A Murder on the Appian Way Page 8

  “Why did you come to me today, Tiro?”

  “On behalf of Cicero, of course.”

  “He might have come himself.”

  “Cicero is keeping indoors,” he said, stressing the last word only slightly.

  “So am I. What could he possibly want with me?”

  “He’ll tell you that himself.”

  “He can’t possibly think I’ll agree to help him.”

  “But you don’t know what he wants.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I paid back the favor I owed him for helping me acquire my Etruscan estate years ago, with interest. Since then—let me be candid with you, Tiro—since then, with every passing year, Cicero has fallen lower and lower in my esteem, not that I imagine my estimation means anything to Cicero. But I have my standards, humble as they may be. I don’t intend to come running simply because Cicero thinks he can make some use of me one more time.”

  Tiro’s face was impassive, which disappointed me. I suppose I expected him to wince, or sigh, or shake his head. He only replied, in a dispassionate voice, “You’re mistaken, of course, in your opinion of Cicero. You misjudge him. Many men do. That always confuses me. But then, I work with him every day. I understand every nuance of his thought. Others aren’t so privileged.” He looked at me steadily. “Well, shall we be going?”

  I almost laughed. “Tiro, were you not listening to me?”

  His expression became more severe. “I saw you yesterday, Gordianus, watching the fires down in the Forum from your rooftop. What did you think of all that? You were appalled, of course. But not everyone was appalled. Those behind the destruction were delighted. Say what you like about Cicero, but when it comes to certain fundamental matters, you and he are on the same side. Did you know they tried to burn Milo’s house last night?”

  “I heard about it.”

  “Such a fire could have spread all over the Palatine. This room we’re sitting in could have been a pile of smoking rubble this morning. You realize that, don’t you?”

  I looked at him for a long moment and sighed. “You’re really not a slave anymore, are you, Tiro? You talk like a free man. You bully with words just like a Roman.”

  His face tightened. He was trying not to smile. “I am a Roman now, in every sense of the word. As much a Roman as you, Gordianus.”

  “As much a Roman as Cicero?”

  He laughed. “Perhaps not quite.”

  “What does he want from me?”

  “There’s a fire, Gordianus. No, not the fire down in the Forum; a greater fire that threatens to consume everything worth fighting for. Cicero wants you to help pass buckets of water, so to speak.” He leaned toward me with an earnest look. “There are men who start fires. There are men who put them out. I think we know which kind you are. Does it really matter whether you happen to like or dislike the citizen standing next to you in the bucket-passing line? The point is to put out the fire. Come, let Cicero talk to you.”

  I sat for a moment, watching the flames in the brazier. I waved to Belbo, who stood quietly in the corner of the room. “Bring Tiro his cloak,” I said. The flames danced and wavered. “And bring a cloak for me, too. Tell Bethesda I’m going out for a while.”

  Tiro smiled.

  The walk was brief. The air was bracing. The bodyguards were perhaps unnecessary; we didn’t pass a single person in the street. All the houses along the way were shut up tight.

  I had never been inside Cicero’s newly rebuilt house. Some years before, when Clodius managed to get Cicero exiled from Rome, the Clodian mob had celebrated their triumph by burning down Cicero’s house; I had watched the flames from my balcony. When the Senate recalled Cicero from exile sixteen months later, he set about rebuilding. Clodius dogged him at every step, blocking his progress with legal maneuvers. The property had been confiscated by the state and consecrated for religious use, he claimed. Cicero countered that the confiscation was illegal and that his rights as a Roman citizen had been grossly violated. It had been one of their livelier, uglier exchanges.

  Cicero had won the case. The house had been rebuilt. Well, I thought, as we stepped across the threshold, Clodius would never threaten this home again.

  Tiro led me through the vestibule to the atrium beyond. The room was chilly. High clouds had gathered, blocking the sun’s warmth.

  “Wait here a moment,” Tiro said, and exited to my left.

  After only a brief pause, I heard voices from the hallway to my right.

