Steven Saylor - A murder on the Appian way

"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.

"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 defence 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.

"Exactly. Come, let's move to the study. It's chilly in the atrium."

We retired to a small, well-heated room towards 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 rewarded 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 pretence 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 rumour 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 rumour is! Milo is here, in my house, not out rabble-rousing. And does my house stink of sulphur 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.