Catilina's Riddle (3 page)

He looks on me as a thorn in his side. I look on him the way you might look on a horse you don't trust; you must have the beast to get where you're going, but secretly you suspect he'll throw you. I find myself sniping at him constantly. He reacts by acting surly and impertinent."

Claudia nodded sympathetically. "Ah, a good foreman is always hard to find. But the joys of farm life far outweigh the travails, or so I've always found. I think more than Aratus is bothering you, Gordianus."

I looked at her sidelong. Her probing was beginning to touch on tender spots. "I suppose I should confess that I miss my elder son."

"Ah, young Eco. I met him when he helped you move in last fall.

A fine-looking young man. Why is he not here with you?"

"He's taken over my house on the Esquiline Hill in the city and seems quite content there. Well, you can't expect a young man of twenty-seven to choose the tranquillity of country life over the distractions of the city. Besides, he's newly married; the girl no doubt prefers to run her own household. Can you imagine a young bride competing with Bethesda for command of a household? I shudder at the thought. There would be no tranquillity in that! Also, his work is there. He does the sort of things that I used to do—dangerous, and I worry. Rome has become a dreadful place. . . . "

"One must let them go their own way eventually. Or so I've heard.

And you still have children at home."

"Yes, they were at each other's throats when I left the house. Meto is old enough to know better. He'll turn sixteen next month and put on his toga of manhood. He has no business fighting with Diana. She's only six. But she does delight in tormenting him. . . . "

"Diana? Is that what you call her for short?"

"Well, Gordiana is too big a name for such a small girl, don't you agree? Besides, the name of the goddess suits her; she loves wild things.

She's happy here in the country. I have to be careful that she doesn't go wandering too far on her own."

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"Ah, how big the farm must seem to a six-year-old. This ridge must be a mountain, the wall a great fortification, the stream a mighty river.

And Meto, does he like the country?"

"He grew up away from the city, down in Baiae, on the coast."

Claudia looked at me oddly. "Adopted, like his older brother," I explained. I did not add that Meto had been born a slave; others might discover that fact, but not from me. "So country ways come naturally to him. He was happy enough in the city, but he likes it here as well."

"And your wife, Bethesda?"

"There are women who have the power to remake whatever corner of the world they occupy to suit themselves; she is one. Besides, all places pale when compared to her native Alexandria. Rome could not match it, so why should the Etruscan countryside? But in truth I think she misses the big markets and the gossip, the smell of fish at the waterfront, the crush of the Forum on festival days, all the rush and madness of the city. "And you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you miss those things?"

"Not for a moment!"

She looked at me shrewdly, but not without sympathy. "Gordianus, I have not been the sole mistress and overseer of two generations of conniving slaves, not to mention the customer of every cunning auc-tioneer and merchant between here and Rome for the last forty years, without learning to discern when a man is being less than honest with me. You are not happy here, and the reason has nothing to do with quarreling neighbors or missing your son in the city. You are homesick."

"Nonsense!"

"You are bored."

"With a farm to run?"

"And lonely."

"With my family around me?"

"Not bored because you have nothing to do; bored because you miss the unexpected adventures of the city. Not lonely for lack of loved ones, but lonely for new strangers to come into your life. Oh, the loneliness for strangers is nothing new to country dwellers; I have known it all my life. Don't you think I grow weary of my little circle of Cousin Publius and Cousin Manius and Cousin Gnaeus and their slaves, and long for a new face to appear in my world? Which is why I like talking to you, Gordianus. But I was raised in the country and you in the city, so it must be much worse for you, this boredom and loneliness."

"Well, there may be some truth in what you say, Claudia, but you can't say that I miss the city. I couldn't wait to leave it! It's all right for younger men, or those who are driven by their vices—there is no place

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like Rome for a man to satisfy his ambition for power or his lust or greed, or to die in the pursuit. No, I've turned my back on all that. The fact that Lucius died and left me this farm was the will of the gods, smiling on me, showing me a way out. Rome has become unlivable—filthy, overcrowded, noisy, and violent. Only a madman could go on living there!"

