Roman Blood (49 page)

The knife was jarred from my hand and went skidding away. I crawled desperately after it. It was still an arm's length away when something enormously powerful struck my shoulders and knocked me flat.

Glaucia kicked me in the ribs several times and then flipped me over.

His grinning face, looming enormous as he descended on me, was the ugliest thing I had ever seen. So this is how it shall be, I thought: I shall die not as an old man with a toothless Bethesda crooning in my ear and the perfume of my garden in my nostrils, but choked by the stench of an unwashed latrine, with a hideous assassin drooling spittle on my face, and the echo of Cicero's voice droning in my ears.

There was a skittering sound, like a knife skipping over stones, and something sharp jabbed my side. I honestly believed, with the kind of faith reserved for the purist vestals, that my knife had somehow come skidding back to me, simply because I willed it to. I might have reached for it had I not been using both arms in a failing attempt to hold Glaucia off me. I stared into his eyes, fascinated by the sheer hatred I saw there.

Suddenly he looked up, and in the next instant there was a stone the size of a bread loaf somehow attached to his bandaged forehead, as if it had popped out of his brain, like Minerva from Jupiter's brow. It stayed there, as if glued to the spot by the blood that abruptly oozed about the connection—no, the stone was held there by the two hands that had brought it crashing down. I rolled up my eyes and saw Tiro upside-down against a blue sky above.

He did not look happy to see me. He kept hissing something at me, 320

over and over, until my hand (not my ear) finally apprehended the word

knife.
I somehow twisted my arm in an impossible backward bend, snatched my knife from where Tiro had kicked it and snapped it upright before my chest. There is no word in Latin, but there should be one, for the weird sensation of recognition I felt, as if I had done the exact thing once before. Tiro lifted the heavy stone and brought it down again on Glaucia's already smashed forehead, and the giant collapsed like a mountain on top of me, impaling his exploding heart upon the full length of Eco's blade.

"Suffer this wickedness no longer to stalk abroad in the land,"
a distant voice was crying.
"Banish it! Deny it! Reject it! It has delivered

many Romans to a terrible death. But worse than that, it has robbed our

spirits. By besieging us with cruelty hour upon hour, day after day, it has

benumbed us; it has stifled all pity in a people once known as the most

merciful on earth. When at every moment in all directions we see and

hear acts of violence; when we are lost in a relentless storm of cruelty

and deceit; then even the kindest and gentlest among us may lose all

semblance of human compassion. "

There was a pause, and then a great echoing thunder of applause.

Confused and covered with blood, I thought for a moment that the cheering must be for me. The walls of the latrine did, after all, look something like the walls of an arena, and Glaucia was as dead as any dead gladiator. But gazing up I could see only Tiro, who was straightening his tunic with a look of exasperation and disgust.

"I wasn't there for the summation!" he snapped. "Cicero will be furious. By Hercules! At least there's no blood on m e . " With that he turned and disappeared, leaving me buried beneath a great quivering mass of dead flesh.

321

THIRTY-TWO

C I C E R O won his case. An overwhelming majority of the seventy-five judges, including the praetor Marcus Fannius, voted to acquit Sextus Roscius of the charge of parricide. Only the most partisan Sullans, including a handful of new senators who had been appointed directly by the dictator, cast votes of guilty.

The crowd was equally impressed. Cicero's name, along with bits and pieces of his oration, was spread all over Rome. For days afterward one might walk by the open windows of a tavern or a smithy and hear men who had not even been there repeat some of Cicero's choice jabs at Sulla or exclaim at his audacity in attacking Chrysogonus. His comments on farm and family life, his respect for filial duty and the gods were noted with approval. Overnight he gained a reputation as a brave and pious Roman, an upholder of justice and of truth.

That evening a small celebration was held in the home of Caecilia Metella. Rufus was there, glowing and triumphant and drinking a bit too much wine. So were those who had sat with Cicero at the bench of the accused, Marcus Metellus and Publius Scipio, along with a handful of others who had assisted the defense behind the scenes in some way.

