Catilina's Riddle (63 page)

The mood was less grim than I had expected. The atmosphere was colored by that sense of shared resignation that makes even strangers seem blood kin. Men laughed and smiled, stood next to blazing fires to warm themselves, and talked to one another in low voices. Their faces were weary and somber, but their eyes were bright. They appeared hopeless but not despairing—hopeless in the sense of having come to a place beyond hope, which is to say beyond false dreams or vain ambition. They had followed Catilina to this place willingly, and their faces bore no resentment.

I searched their faces for the one I sought, suddenly at a loss. Among these thousands of men, how was I to find Meto, if indeed he was here at all? I was weary and had come to the end of a long journey and suddenly seemed to have no energy left. But even as I felt gripped by uncertainty, I found that my feet had taken me to the center of the camp, toward a tent that stood out from the others. Red and gold pennants were posted at its corners, and before it, mounted atop a tall standard, was the silver eagle Catilina had carried with him from Rome. In the cold, bright sunlight it looked almost alive, like the eagle that had come to earth on the Auguraculum on the day of Meto's manhood.

Two soldiers in legionary regalia barred my way. "Tell Catilina I want to see him," I said quietly. They looked skeptical. "Tell him my name is Gordianus the Finder."

They looked at each other sourly. Finally the more senior officer shrugged and stepped inside the tent flap. After a long wait he opened it and gestured for me to enter.

The interior of the tent was crowded but orderly. Sleeping cots had

- 370 -

been pushed out of the way to make room for small folding tables, upon which maps had been unrolled, with weights to hold down the corners.

Leather satchels lay about, stuffed full of documents. Carefully laid out on a table, as if on display, were the ceremonial axes and other insignia that by rights can be carried into battle only by a duly elected magistrate; Catilina must have brought them from Rome, thinking that by such signs he could instill in his men a sense of legitimacy, or perhaps to convince himself of the same.

Among the small circle of men who sat and conferred at the center of the tent, I first recognized Tongilius, who saw me and nodded. He was resplendent in a shining coat of mail and a crimson cape; with his tousled hair pushed carelessly back from his face, he looked like a young Alexander. Other faces turned to glance at me, and among them I recognized several of the young men with whom I had weathered the howling storm in Gnaeus's mine. There was also a broad-shouldered boulder of a man with white hair and a white beard. His round, ruddy face reminded me of Marcus Mummius. He could only be Manlius, the grizzled centurion who had organized the disgruntled Sullan veterans and was now their general.

These men glanced at me for only a moment, then returned their attention to the man who sat with his back to me, speaking to them in a low voice: Catilina. I looked around the room and suddenly noticed another figure who sat by himself on a sleeping cot at a far corner of the tent, bent over a piece of armor that he was furiously polishing. Even from the back I knew him at once, and my heart leaped into my throat.

There was a sudden burst of acclamation from the group of men around Catilina, who had finished his address. The men stood up and quickly filed out of the tent. Tongilius smiled at me as he passed.

Catilina turned around in his chair. His drawn cheeks and feverish eyes made him look more striking than ever, as if the strain of recent days had refined and purified his handsome features. He gave me a quizzical smile. I stiffened the muscles in my jaw to keep from smiling in return.

"Well, Gordianus the Finder. When the guard whispered your name in my ear, I could scarcely believe it. Your timing is impossibly exquisite.

Have you come to spy on me? Too late! Or in your own perverse manner, have you finally decided to cast your lot with me at the last possible moment?"

"Neither. I've come for my son."

"I fear you may be too late," said Catilina quietly.

"Papa!" Intent on his work, Meto had not heard Catilina speak my name, but at the sound of my voice he put down the armor he had been polishing and turned his head. A succession of emotions animated his face until he abruptly stood and walked stiffly out of the tent.

- 371 -

I
turned to follow him, but Catilina gripped my arm. "No, Gordianus, let him go. He'll come back in his own time."

I clenched my fists, but the wiser part of me listened to Catilina and obeyed. "What is he doing here? He's only a boy!" I whispered.

"But he wants so desperately to be a man, Gordianus. Can't you see that?"

