Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (38 page)

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 forwards 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 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. . . .’

The 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 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.

‘Out 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 half-brother, 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 revellers and their retinues arrive and disappear within the house. Chrysogonus, if he was greeting his guests in person, was doing 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 honour 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 honour, then suddenly harsh and intense, as if mustering his strength, and then suffused 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.

The litter arrived and came to a halt. The Nubians lowered their burden. A man-at-arms cast back the yellow gauze that shielded the occupant of the box. Sulla arose, smiling, corpulent, his ruddy face shining in the torchlight. He wore an elaborate robe of Asiatic design, an affectation he had acquired during his campaigns against Mithridates; it was in shades of green embroidered with silver. His hair, once as fair as Chrysogonus’s, was thick and faded, a pale yellow like millet porridge.

Chrysogonus stepped forwards to greet him, bowing slightly. They embraced. They spoke briefly, laughing and smiling. They put their arms around each other’s shoulders and disappeared into the house.

The litter bearers were dismissed. The retinue, casually sorting themselves into ranks of importance, followed their master into the house. The musicians, still playing, followed them. The torchbearers followed last, leaving behind two of their number to flank the door and cast a diminished light of welcome for any late arrivals. From within came a muted sound of clapping and cheering. The soul of the party had arrived.

Two days before, Rufus had shown me the exterior of Chrysogonus’s mansion, pointing out each entrance and explaining as best he could remember the placement of the rooms within. On the northward side, around the corner from the portico and shielded by a stand of cypress trees from the grounds in the rear, there was a small wooden door recessed in the wall. It led, so Rufus thought, into a pantry adjoining the vast kitchens at the back of the house. We were to wait there until Rufus came, unless he managed on his own to find the slaves of Sextus Roscius, Felix and Chrestus, in which case he would send them to us. Darkness hid us from the street. The cypress trees concealed us from the litter bearers who idled in the open space between the house and the stables. The house itself had no windows at all on the northern side, only a deserted, unlit balcony on the upper storey.

I was afraid that Tiro would become agitated, unused as he was to sitting idle in the dark, but he seemed quite content to lean against the bole of a tree and stare into the night. He had said almost nothing to me since our tryst with Roscia. He was wounded more deeply than he showed. Occasionally he glanced at me and then quickly away, his dark eyes flashing.

It seemed that we waited a very long time. Music from within mingled with the sound of crickets, and at some point I heard voices declaiming, interrupted at regular intervals by bursts of laughter and applause. Finally the door flew open. I stiffened against the tree, ready to run, but it was only a slave girl lugging a pail of dirty water. She blindly flung it into the darkness, then spun around and slammed the door behind her. Tiro brushed his legs where the farthest-flung drops had spattered the hem of his tunic. I reached into my sleeve and felt the handle of my knife – the same knife the mute son of Polia had given me on the street of the House of Swans long ago, it seemed, and far away.

I was almost dozing when the door at last opened again. I clutched the knife and sat upright. The door creaked quietly on its hinges, swinging open with such conspicuous stealth that I knew it must be either Rufus or else assassins come to murder us.

‘Gordianus?’ A voice whispered.

‘Step outside, Rufus. Close the door behind you.’

He closed it with the same exaggerated stealth and then stood blinking like a mole, unable yet to see in the darkness despite the bright moon.

‘Have you found them yet?’ I asked.

‘They’re in the house, yes. Or at least there are two slaves called Felix and Chrestus, both new to the household; so one of the serving girls tells me. But I’ve seen nothing of them. They don’t serve guests. They have no contact with anyone outside the household. Chrysogonus uses them as personal drudges. The girl says they almost never leave the upper floors.’

‘Perhaps she can take them a message.’

‘I already asked. Useless, she says. Chrysogonus would be furious if they came down during the party. But she’s willing to take you to them.’

‘Where is this girl?’

‘Waiting for me, in the pantry. She found an excuse to come and fetch something.’

‘Or she might be running to Chrysogonus this very moment.’

Rufus looked worriedly at the door, then shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

‘You know how it is. You can tell when a slave is willing to do some dirty business behind her master’s back. I don’t think she cares for Master Golden-Born very much. You know what they say, slaves hate working for a freedman – it’s a former slave who makes the cruellest master.’

I looked at the door, thinking how easily death could lurk behind it. I took a deep breath, then decided to trust Rufus’s judgment. ‘Lead the way.’

He nodded and stealthily opened the door. The lintel was so low I had to stoop. Tiro followed behind me. There was no reason for him to come, and I had meant to leave him outside, but when I looked over my shoulder I saw a look of such determination on his face that I acquiesced. With a faint creaking he closed the door behind us.