  The first voice was muffled and indistinct, but I recognized the second voice at once. It was Cicero. “Well,” he was saying, “what if we tell people that it was Clodius who staged the ambush, instead of the other way around?”

  I also knew the third voice. It was Cicero’s handsome, fiery protégé, Marcus Caelius: “Jupiter’s balls! Who’d believe that, given the circumstances? Better to say, perhaps, that—”

  The three men stepped into the atrium. Caelius saw me and fell silent.

  At the same moment, Tiro returned from the opposite direction. He saw the situation and looked chagrined. Cicero gave him a brief, sharp look, rebuking him for leaving a visitor unattended. Had I had heard something I was not intended to hear?

  “Gordianus agreed to pay you a visit,” Tiro said quickly. “I went to the study to announce him, but—”

  “But I wasn’t there,” said Cicero. His rich orator’s tones filled the atrium. An unctuous smile lit up his fleshy face. “I tend to think better on my feet. The more expansive the thoughts, the bigger the circuit—the study couldn’t contain me! We’ve walked a mile since you left, Tiro, round and round the house. Well, Gordianus …” He stepped forward. “I’m honored to welcome you to my home once again. You know Marcus Caelius, of course.”

  I did indeed. Caelius crossed his arms and gave me a sardonic look. He was a creature of quicksilver, and always had been. He had begun as Cicero’s pupil. Then he allied himself, or appeared to do so, with Cicero’s archenemy Catilina; that was how I first met him. Eventually he drifted into the camp of Clodius and into the arms—some said the clutches—of Clodia. His falling out with those two had landed him in dire straits, a trial for murder for which I helped gather evidence for the prosecution. He had been rescued by Cicero, who came to the defense of his errant pupil with a stirring oration. Now, to all appearances, Caelius was once again the faithful protégé. He seemed to bear me no ill will for having helped the opposing side at his trial; his ambition was of the freewheeling sort that has little use for grudges. He was famous for his sharp tongue, but equally famous for his charm and extraordinary handsomeness. He was now serving a term as a tribune, which meant he was one of the few currently operating officers of the state.

  “But I’m not sure that you’ve met my other friend,” said Cicero. He gestured to the third man, who hung back, peering at me distrustfully. The fellow was short and stocky, with the kind of muscular, barrel-shaped body that looks even stouter in a toga. His fingers were short and blunt, as was his nose. His face was round, with a small mouth and deepset eyes under shaggy eyebrows. The shadow of his beard was so heavy that it gave his jaw a dark, greasy look. No wonder he had been the natural enemy of the lithe, long-limbed, effortlessly elegant Clodius. Physically, two men could hardly have been more opposite.

  Milo was back in town after all.

  6

  “Of course I recognize Titus Annius Milo,” I said. “But you’re right, Cicero. We’ve never been introduced.”

  “Well, then, it’s about time. Milo, this is Gordianus, called the Finder, a man of great ingenuity. We became acquainted many years ago, when I took on my first murder case. You’ve read my defense of Sextus Roscius, of course; everyone has. But not many people know the part that Gordianus played. Thirty years ago!”

  “Our paths have crossed from time to time since then,” I said dryly.

  “And our relationship has always been …” The great orator searched for a word.

  “Interesting?” I suggested.

&
nbsp; “Exactly. Come, let’s move to the study. It’s chilly in the atrium.”

  We retired to a small, well-heated room toward the back of the house. The walk down the hallway and through the central garden gave me a chance to peruse the surroundings. The furnishings, draperies, paintings and mosaics were all of the finest; I had seen nothing more impressive even in Clodius’s house. The scale of Cicero’s place was more modest, to be sure, but in some ways that made it more pleasing. Cicero had always had impeccable taste.

