Steven Saylor - A Mist of Prophecies

Some said his conquest of Sicily had been too easy, that it led to overconfidence and rash judgment. Some said it was Curio's youth and lack of military experience that led him into King Juba's trap. Others said it was simply bad luck.

Curio's African campaign began well enough. First, he set about taking the rich seaport of Utica, which was held by the Pompeian commander Varus. A small band of Numidian soldiers dispatched by King Juba attempted to come to the city's aid, but Curio drove them off. He baited Varus to meet in battle outside the city. There Curio made his first mistake, which only by a stroke of good luck proved not to be fatal. He sent his foot soldiers into a steep ravine where they might easily have been ambushed; but in the meantime his cavalry managed to sweep away the enemy's left wing, and Varus's men-sent fleeing back to the city-missed an easy opportunity to destroy their enemy. Such a near miss might have given Curio pause, but instead it emboldened him. He prepared to lay siege to Utica.

In the meantime, King Juba had mustered his army and was marching to relieve Utica. Juba had close ties to Pompey, having been a patron of Pompey's father. And he had cause to hate Curio, who in recent years had proposed that Rome should annex Numidia by force.

Curio received news of Juba's approach. Alarmed, he sent to Sicily for his other two legions. But deserters from Juba's army told him that only a small body of Numidians were advancing. Curio sent out his cavalry, who skirmished with Juba's vanguard. From the intelligence he received, Curio thought that this vanguard was the whole Numidian force. Thinking to destroy it so that he could get on with the siege, he hurried out with his legions to do battle. The season was blisteringly hot; the march over burning sands. The Romans blundered into the entire Numidian army. They were surrounded and slaughtered.

A handful of Curio's men managed to escape. Curio, too, might have fled and saved himself, but he refused to desert his men. A survivor, bringing news of the disaster to Caesar shortly after Caesar's return from Spain, reported Curio's last words: "I've lost the army Caesar entrusted to me. How could I face him?"

Curio fought until the Numidians killed him. They cut off his head and sent the trophy to King Juba. Fulvia was once again a widow.

Pondering her situation, imagining her mood, I felt some hesitation as I approached her house. The structure itself presented a daunting aspect-the giant, fortress like monstrosity that Clodius had erected on the Palatine, the opulent headquarters from which he had directed the street gangs under his command. Steep terraces overgrown with roses and glimmering with many-colored marble veneers flanked the huge forecourt that had served as a rallying place for Clodius to address his supporters. The iron gate stood open, and as Davus and I strode across the forecourt, gravel crunching under our feet, I gazed ahead at the flight of steps leading up to the broad porch and saw a black wreath upon the massive bronze door. Nine months into her widowhood, Fulvia was still in mourning for Curio.

We mounted the steps. A huge bronze ring on the door served as a knocker. Davus lifted it and let it fall, delivering a dull, reverberating clang. We waited. So far as I could see, no peephole opened in the door, but I had the uncanny sensation of being observed. Clodius's passion for installing secret passages, concealed doors, and hidden spy holes had been notorious.

Eventually I heard the sound of a bar being thrown back on the other side of the door, and then it slowly opened, creaking slightly on its hinges. An athletic-looking slave ushered us inside, then quickly closed the door and let the heavy wooden beam fall back into place, barring it securely.

I had been in this foyer before, in the hours and days that followed the murder of Clodius. It appeared that Curio, in becoming the new master of the house, had made no changes. The floors and walls were of highly polished marble. Red draperies shot with gold threads framed the passageway that led to the atrium, where the ceiling, supported on soaring black marble columns, rose to the height of three stories. In the center of the atrium, a shallow pool was decorated with shimmering mosaic tiles of blue-black and silver, picturing the night sky and the constellations. The actual sky, visible through an opening far above, was just beginning to deepen to the rich blue of twilight.

I turned to the slave who had admitted us. "Tell your mistress that Gordianus-"

"The mistress knows who you are and why you've come," he said, with a sardonic smile. "Follow me."

He led us through halls and galleries decorated with wall paintings and statues. Slaves moved quietly about, lighting braziers and lamps set in sconces on the walls. I was fairly certain that I had traversed the same passageways before, but the house was so sprawling that I couldn't be sure. Eventually we mounted a flight of steps and were shown into a room with large windows, their shutters thrown open to admit the last of the day's light. The walls were stained green and decorated with blue-and-white borders in a geometrical Greek design. Through the windows I saw the golden light of the lowering sun glinting across Palatine rooftops and lending a warm glow to the west-facing temples atop the distant Capitoline Hill. The reflected glow flooded the room, giving it a cozy feeling despite its lofty ceiling and spectacular view.

Fulvia and her mother, Sempronia, sat before one of the long windows, dressed in stolas of darkest blue. A tiny child-Curio's son-was attempting to walk-on a blanket at the women's feet. Fulvia's other children, her son and daughter by Clodius, were not in the room.

"Your visitors, mistress," said the slave.

"Thank you, Thraso. You may go." As Fulvia turned her gaze to me, she lifted a stylus from the wax tablet upon which she had been writing and laid the stylus and tablet aside. There was a popular catchphrase regarding Fulvia and her ambition: "She was not born to spin." Indeed, it was hard to imagine walking into her presence and finding her in the midst of some common female occupation. Instead, like a man of affairs with numerous ideas and projects to keep track of, she kept a wax tablet and stylus about her.

Her mother, Sempronia, despite her hard features, seemed the more maternal of the two. She ignored Davus and me while she clucked and cooed and reached out to the little boy on the blanket, encouraging him to rise to his feet and attempt another faltering step.

"Thank you for seeing me, Fulvia. But I'm curious-how did you know it was me, when I never announced myself?"

She glanced at her son, who managed to stand upright for a moment before tumbling forward onto his hands and knees, then she turned her gaze back to me. "There's a hidden peephole at one end of the porch. Thraso took a good look at you, then ran to give me your description. It could only have been you, Gordianus. 'Nose like a boxer's; a full head of iron gray hair shot with silver, but eyes that sparkle like those of a man half his age; a beard trimmed by a wife to suit herself.' "

"Actually, my daughter, Diana, trims my beard these days. But I feared you might have forgotten me, Fulvia."

"I never forget a man who might be useful to me." She turned her gaze to Davus. "But I don't think I've met this other fellow. 'Shoulders like a Titan's," said Thraso, "but a face like Narcissus.' "

"This is Davus, my son-in-law. Thraso also told me that you know why I've come. Surprising, since I'm not sure of that myself."

She smiled. "Aren't you? I saw you at the funeral; you must have seen me. I've been half-expecting you to call on me. This is about Cassandra, I presume?"

Sempronia abruptly clapped her hands. A slave girl came running. Sempronia planted a kiss on her grandchild's forehead, then told the girl to take him from the room. As he was carried out, the boy began to cry. His wails echoed and receded down the hallway. Sempronia bit her forefinger and fidgeted, but Fulvia showed no reaction.