A Gladiator Dies Only Once (31 page)

“How old were his sons at the time?”

“Mere boys. Our Lucullus was probably no more than ten years old.”

“His father’s trial must have been a terrible ordeal for him.”

“I’m sure it was; yet eventually he turned it to his advantage. Instead of retreating from the world out of shame or bitterness, as soon as he was old enough, Lucullus dug up some dirt on the man who’d prosecuted his father and brought the fellow to trial. Everyone knew it was a prosecution motivated by revenge, but many people still felt warmly toward the exiled Lucullus and they were proud to see his son so full of spirit. The prosecution failed—but Lucullus’s reputation was made.”

“So I gathered.”

Lucius Claudius hummed and nodded. “Let’s see, what else can I tell you about Lucullus?” He was lost in thought for a moment, then the mischievous glint returned to his eyes. “Well—since you don’t care to discuss
my
will—there’s the matter of Lucullus’s. I don’t suppose
that
subject came up during the conversation?”

“Lucullus’s will? No.”

“Naturally; the one thing on everyone’s mind would be the one thing no one mentioned!”

“Tell me more.”

“Apparently, for the longest time, Lucullus had no will; he’s one of those fellows who thinks he’ll live forever. But just last month he drew up a will and left a copy in the keeping of the Vestal virgins. When a man as rich as Lucullus makes a will, that’s news. Of course, the copy was sealed, and no one is supposed to know the details, but. . .”

“But
you
happen to have a tidbit or two, nonetheless?” I shook my head in wonder. How was it that Lucius Claudius, without ever leaving his garden, could know so much about the secret life of the city?

“Well, this is only secondhand, you understand, and there are no earth-shaking surprises. It’s rather what you might expect: his beloved younger brother Marcus is his principal heir, and is also named as the guardian of Lucullus’s son, if indeed the child Servilia is expecting turns out to be a male; if it’s a daughter, the child is left to the care of her mother and her mother’s family, which means her uncle Cato, I suppose.”

I nodded; my supposition that Servilia was pregnant was correct. “And Servilia? What sort of provision is made for her?”

“Ah! As you may remember, Lucullus’s last marriage ended in an acrimonious divorce; they say he picked the wrong Clodia—as if there might be a right one!” Lucius Claudius laughed at this little jest; each of the three Clodia sisters had become notorious for carrying on behind her husband’s back. “Right now, Lucullus is still very keen on Servilia, especially since she’s to give him a child. But Lucullus is wary; once burned, and all that. They say there are all sorts of provisions in the will to keep Servilia from getting so much as a sesterce if there should be the least hint of infidelity on her part.”

“Has there been?”

Lucius Claudius raised an eyebrow. “She was known to have a wild streak when she was younger.”

“Motherhood takes that out of some women.”

“Perhaps. But you’ve seen the lady with your own two eyes. If she did wish to go fishing, she possesses all the right bait.”

“She’s not to my taste, but I’ll take your word for it. It’s curious that Servilia seems so different from her brother. Cato is so prim, so proper.”

Lucius Claudius laughed. “For one thing, they’re only half-siblings; perhaps Servilia inherited her wild streak from her father. And you know what they say: one Stoic in the family is more than enough!”

I nodded. “Speaking of Cato, is he mentioned in the will—beyond his role as guardian to his prospective niece?”

“Oh, yes, there’s quite a generous provision for him. Cato has been instrumental in pushing through the proposal for Lucullus’s triumph, and for that, Lucullus is grateful. The two have become staunch allies in the Senate; the new Gemini, some call them.”

“Despite their differing philosophies?”

“Opposites attract. Look at you and me, Gordianus; could two Romans be more different? Yet this very day I’ve decided to make you heir to my Etruscan farm.”

“Stop jesting, Lucius! Your farm would be useless to me—except, perhaps, for the fine wine that comes from your vineyards, another cup of which I would gladly accept right now.” Lucius clapped his hands; a slave came at once and refilled my cup. “What about Cicero?”

He nodded. “Also named in the will, and generously provided for. And Jupiter knows
he
could use the money, what with bankrolling his campaign for the consulship this year! Really, it’s a scandal how expensive it’s become to run for office. Cicero’s already been forced to borrow; he’s in debt not just to Lucullus but to several other of his wealthy friends.”

I nodded. “And the three As, Lucullus’s little coterie of Greek companions?”

“All named in the will, in gratitude for their many years of loyalty and inspiration.”

