Steven Saylor - A Mist of Prophecies

I raised my hand to grip the curtain's edge and imagined someone on the other side doing the same. Would he be holding a dagger in his other hand?

I yanked the curtain aside, hardening my nerves to confront a face staring back at me, nose-to-nose. But I was alone at the threshold. The occupants-just the two of them, without a bodyguard in sight-were seated in the middle of the small room. At the sight of me they rose from their chairs. After the dim hallway, the light from the window dazzled me for a moment. I saw them only as two very different silhouettes, one broad and stocky, the other tall and elegantly slender. Gradually their faces came into focus.

"You see," said Marcus Caelius to his companion, "it's Gordianus, just as I said."

"So it is," said Milo, crossing his brawny arms. "Well, don't just stand there, Finder. Drop the curtain and come inside. And keep your voice down!"

My interview with Fausta left me in a foul mood. I almost decided to leave off for the day and return home. But what would I do there except brood? There was plenty to brood about-Cassandra dead and my investigations leading me no nearer to the reason; Bethesda ill and growing weaker, with no cure in sight; Rome tottering on a narrow precipice with a chasm on either side, one called Pompey and the other Caesar, and two mastiffs called Milo and Caelius biting at her heels…

The day was in direct counterpoint to my mood. The sun shone bright and warm, its intensity relieved by a succession of magnificent clouds that advanced slowly across the azure sky, spaced apart as evenly as if some parade master had arrayed them like elephants in an imperator's triumphal procession.

"That one looks like a tragedy mask. You can even see the holes for the eyes and mouth," said Davus.

"What?"

"That cloud up there. Isn't that what you're staring at?"

We sat on a stone bench in a little square not far from Fausta's house. I had told Davus that I needed to rest for a moment. In fact, it was my mind that was weary and needed to come to a complete stop. I had been staring at the parade of clouds and emptying my head of every thought.

"Yes, Davus, a tragedy mask."

"Only now it's changing. See how the mouth is bending. You might almost say it was a comedy mask."

"I see what you mean. But the whole shape is changing, isn't it? It's not really like a mask anymore. More like-nothing, really. Just a cloud…" Rather like my pursuit of the truth about Cassandra, I thought. My interviews had yielded a continual series of impressions that flowed one into another, all slightly different, all somehow askew, none of them quite recognizable as the Cassandra I had known. The truth about her was as elusive as a cloud, holding its shape only until the next interview changed it into something else.

"Only two more to go," I said.

"Clouds?" said Davus.

"No! Only two more women to talk to, of those who came to watch Cassandra's funeral pyre: Calpurnia and Clodia."

"Shall we go see one of them now, Father-in-Law?"

"Why not? On such a beautiful day, I think I know where Clodia will be."

We crossed the bridge to the far side of the Tiber and turned to the right, keeping as close to the river as we could. Here, away from the bustle of the city's center, the wealthiest families of Rome kept little garden estates, called horti, along the waterfront. Clodia's horti had been in her family for generations. It was there I had first met her eight years ago when she summoned me to investigate the murder of the Egyptian philosopher Dio. Marcus Caelius had been her lover, but they had fallen out, and Clodia had been determined to exact her revenge by prosecuting him for Dio's murder.

Clodia's horti were also the last place I had seen her, when I came to her after her beloved brother's murder on the Appian Way. Fulvia had been Clodius's wife, but there were those who said Clodia was the true widow, no matter that she was the dead man's sister.

As Davus and I walked along the road, I caught only occasional glimpses of the river to our right. More often, high walls blocked our view. Once, access to the horti along the Tiber had been relatively open, but in recent years many owners had built high fences and walls to keep out strangers. When we did pass by an unwalled estate, I saw patches of woodland and tall grass interspersed with meticulously cultivated gardens. Through the foliage I caught glimpses of rustic sheds and charming little guest houses, shade-dappled fishponds and splashing fountains, stone-paved walkways adorned with statuary, and boat ramps projecting into the glimmering Tiber.

Clodia's horti were far enough from the city's center to feel secluded, yet close enough to reach by foot-an enviable location for a piece of riverfront property in the capital of the world. Cicero, who had done a thorough job of destroying Clodia's reputation in the process of defending Caelius, had had the gall to try to buy her horti from Clodia only only a few years later. Clodia had refused even to speak to his agent.

Unlike many of her neighbors, Clodia had resisted the trend of encircling her horti with high walls. Coming upon the narrow lane that led off the main road into her grounds, I had the feeling of being somewhere far away from the city with all its crimes and riots. The lane was bordered by sprawling berry bushes that met overhead, shading the way. This tunnel-like path opened onto a broad swath of high grass. Once, I remembered, that grass had been kept closely mown by a pair of goats. The goats were gone. What had once been a lawn had become a wild meadow.

Facing the meadow and perpendicular to the river, which was almost entirely obscured by an intervening stand of dense trees, was a long, narrow house with a portico running along the front. The house was not as I remembered. Tiles were missing from the roof. Some of the shutters were askew, hanging from broken hinges. The shrubbery along the portico, perfectly trimmed in my memory, was overgrown and choked with weeds.

I remembered Clodia's horti echoing with music and the laughter of naked bathers on the riverbank. All I heard on this day was the buzzing of cicadas in the high grass. The place seemed utterly deserted, with not even a groundskeeper to look after it.

"Doesn't look like anyone's here," said Davus.

"Perhaps not. On such a beautiful day, it's hard to imagine she wouldn't be here. She used to love this place so much! But times change. People change. The world grows older." I sighed. "Still, let's take a look down by the river."

Avoiding the high grass, we walked along the portico that fronted the house. Where the shutters hung off their hinges, I peeked inside the windows. The rooms were dark, but I could see that some had been stripped entirely of their furnishings. The place smelled of dust and mildew.

We came to the end of the portico. Here a little path wound among magnificent yew trees and cypresses, leading down to the water's edge. I had given up on finding Clodia, but for nostalgia's sake I wanted to stand for a moment at the place where I had first met her. She had been lounging on a high couch in her red-and-white-striped pavilion wearing a gown of sheerest gossamer, while she watched a band of young men, including her brother, Clodius, frolic naked in the water for her amusement.

We made our way through the trees. To my surprise, a lone figure sat in a folding chair on the riverbank facing the water. It was a woman wearing a stola better suited for winter days; the wool was dark gray and the sleeves covered her arms. Her dark hair was streaked with gray and pulled back in a bun. What was she doing here? She hardly looked like the sort of woman to be a friend of Clodia's.

She must have heard us, for she turned about in the chair and peered up at us, shading her brow against the sun so that her face was obscured.