"But your work—"

"I miss that least of all! Do you know what I did for a living? I called myself a Finder. Advocates hired me to find proof of their enemy's crimes. Politicians—may I never see another!—hired me to uncover scandal about their adversaries. I once thought that I served truth, and through truth, justice, but truth and justice are meaningless words in Rome. They might as well be obliterated from the Latin tongue. I discover a man is guilty of some heinous crime, only to see him acquitted by a bribed panel of judges! I learn that a man is innocent, then see him convicted on spurious evidence and hounded out of the city! I discover that the scandal attached to a powerful man is true enough, but for all that he is a sound and honest man who has only the same failings as other men; even so, the scandal is all that anyone cares about, and he is expelled from the Senate, and the true reason is some political maneuvering by his enemies, whose true agenda I can only guess at. Meanwhile a total scoundrel charms the mob and bribes their leaders and gets himself elected consul! I used to think that Rome was growing worse and worse, but it was I who changed. I've grown too old and weary to stomach such beastliness any longer."

To this tirade Claudia made no answer. She raised her eyebrows and shifted a bit uncomfortably at such an outburst of passion, then joined me in gazing silently at the view. A plume of smoke ascended from the kitchen. The muffled pounding of mallets, swung by the slaves repairing the goat pen, echoed up from the valley, along with the bleating of a kid which had wandered through the breach and was lost in the high grass of the hayfield. A young slave had gone looking for it, but was headed in the wrong direction. Over on the Cassian Way, coming down from the north, was a train of wagons, their contents battened down and covered by heavy sheets of canvas. To judge by the retinue of armed guards, the contents were quite valuable—probably a shipment of vases from the famous workshops at Arretium on its way down to Rome. Heading north on the road, about to meet and pass the wagons, was a long file of slaves with heavy loads on their backs, driven by men on horseback. Their chains were new and glinted in the noonday sun.

Beyond the road, up on the slope of Mount Argentum and just across from our high vantage point on the ridge, a herd of unattended goats negotiated the winding path that led to Gnaeus's abandoned silver

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mine. A faint bleating, barely audible, echoed across the hot, still air.

"And yet . . ." I sighed.

"Yes, Gordianus?"

"And yet . . . do you know what this makes me think of, sitting here and gazing down on the scene?"

"Of Rome?"

"Yes, Claudia, of Rome! The city has seven hills, and every hill affords a different view. I was thinking of one in particular, on the Quirinal Hill, just up from the Fontinal Gate. You can see all of the northern quadrant of Rome. On a clear summer day like this, the Tiber sparkles beneath the sun as if it were on fire. The great Flaminian Way is thronged with carts and men on horseback. The Circus Flaminius looms up in the middle distance, looking enormous and yet like a toy; the crowded little tenements and shops cluster around it like sucklings to their mother. Beyond the city wall lies the Field of Mars, hazy with dust from the racers in their chariots. The sounds and odors of the city rise up on the warm air like the breath of the city itself."

"You miss the city, Gordianus."

"Yes," I sighed. "For all its danger and corruption, for all its mean-ness and squalor—still, I miss the city."

We looked down again in silence. The slave had found the kid, which bleated and kicked at being dragged through the high grass. A kitchen girl brought a draft of water to the slaves at the goat pen, and their mallets fell silent. In the stillness I could hear Aratus shouting in a shrill voice at one of the slaves in the vineyard: "Wrong, the whole row is wrong! Redo them, every one!" Then all was quiet again, except for the buzzing of bees in the woods behind us.

"Actually, Gordianus, I was hoping to find you here on the ridge today."

"Yes, Claudia?"

"As you know, election time is close at hand."

"Don't remind me. After last summer's farce I never care to witness another such disgusting spectacle."

"Nevertheless, some of us have kept our civic spirit. Next month the election for the two consuls will be held in Rome. It's a tradition for our branch of the Claudii—the Etruscan country cousins, we call ourselves—to gather beforehand, decide which candidate to support, and choose a representative to send to Rome to vote. This year it falls my turn to play hostess to this little gathering. Never mind that my house is modest and I haven't the household slaves to properly provide for such a conclave; duty is duty. The gathering will be at the end of the month.

