterly debauched wreckage of manhood would bring upon himself and his house such a curse, not only of the populace but of the heavens? You know, good Romans, that what I say is true: such is the power of the blood that binds a man to his own flesh that a single drop of it creates a stain that can never be washed away. It penetrates into the heart of a parricide and plants madness and fury in a soul that must already be utterly depraved. . . . Oh, yes, that’s it, exactly. By Hercules, that’s good!’

‘In case you want to wash your face, I brought a bowl of water and a towel,’ Tiro said, indicating the little table beside the divan. ‘And since you didn’t bring any clothes with you, I looked around the house and found a few things that I think will fit. They’ve been worn, of course, but they’re clean.’

He gathered up the tunics and laid them on the divan beside me for my inspection. They could not have been Cicero’s, whose torso was much longer and narrower than my own; I suspected they had been made for Tiro. Even the simplest tunic was better stitched and of finer material than my best toga. The night before, Cicero himself had given me a loose sleeveless gown to wear when he had shown me to my bed; apparently he was unaware that it was possible to sleep wearing nothing. As for the bloodstained tunic I had worn to his door, hastily thrown on as Bethesda and I made our escape, it had apparently been gathered from the floor of my room while I slept and thrown away.

While I washed and dressed, Tiro fetched bread and a bowl of fruit from the kitchen. I ate it all and sent him for more. I was famished, and neither the heat nor even Cicero’s constant droning and repetitions and self-congratulations could spoil my appetite.