A terrible feeling of dread swept over me. "None of that matters!

I refuse to let him die with you!"

Catilina sucked in his breath and looked away. I had spoken the ill-omened word.

"Oh, Catilina! Why didn't you flee to Massilia, as you said you would? Why did you stay in Italy instead of accepting exile? Did you really think—"

"I stayed because I wasn't allowed to leave! The way was blocked.

The Senate's forces in Gaul cut off every pass through the Alps. Cicero had no intention of letting me escape with my life. He wanted a final confrontation. I had no choice. Outmaneuvered," he said, dropping his voice to a hoarse whisper. "Outmaneuvered at every turn. And my so-called compatriots in Rome—what a pack of fools, letting themselves be duped into that scandal with the Allobroges! That was the end of it.

After that . . . But you were there, weren't you? As was Meto. His report to me was astonishingly vivid. Your son understands everything that's happened. He's incredibly wise for his years. You should be proud of that."

"Proud of a son I can't understand, who defies me this way?"

"How can you not understand him, Gordianus, when he's exactly like you? Or like you once were, or could have been, or might still be.

Brave, as you are. Compassionate, as you are. Committed to a cause, as you might be if you'd allow yourself. Hungry for all that life has to offer, as you must have been once."

"Please, Catilina, don't tell me that you've seduced him, too."

He paused for a long moment then smiled wistfully. "All right, I won't."

I walked blindly to the cot where Meto had been sitting. I picked up the breastplate he had been polishing. For a moment I studied my reflection, distorted amid the hammered flourishes of lions' heads and griffins, then threw the breastplate across the room. "And now you have him polishing your armor, like a slave!"

"No, Gordianus, that's not my armor. It's his. He wants it to be very bright, for the battle."

I stared at the various pieces on the cot—the greaves to protect his shins, the plumed helmet with its visor, the short sword tucked into its scabbard. The pieces were a hodgepodge that normally would have belonged to men of different ranks; even I could see how makeshift it all was. I tried to imagine Meto wearing it, and could not.

- 372 -

"Speaking of fashion," said Catilina, "I understand that in my honor the whole Senate staged some sort of ceremony to put off their normal togas and put on special clothing for the duration of the crisis, and have admonished the populace to do likewise. Is that true?"

"Eco mentioned something about it in a letter," I said dully, staring at the bits of armor. I suddenly felt lightheaded.

"Imagine that! Well, they're always coming up with these ancient ceremonies and customs that no one alive can remember. Some are rather ridiculous, but I rather like this one. I've always been called an arbiter of fashion, and this proves it; I've gotten even stodgy Cato to change his outfit!"

I lifted my eyes and stared at him. He shook his head.

"No, Gordianus, I'm not mad. But an epigram always relaxes me before a battle."

"A battle?"

"Within the hour, I imagine. Manlius and Tongilius are gathering the troops to hear me speak. You arrived just in time. Imagine, if you had missed my speech—you'd never be able to forgive yourself! Even so, if you wish to take your leave beforehand, so as to have a head start on eluding the carnage, I won't hold it against you."

"But here, now—"

"Yes! The moment has arrived. I had hoped to postpone it once again, to buy a little more time. It was my intention to cross these mountains and somehow get to Gaul, taking back roads to evade battle, fighting our way through the passes if we had to, surviving the snowstorms if we could. But when we reached the pass up above, what do you think we saw waiting for us on the other side? Another Roman army. I decided to come back down and face this one. It's commanded by the consul Antonius, you see. He was once sympathetic to my cause. I hear that Cicero bought him off by giving up the governorship he was due at the end of his consulship and letting Antonius have it instead. Still, you never know; Antonius might decide to join me at the last moment. Yes, Gordianus, I know that's impossible, but don't say so aloud! No more ill omens within the tent, if you please. But look here, just as I said: your son returns."

Meto stood at the entrance. "I've come to put on my armor," he said. "Here, help me with mine first. It will take only a moment." Catilina stood and raised his arms while Meto fitted a breastplate around him and tightened it, then attached a long crimson cape. He picked up a gilded helmet with a splendid red plume and placed it on Catilina's head. "There!" said Catilina, observing his reflection in a burnished plate.