It would help tremendously if I could borrow your cook and some of your kitchen slaves for the occasion. I'd need them for only a couple of days

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beforehand, to help prepare the feast, and then on the day of the gathering itself to help serve. Three days in all. Would it be too great an imposition, Gordianus?"

"Of course not."

"I shall repay you somehow. You never know when you'll need to borrow an ox or some bundles of hay. It's the way that country neighbors should help each other, yes?"

"Yes, indeed."

"And I trust that you won't instruct your slaves to slip a bit of poison into the feast—that would be too drastic a solution to your troublesome neighbors, eh?"

It was a joke, of course, but in such bad taste that I winced instead of smiling. In Rome I had encountered more cases of poisoning than I cared to remember.

"Come, Gordianus, don't cringe! Seriously, I'll take the opportunity to have a word with my relations about their uncivil treatment of you."

"That would be appreciated."

"Any advice on this year's slate of candidates? Your friend Cicero seems to be having quite a successful year as consul. We bear him no grudge, of course, even though he represented you in the case of Lucius's will. You must be proud to have such a friend. As consul, he's turned out better than any of us expected—too bad he can't serve two years in a row. At least last year he kept that wild-eyed madman Catilina out of office. Now Catilina is running again this year, and appears unstoppable, or so says—"

"Please, Claudia—no politics!"

"But of course; you're sick of all that."

"Quite. I may miss Rome, but I don't miss—"

At that moment I heard a high voice calling from the valley below.

It was Diana, sent by her mother to fetch me for the midday meal. I watched her step from the library doorway into the herb garden. Her long hair was uncommonly thick and black for a child, glinting almost blue in the sunlight. She was dressed in a bright yellow tunic with her arms and legs bare. Her skin was tanned to a dark bronze, the gift of her Egyptian mother. She ran through the gate and skipped quickly along the path, passed the goat pens and the vineyards and disappeared in the olive orchard at the foot of the hill. Through the foliage I glimpsed the yellow tunic approaching and heard her laughing: "I see you, Papa! I see you, Papa!"

A moment later she was rushing into my arms, giggling and out of breath.

"Diana, do you remember our neighbor? This is Claudia."

"Yes, I remember her. Do you live up here in the woods?" said Diana.

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Claudia laughed. "No, my dear, this is only where I come to visit your father from time to time. I live down in the valley on the other side of this ridge, on my own little farm. You must come and visit me sometime."

Diana looked at her gravely for a moment, then turned to me.

"Mama says you must come at once or she shall throw your food into the pen and let the goats eat it!"

Claudia and I both laughed and rose from the stumps. She said farewell and disappeared into the woods. Diana wrapped her little arms around my neck and I carried her down the hillside all the way to the house.

After the midday meal, the day grew even warmer. Everyone—

animals, slaves, and children alike—found a shaded place and dozed in the heat. Everyone but me. I went to the library and took out some parchment and a stylus. I began to draw wheels with notches that fit into other wheels, trying to imagine the water mill that Lucius Claudius had planned to construct down on the stream.

All was peace and contentment, yet I was not bored at all. I had been mad, I decided, to tell Claudia that I missed the murderous intrigues of the city. Nothing and no one in this world, neither man nor god, could ever persuade me to return to such a life.

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C H A P T E R T W O

was contemplating the problem of the water mill again ten days later when Aratus brought the cook and his two young assistants into my library. Congrio was a heavy man; what good cook is not? As Lucius Claudius had once remarked, I a cook whose creations are not so tempting that he stuffs himself with stolen delicacies is not a cook worth having.

Congrio was not Lucius's best cook—that post had been reserved for Lucius's house on the Palatine Hill in Rome, where he entertained his friends. But Lucius had not been a man to stint himself of culinary pleasures no matter where he went, and his country cook was more than skillful enough to delight my palate.