I thought for a moment. “Let me understand what you’ve just told me, Lucius: Lucullus only recently made a will, and everyone who supped with him yesterday—except me—stands to profit enormously from his demise?”

Lucius frowned. “Is Lucullus in danger? Has he been threatened? I thought he called you there to investigate one of his gardeners, that one-eyed slave who, Lucullus imagines, is actually the fugitive traitor Varius.”

“Yes, that was his ostensible reason for consulting me. Lucullus is utterly convinced of the man’s identity.”

“Is such a thing possible?”

“No. Motho can’t be Varius. For one thing, his missing eye is on the wrong side!”

“You’re sure of that?”

“I am. Only yesterday, Cicero reminded me that Sertorius had lost an eye on one side, his compatriot Varius an eye on the other; as Cicero put it, between them they possessed a full complement of eyes such as the rest of us take for granted. I know that Sertorius was missing his
right
eye—I once met the man myself—and so it follows that Varius was missing his
left,
as Lucullus himself asserts. Yet the gardener Motho is missing his right eye, and so cannot possibly be Varius. The most bizarre thing is that Lucullus knows this—yet remains convinced that Motho is Varius, nonetheless!”

“Do you think that Lucullus could be the victim of some elaborate hoax?”

“Toward what end?”

“Perhaps someone is deliberately trying to confuse him, make him doubt his sanity, drive him to suicide. It may sound farfetched, but have we not seen even subtler and more outrageous plots, Gordianus, especially when an estate as large as that of Lucullus is involved?”

I shook my head. “No, this delusion arose from Lucullus’s own mind; no one suggested it to him.”

“I suppose you looked into Motho’s background?”

“Of course. Away from Lucullus and the other guests, I questioned the slave at length; if he’s not a native Greek speaker for whom Latin is a second language, then he’s a better actor than the celebrated Roscius! I also questioned Lucullus’s agent, the man who purchased Motho in Athens for the express purpose of bringing him to Rome to tend to Lucullus’s roses. Motho was born a slave and has been a slave all his life. He started as a field hand for some wealthy Athenian, but with aptitude and hard work he eventually became a highly skilled gardener. There’s no reason to think he’s anyone other than he appears to be. Poor fellow!”

“Why do you call him that?”

“Because, unless someone can convince him of his error, Lucullus almost certainly intends to proceed as if Motho
is
Varius. The wretched slave will be dressed up like a captured general, marched through the streets of Rome, jeered at and humiliated, mercilessly beaten by guards, and finally thrown to his death from the Tarpeian Rock.”

“Surely not! Wasn’t it the whole point of your visit, to verify the man’s identity and put Lucullus’s mind at rest?”

“Quite the opposite; Lucullus expects me to find proof that Motho
is
Varius, despite all evidence to the contrary. To Hades with logic or common sense; he wants me to validate what he already ‘knows’—whether it’s true or not!”

“Oh, dear. But if Lucullus tries to pass this gardener off as Varius, word will surely get out about the mistake that’s been made, if not before the triumph, then afterwards. Lucullus will become a laughingstock—”

“And Motho will suffer a horrible death.”

“The situation is mad!” exclaimed Lucius.

“And yet,” I said, “Lucullus is hardly a madman. Madmen don’t conquer half of Asia, and build the most impressive gardens in Rome, and oversee vast financial empires—do they? Madmen don’t speak of saving cities for the greater good of posterity; they don’t love philosophy and art and culture.”

“It’s all very strange. Unless . . .”

“What are you thinking, Lucius?”

He looked at me shrewdly. “Exactly what you’re thinking, old friend. After all these years, can we not read one another’s thoughts? Sometimes sane men
become
mad—because of some horrible event, or because the gods chose to make them so, or simply as a side effect. . .”

I nodded. “Yes, exactly what I was thinking: a side effect. As we have observed over the years, there are many poisons, given in doses that stop short of killing the victim outright, that can cause a derangement of the mind. If someone named in Lucullus’s will has grown impatient, and has been making an effort to hurry him along . . .”

“But all of Lucullus’s food is tasted in advance; he himself told you of his need for caution in that regard.”

“And yet,” I said, “if a man—or woman—were clever enough, and determined enough, that person might find a way to administer a poison even to a man as cautious and well-guarded as Lucullus.”