  He had always had enough money to indulge his tastes, as well, but he now seemed to have prospered well beyond merely keeping up appearances. It takes real wealth to have a fountain decorated with gold-dusted mosaics, or to hang a painting signed by Iaia of Cyzicus on the study wall, or to display on a table to itself, covered by a thick piece of perfectly transparent glass (which must itself have carried a handsome price), a scrap of an original scroll of a dialogue with corrections in Plato’s own hand. Roman law forbids advocates from collecting fees for their services; every case is pro bono. Yet successful advocates manage to become rich nonetheless. Instead of mere bags of silver they are rewared with generous gifts of property or exclusive opportunities to invest. Cicero was one of the best advocates in Rome, and he had always known how to cultivate the Best People. His house was full of beautiful, rare, expensive things. I could only imagine the treasures that had been destroyed or looted when the Clodian mob burned his old house.

  At Cicero’s direction a slave pulled a circle of chairs closer to the flaming brazier. Before we had settled ourselves, another slave brought silver cups and a ewer of heated wine. Instead of hovering nearby, Tiro joined us. He was a citizen now, Cicero’s confederate, not his slave. Still, I noticed he held a wax tablet and a stylus on his lap, for taking notes.

  Cicero sipped daintily from his cup. Tiro did likewise. The wine was well watered; Cicero was not a man for strong indulgences. The same could hardly be said of Marcus Caelius, or at least of the Caelius I had known before Cicero reformed him. He saw me watching him and made a show of following his mentor’s example, pursing his lips and barely touching them to the rim. The expression gave him such a simpering look that I decided he was deliberately mocking Cicero.

  Milo made no pretense at delicacy. He drained his cup in a single swallow and held it out to the slave for more.

  “Gordianus, was that surprise I read on your face when you recognized Milo?” Cicero cocked his head. “You weren’t expecting to find him here, were you?”

  “Frankly, I thought he must be halfway to Massilia by now.”

  “Ha! Turn tail and run like a rabbit? You truly don’t know my friend Milo if you could think him such a coward.”

  “I’m not sure it’s a question of cowardice; more of expedience. Anyway, the rumor of his flight to Massilia is widespread.”

  Milo scowled but said nothing.

  “You see, I told you,” said Caelius, finally speaking. “Gordianus and his son hear everything. Between them their four ears catch every whisper in Rome.”

  Cicero nodded. “Yes, go on, Gordianus. What else are people saying?”

  “Some say Milo slipped back into the city last night and barricaded himself in his house, and that he was there when the mob came to burn it.”

  “So they think he’s not a coward, just a madman! No, Milo spent the night here, under my roof, safe and sound. What else do they say?”

  “That he plans to incite a revolution. He started by assassinating Clodius, and now he’s gathering an army to march on Rome. His confederates inside the walls have stockpiled weapons and incendiary materials all over the city—”

  “Well, you can see for yourself how absurd that rumor is! Milo is here, in my house, not out rabble-rousing. And does my house stink of sulfur and pitch? Of course not. A revolution, indeed! There’s not a man in Rome more dedicated to the preservation of the Republic than Titus Annius Milo, not even myself! When I think of the abuse he’s suffered, and the terrible risks he’s taken …”

  The weight of such sacrifices seemed to bear heavily on Milo, who finished his second cup of wine and looked at me glumly.

  I looked around the room, at the many scrolls in their pigeonhole cases, at Iaia’s painting of a scene from the Odyssey, at the priceless scrap of Plato under glass. “You take an awful risk yourself, Cicero. If the mob had known that Milo was here …”

  “Yes, I know what you’re thinking. This house has already been torched once. But that was because Clodius managed to drive me out of the city first. It would never have happened if I had been here to stop it. And it will never happen again so long as I’m present to defend to my last breath what belongs to me. It may come to that for you as well, Gordianus, before this crisis passes. You have a fine house yourself now. You have a family to protect. Think of those things, and then think of that howling mob we saw yesterday, running wild like a pack of dogs down in the Forum. Do you know how Sextus Cloelius built the fire in the Senate House? He smashed the consuls’ chairs and the sacred tribunal and used the wood to build a funeral pyre for the monster. He ripped up scrolls for kindling. Unspeakable desecration! Like their dead leader, these useless freedmen and beggars have no respect at all for the majesty of the state, and no respect for simple decency. They’re a menace to any man who stands in their way.”