"Don't tell Tongilius I let you dress me; he'll be jealous of the honor."

- 373 -

He took his eyes from the mirror and looked at each of us in turn, a long, steady gaze such as one gives to friends before leaving on a long journey. "I'll leave you alone now. Don't be long."

Meto watched him depart, then walked to the cot where his armor lay. "Meto—"

"Here, Papa, help me. Would you bring my breastplate? Somehow it ended up across the room."

I picked it up and went to him. He lifted his arms.

"Meto—"

"It's simpler than it looks. Line up the leather laces with the buckles and fasten the top pair on either side to begin with."

I did as he said, as if I moved in a dream.

"Forgive me for deceiving you, Papa. I couldn't think of any other way." "Meto, we must leave this place at once."

"But this is where I belong."

"I'm asking you to come home with me."

"I decline."

"And if I command you as your father?"

His breastplate fully fastened, Meto drew back and looked at me with an expression at once sad and rebellious. "But you are not my father."

"Oh, Meto," I groaned.

"My father was a slave I never knew, as I was a slave."

"Until I freed you and adopted you!"

One at a time he put his feet on the cot to fasten his greaves into place. "Yes, the law calls you my father, and by law you have the right to command me, or even to kill me for disobeying you. But we both know that in the eyes of the gods you're not really my father. I have none of your blood in my veins. I'm not even Roman, but Greek, or some mongrel mixture—"

"You're my son!"

"Then I'm a man as well, a free citizen, and I've made my own choice."

"Meto, think of those who love you. Bethesda, Eco, Diana—"

From without we heard a trumpet blast.

"That's the signal for Catilina's speech. I have to be there. You should probably leave now, while you still have time, Papa—" He bit his tongue, as if to take back what he had called me, then quickly finished outfitting himself. When he was done, he looked at himself in the burnished plate and seemed gravely pleased. He turned to face me. "Well, what do you think?" he said, with a trace of shyness.

You see, you
are
my son, I thought; why else do you seek my praise?

But out loud I snapped at him, "What does it matter?" He lowered his

- 374 -

eyes and his cheeks turned red, and now it was my turn to bite my tongue; it would have been worse if
I
had told him what
I
truly thought, for as I looked at him dressed in his gleaming, mismatched armor, what
I
saw was a little boy outfitted in a make-believe costume, pretending to go to war. The idea that others could look at him and see a real soldier, fit to be killed if they could manage it, sent a chill through my heart.

"I
can't miss the speech," he said, walking quickly past me. I followed him out of the tent and across the camp, to a place where a depression in the rocky hillside formed a natural amphitheater. We worked our way through the dense crowd until we were close enough to see. There was a blare of trumpets to quiet the crowd, and then Catilina stepped forward, resplendent in his armor and wearing a somber smile on his face.

"No speech from a commander, no matter how rousing or eloquent, ever made a coward brave, or turned a sluggish army into a keen one, or gave men who had no cause to fight a reason to do so. Yet it is the custom for a commander to give his troops a speech before a battle, and so
I
will.

"One reason for a speech, I suppose, is that in many armies, most of the soldiers have seldom laid eyes on the man who supposedly leads them, much less have spoken to him or been spoken to by him, and so a speech is thought to establish a certain bond. That justification for a speech does not apply here today, for I doubt there is a single man among you whom I haven't personally greeted and welcomed to the ranks of this army, or with whom I haven't shared some moment of hardship or triumph in this struggle. Yet it is the custom for a commander to give his troops a speech before a battle, and so I will.

"I said before that mere words cannot put courage into a man. Every man has a certain degree of boldness, I believe, either inborn or cultivated by training; so much, and no more, does he generally exhibit in battle.

If a man is not already stirred by the prospect of glory or by immediate danger, then it is merely a waste of breath to exhort him with rhetoric; fear in the heart makes deaf the ears. Yet it is the custom for a commander to give his troops a speech before a battle, and so
I
will."