Sextus Roscius was given a couch at his hostess's right hand; his wife and eldest daughter sat demurely in chairs behind him. Tiro was allowed to sit behind his master so that he could take part in the celebration. Even 322

I was invited and given my own couch to recline upon and assigned my own slave to fetch dainties from the table.

Roscius may have been the guest of honor, but all conversation re-volved around Cicero. His fellow advocates cited the finer points of his oration with gushing praise; they picked at Erucius's performance with devastating sarcasm and laughed out loud recalling the look on his face when Cicero first dared to utter the name of the Golden-Born. Cicero accepted their praise with genial modesty. He consented to drink a modicum of wine; it took very little to bring a flush to his cheeks.

Throwing aside his usual caution and no doubt famished from fasting and exertion, he ate like a horse. Caecilia praised his appetite and said it was a good thing he had made a victory party possible, or else all the delicacies she had ordered her staff to prepare in advance—sea nettles and scallops, thrushes on asparagus, purple fish in murex, figpeckers in fruit compote, stewed sow's udders, fattened fowls in pastry, duck, boar, and oysters
ad nauseam
—would have ended up being dumped in a Subura alley for the poor.

I began to wonder, as I sent my slave after a third helping of Bithynian mushrooms, if the celebration was not a little premature. Sextus Roscius had won his life, to be sure, but he still remained in limbo, his property in the hands of his enemies, his rights as a citizen canceled by proscription, his father's murder unavenged. He had eluded destruction, but what were his chances of reclaiming a decent life? His advocates were in no mood to worry about the future. I kept my mouth shut, except to laugh at their jokes or to stuff it with more mushrooms.

All night Rufus gazed at Cicero with a passionate longing that seemed invisible to everyone but me; after witnessing Cicero's performance that day, how could I belittle Rufus's unrequited ardor? Tiro seemed quite content, laughing at every joke and even making bold to add a few of his own, but every now and then he glanced toward Roscia with pain in his eyes. Roscia steadfastly refused to look back. She sat in her chair, stiff and miserable, ate nothing, and finally begged her father and her hostess to excuse her. As she hurried from the room she began to weep. Her mother rose and ran after her.

Roscia's exit set off a peculiar contagion of weeping. First it struck Caecilia, who was drinking faster than anyone else. All night she had been vivacious and full of laughter. Roscia's exit plunged her into a sudden funk. "I know," she said, as we listened to Roscia sobbing from 323

the hallway, "I know why that girl weeps. Yes, I d o . " She nodded tipsily.

"She misses her dear, dear old grandfather. Oh, my, what a sweet man he was. We must never forget what really brings us together here on this night—the untimely death of my dearest, dearest Sextus. Beloved Sextus. Who knows, had I not been barren all these years . . ." She reached up and blindly fussed with her hair, pricking her finger on the silver needle. A bead of blood welled up on her fingertip. She stared at the wound with a shudder and began to cry.

Rufus was instantly at her side, comforting her, keeping her from saying something that might embarrass her later.

Then Sextus Roscius began to weep. He struggled against it, biting his knuckles and contorting his face, but the tears would not be stopped.

They ran down his face onto his chin and dripped onto the sea nettles on his plate. He sucked in a halting breath and expelled it in a long, shuddering moan. He covered his face with his hands and was convulsed with weeping. He knocked his plate to the floor; a slave retrieved it. His sobs were loud and choking, like a donkey's braying. It took many repetitions before I recognized the word he cried out again and again:

"Father, Father, Father . . ."

He had been his usual self for most of the night—quiet and glum, only occasionally consenting to smile when the rest of us roared at some clever joke against Erucius or Chrysogonus. Even when the verdict was announced, so Rufus told me, he had remained oddly impassive. Having lived so long in dread, he held his relief in check until it came bursting out. That was why he wept.

Or so I thought.

It seemed a good time to leave.

Publius Scipio and Marcus Metellus and their noble friends bade us good night and went their separate ways; Rufus stayed behind with Caecilia. I was anxious to sleep in my own bed, but Bethesda was still at Cicero's and the way to the Subura was long. In the good-natured flush of his success, Cicero insisted that I spend a final night beneath his roof.