  Cicero sat back and took a deep breath. “The important thing is, the Clodians were foolish enough to burn down the Senate House. They had the advantage up to that point—people were clucking their tongues about poor, pitiful Clodius. That was a masterstroke, parading his corpse in public like that, stripped naked with all the wounds showing. As an advocate, I have to admire their panache. If I could drag a stinking corpse into court and shove it under the jurymen’s noses, believe me, I wouldn’t think twice! Shock and sympathy are two thirds of the battle. But they overplayed their advantage.”

  Caelius swirled his wine cup. “They took the heat off Milo and lit a fire under their own feet.”

  Cicero raised his cup to Caelius. “Precisely! Oh, Caelius, the turn of phrase is exquisite! A metaphor that’s also literally true. ‘They took the heat off Milo and lit a fire under their own feet.’ Bravo!”

  Even Milo smiled, begrudgingly, and raised his cup. He too was an orator, after all, with an appreciation for rhetoric.

  “You say that Milo spent the night here?” I said.

  Cicero nodded. “Yes. While the Clodians paraded Clodius’s naked corpse all over the Palatine, Milo waited outside the city. Not afraid to come back, mind you, but cautious, sensible, testing the wind, like a general checking the lay of the land before he proceeds. When I saw that the Clodian fools were setting fires, I sent a messenger to inform him. If he wished to come back to the city, he should do so stealthily, I said, and stay away from his own house. I offered him my hospitality, but the decision to return was his. I rendered no advice either way. Milo saw the path before him and took it. Titus Annius Milo, I have never known a braver man than you.” Cicero gazed at the subject of his words with an intensity that would have made a more modest man blush, but Milo’s only reaction was to stiffen his jaw and raise his head higher. His features did not appear to me remotely heroic, as we are accustomed to seeing heroes portrayed in marble or bronze, but he did know how to strike a defiant pose.

  “I could never have abandoned Rome in her hour of need,” he said, with a rhetorical quaver in his voice. “I came back to save her!”

  “Excellent!” said Caelius. “Tiro, copy that down, will you? We must remember to use that.”

  I thought he was being rude or facetious, but Milo took no offense. Instead he leaned toward Caelius with a quizzical expression. “Or do you think it should be, ‘I never abandoned Rome, not even for a day—’”

  “No, no, it was perfect the way you said it the first time. Tiro, did you get it?”

  Tiro scribbled and nodded.

  I realized that the discussion was taking place at more than one level, and for more than one
purpose. “You’re in the middle of writing a speech, aren’t you?” I said.

  “Not yet,” said Cicero. “We’re still working out the basic ideas. You can be of enormous help to us, Gordianus.”

  “I’m not sure I want to be.”

  “I think you do,” he said, giving me a look that must have been familiar to Caelius and to all the others who had been his protégés and pupils. The look said, Do not disappoint me. “Look at us here, locked away in my study, unable to take a step out of doors without a troop of gladiators to protect us. We’re blind and deaf. We have a fierce, brave heart—Milo here. An eloquent tongue—Caelius. A hand to write—Tiro. And I daresay, a cool head—myself. But we have no eyes, no ears. It’s a delicate business, gauging the mood of the people in the street. One must look. One must listen. Miscalculations, at moments of crisis like this, can be …”

  He did not utter the word disastrous. To speak of disaster would invite an ill omen. Besides, everyone in the room understood precisely what he meant. From bitter experience Cicero knew only too well what the outcome could be when the mob turned against a man.

  “I only want your opinion on a few things, Gordianus. The race for consul, for instance. It looks as though the elections may finally be held. How would you gauge the mood of the people toward Milo’s candidacy?”

  I stared at him, dumbfounded.

  “Well? Are his chances better now than before, or worse? It’s a simple enough question.”

  “Yes, but I can hardly believe that you expect a serious answer.”

  Milo nervously tapped his empty cup against the arm of his chair. “He means to say that it’s hopeless.”

  “Is that what you mean, Gordianus?” Cicero peered at me earnestly.