“Clever and determined—that would certainly describe any member of Lucullus’s inner circle.” Lucius gazed at me darkly, then grimaced and shook his head. “No, no, Gordianus, surely we’re mistaken! These aren’t cutthroats and vipers we’re talking about. Men like Cicero and Cato do not resort to murder for personal advancement! Marcus most certainly loves his older brother; and so far as we know, Servilia loves her husband. As for the three As, each one is a genius in his own right. It’s absurd that we should sit here and ponder which of them might be a cold-blooded poisoner, especially when we can’t even say how a poison might be administered to Lucullus.”

His vehemence sobered me. “Perhaps you’re right, Lucius. I don’t wish to be reckless. Yet I can’t stand by and see an innocent man subjected to such a horrible fate.”

Lucius shrugged. “We don’t know for a fact that Lucullus is actually in danger, do we?”

“I didn’t mean Lucullus! I meant the slave, Motho.”

“Ah!” he nodded dubiously. All in all, I loved Lucius Claudius dearly; but he was a creature of his patrician upbringing, trained from birth never to feel empathy for a slave, and he simply could not equate the fate of a man like Motho with that of a man like Lucullus. He looked at me shrewdly. “Perhaps there’s a poison involved, but without anyone intending there to be.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Well, I’m wondering—how much do we actually know about these so-called cherries? Are they truly safe to eat?”

“Surely they must be.”

“Must they? We both know of plants which can affect a man strangely. Some of them, when ingested, or burned and inhaled, can cause lightheadedness, or flights of fancy, or even hallucinations. Did you not discover that for yourself once, Gordianus, when my friend Cornelia retained your services because she was haunted by lemures?”

Even after so many years, I shivered, remembering that episode. “But all of us ate the cherries, not just Lucullus. And while the fruit may be new to Rome, it’s been known for generations in its native region. If eating cherries could cause hallucinations or delusions, I think Lucullus would know.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Lucius smiled wanly, and I could see that he was growing tired. “This is good, Gordianus—to sit and ponder with you like this. It reminds me of the affair which first brought us together; that, too, involved a will, and what appeared to be a resurrection from the dead. And here we are again, come full circle, and alpha meets omega.”

I frowned. “Alpha is the beginning, and omega is the end. What are you implying, Lucius Claudius?”

He sighed. “We are all getting older, Gordianus. I know I am.” He looked at me plaintively.

“Nonsense! You’ll live to be a hundred!” I invested the words with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, but even to my ears they rang false.

A hoax? A poison? Or something else?

As I mused on the problem of Lucullus and his strange belief, my suspicions increasingly centered on the three As.

It was the poet Archias who had first mentioned Varius at the supper, causing a shadow to cross Lucullus’s face. Did Archias refer to Varius merely by chance, or did he know of his patron’s belief regarding the gardener, and wished deliberately to disconcert him? Was it possible that Archias had suggested the idea to Lucullus in the first place? Poets could induce an idea in a listener by using words that carried meanings beyond the obvious.

It was Antiochus the philosopher who had convinced Lucullus of the existence of some organ of perception which could discern truth from falsehood without resorting to accepted methods of logic and deduction. Such a belief reinforced Lucullus’s tenacious insistence that Motho was Varius, despite the evidence of his own eyes and his own memory. Did the philosopher have some other, more direct connection to Lucullus’s delusion?

And what of the artist Arcesislaus? While the rest of the company had engaged in spirited conversation, he had kept quiet and watched, wearing an enigmatic expression. His smug silence and lack of sociability aroused my suspicion.

Lucullus had given me permission to wander his estate and to talk to any of his guests or slaves. The next day, I took a stroll through his gardens, delighting in the scent of roses. I came upon Motho, who was on his hands and knees mulching one of the bushes. He lifted his head at the sound of my footsteps; because his empty, scarred eye socket was toward me, he had to turn his face to an awkward angle to get a glimpse of me. The posture was grotesque; he looked like a hunchback or some other malformed unfortunate. I felt a stab of pity, and yet, at the same time, I seemed to detect something almost sinister about the man. Had Lucullus experienced the same reaction—a natural shiver of distaste for another’s misfortune—and allowed it to become an obsession, crowding out all reason? Or had Lucullus genuinely detected some menace in the presence of Motho? We seldom sense danger by means of reason; the realization comes to us more swiftly than that, and with indisputable conviction. What if Lucullus was right? What if Motho was, by whatever dark magic could make such a thing possible, the same man as Marcus Varius? To embrace such an idea was to relinquish the bonds of reason. That way lay madness, surely . . .