Had I not gone with him, this story would have its ending here, amid half-truths and false surmises. Instead I walked beside Cicero, flanked by his torchbearers and bodyguards, through the moonlit Forum and up the spur of the Capitoline until we came to his house.

Thus I came face to face at last with the most fortunate man alive.

Thus I learned the truth, which until then I had only dimly suspected.

324

* * *

Cicero and I were chatting amiably about nothing in particular—the long hot spell, the austere beauty of Rome beneath a full moon, the smells that filled the city at night. We rounded the corner and stepped into the street where he lived. It was Tiro who first noticed the retinue encamped like a small army about the entrance to Cicero's house. He clutched his master's toga and pointed open-mouthed.

We saw the company before they saw us—the empty litter and the litter bearers who leaned against it with folded arms, the torchbearers who slouched against the wall and held their flames at lazy angles.

Beneath the flickering light some menials played trigon on the curb, while a few secretaries squinted and scribbled on parchments. There were also a number of armed guards. It was one of these who spotted us standing stock-still at the end of the street and nudged an expensively dressed slave who was busy wagering on the trigon players. The slave drew himself up and came striding haughtily toward us.

" Y o u are the orator Cicero, the master of this house?"

I am.

"At last! You'll excuse the entourage camped on your doorstep—there seemed to be nowhere else to put everybody. And of course you'll excuse my master for paying a visit at such a late hour; actually we've been here a rather long time, since just after sunset, awaiting your return."

"I see," Cicero said dully. "And where is your master?"

" H e waits within. I convinced your doorkeeper that there was no point in keeping Lucius Sulla standing on the doorstep, even if his host was not home to greet him. Come, please." The slave stepped back and gestured for us to follow. " M y master has been waiting for a long time. He is a very busy man. You can leave your torchbearers and bodyguards here,"

he added sternly.

Beside me Cicero took deep, even breaths, like a man preparing to plunge into icy water. I imagined I could hear his heartbeat in the stillness of the night, until I realized it was my own. Tiro still clutched his master's toga. He bit his lip. " Y o u don't think, master—he wouldn't dare, not in your own h o m e — "

Cicero silenced him by raising his forefinger to his lips. He stepped forward, motioning for the bodyguards to stay behind. Tiro and I followed.

325

As we made our way to the doorstep, the members of Sulla's retinue went about their business, giving us only quick, sullen glances, as if we were to blame for their boredom. Tiro stepped ahead to open the door.

He peered inside as if he expected a thicket of drawn daggers.

But there was no one in the vestibule except Old Tiro, who came shuffling up to Cicero in a panic. " M a s t e r — "

Cicero quieted him with a nod and a touch on the shoulder and walked on.

I had expected to see more of Sulla's retinue within—more bodyguards, more clerks, more flatterers and sycophants. But the house was populated only by Cicero's regular staff, all of whom were skirting the walls and trying to pretend invisibility.

We found him sitting alone in the study beneath a lit lamp, with a half-empty bowl of wheat pudding on the table beside him and a scroll in his lap. He looked up as we entered. He appeared neither impatient nor startled, only vaguely bored. He put the scroll aside and raised one eyebrow.

" Y o u are a man of considerable erudition and passably good taste, Marcus Tullius Cicero. While I find far too many dull, dry works on grammar and rhetoric in this room, I am heartened to see such a fine collection of plays, especially by the Greeks. And while you appear to have intentionally collected the very worst of the Latin poets, that may be forgiven for your discernment in selecting this exceedingly fine copy of Euripides—from the workshop of Epicles in Athens, I see. When I was young I often entertained the fantasy of becoming an actor. I always thought I would have made a very poignant Pentheus. Or do you imagine I would have made a better Dionysus? Do you know
The Bacchae
well?"

Cicero swallowed hard. "Lucius Cornelius Sulla, I am honored that you should visit my h o m e — "

"Enough of that nonsense!" Sulla snapped, pursing his lips. It was impossible to tell whether he was irritated or amused. "There's no one else here. Don't waste your breath and my patience on meaningless formalities. The fact is that you're deeply distressed to find me here and you wish that I'd leave as quickly as possible."