Steven Saylor - A murder on the Appian way

I looked at him with fresh eyes. What I had read as a haughty expression was merely due to the gauntness of his cheeks. I reckoned in my head and realized that he must be fifty. He suddenly looked his age; there was more grey among the tight curls than I had thought, and there was a bald spot at the top of his head. A kind of boyish enthusiasm still sparkled in his eyes, but the firelight also caught the haunted glimmer of a man who had known severe illness. Yet he also seemed a man who was comfortable with himself and his place in the world; his frank and easy manner exuded an air of sophistication and self-contentment. And why not? The boyish slave who had come to my door those many years ago as the messenger of an obscure master was now a free citizen and the invaluable right-hand man of the most famous orator alive. Tiro had met great men and travelled the world at Cicero's side. He had helped to run the government when Cicero was consul. He was famous in his own right, having invented a form of abbreviated writing whereby a copyist could take down a speech verbatim as quickly as it was spoken; every clerk in the Senate House was now required to learn Tironian shorthand.

"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 favour 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 any more, 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 towards 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 manoeuvres. 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 foyer 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 protege, 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 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 forwards. "I'm honoured 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 arch-enemy 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 felling 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 defence of his errant pupil with a stirring oration. Now, to all appearances, Caelius was once again the faithful protege. 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.