Steven Saylor: Roman blood

We ate in silence. The garden was still in shadow, but I could feel the sun, palpable, almost menacing, edging along the scalloped tile roof like a burglar planning his descent. By midday the whole garden would be suffused with light, insufferably hot and brilliant, but for now it was cooler than the house, which still retained yesterday's heat. The peacocks suddenly stirred in their corner; the largest of the males gave a shrill call and broke into a strut, displaying his plumage. Tiro glimpsed the bird and gave a start, unprepared for the spectacle. I chewed in silence, wincing at the occasional twinges of pain that flickered from my jaw to my temples. I glanced at Tiro, whose gaze had abandoned the peacock for the empty doorway where Bethesda had made her exit.

'Is that the cure for a hangover, sir?' 'What, Tiro?'

He turned to face me. The absolute innocence of his face was more blinding than the sun, which suddenly broke over the rooftop. His name might be Greek, but except for his eyes, all his features were classically Roman — the smooth moulding of the forehead, cheeks, and chin; the slight exaggeration of the lips and nose. It was his eyes that startled me, a pale lavender shade I had never seen before, certainly not native to Rome — the contribution of an enslaved mother or rather brought to the empire's heart from gods-knew-where. Those eyes were far too innocent and trusting to belong to any Roman.

'Is that the cure for a hangover?' Tiro was saying. 'To take a woman in the morning?'

I laughed out loud. 'Hardly. More often it's part of the disease. Or the incentive to recover, for the next time.'

He looked at the food before him, picking at a bit of cheese politely but without enthusiasm. Clearly he was used to better, even as a slave. 'Bread and cheese, then?'

'Food helps, if one can keep it down. But the true cure for a hangover was taught to me by a wise physician in Alexandria almost ten years ago — when I was about your age, I suspect, and no stranger to wine. It has served me well ever since. It was his theory, you see, that when one drank in excess, certain humours in the wine, instead of dissolving in the stomach, rose like foul vapours into the head, hardening the phlegm secreted by the brain, causing it to swell and become inflamed. These humours eventually disperse and the phlegm softens. This is why no one dies of a hangover, no matter how excruciating the pain.'

'Then time is the only cure, sir?'

'Except for a faster one: thought. The concentrated exercise of the mind. You see, thinking, according to my physician friend, takes place in the brain, lubricated by the secretion of phlegm. When the phlegm becomes polluted or hardened, the result is a headache. But the actual activity of thought produces fresh phlegm to soften and disperse the old; the more intently one thinks, the greater the production of phlegm. Therefore, intense concentration will speed along the natural recovery from a hangover by flushing the humours from the inflamed tissue and restoring the lubrication of the membranes.'

'I see.' Tiro looked dubious but impressed. 'The logic flows very naturally. Of course, one has to accept the starting premises, which cannot be proved.'

I sat back and crossed my arms, nibbling at a piece of crust. 'The proof is in the cure itself Already I'm feeling better, you see, having been called upon to explain the mechanics of this cure. And I suspect I shall be entirely cured in a few minutes, after I've explained what you've come for.'

Tiro smiled cautiously. 'I fear the cure is failing, sir.'

'Oh?'

'You've mistaken your pronouns, sir. It's I who am to explain my coming to you.'

'On the contrary. It's true, as you could tell from the look on my face, that I've never heard of your master — what was the name, Marcus something-or-other Cicero? A total stranger. Nonetheless, I can tell you a few things about him.' I paused, long enough to make sure I had the boy's full attention. 'He comes from a very proud family, a trait of which he himself has a full share. He lives here in Rome, but his family originally comes from somewhere else, perhaps to the south; they've been in the city for no more than a generation. They are something more than comfortably wealthy, though not fabulously so. Am I right so far?'

Tiro looked at me suspiciously. 'So far.'

'This Cicero is a young man, like yourself; I suppose a little older. He's an avid student of oratory and rhetoric, and a follower to some extent of the Greek philosophers. Not an Epicurean, I imagine; perhaps he's a Stoic, though not devoutly so. Correct?'

'Yes.' Tiro was beginning to look uncomfortable.

'As for your reason for coming, you are seeking out my services for a legal case which this Cicero will be bringing before the Rostra. Cicero is an advocate, just starting out in his career. Nevertheless, this is an important case, and a complicated one. As for who recommended my services, that would be the greatest of Roman lawyers. Hortensius, of course.'

'Of.. course.' Tiro mouthed the words, barely whispering. His eyes were as narrow as his mouth was wide. 'But how could you—'

'And the specific case? A case of murder, I think….'

Tiro looked at me sidelong, his astonishment frankly revealed.

'And not just murder. No, worse than that. Something much worse

'A trick,' Tiro whispered. He looked away, jerking his head, as if it took a great effort to tear his gaze from mine. ‘You do it somehow by looking into my eyes. Magic…'

I pressed my fingertips to my temples, elbows akimbo — partly to soothe the pressure of my throbbing temples, but also to mimic a mystic's theatrical posing. 'An unholy crime,' I whispered. 'Vile. Unspeakable. The murder of a father by his own son. Parricide!'

I released my temples and sat back in the chair. I looked my young guest straight in the eye. 'You, Tiro of the household of Marcus Tullius Cicero, have come to seek my services to assist your master in his defence of one Sextus Roscius of Ameria, who stands accused of killing the father whose name he bears. And — my hangover is completely gone.'

Tiro blinked. And blinked again. He sat back and ran his forefinger over his upper Up, his brows drawn pensively together. 'It is a trick, isn't it?' -

I gave him the thinnest smile I could manage. ‘Why? You don't believe I'm capable of reading your mind?'

'Cicero says there's no such thing as second sight or mind reading or foretelling the future. Cicero says that seers and portents and oracles are all charlatans at worst, actors at best, playing on the crowd's credulity.'

'And do you believe everything master Cicero says?' Tiro blushed. Before he could speak I raised my hand. 'Don't answer. I would never ask you to say anything against your master. But tell me this: has Marcus Tullius Cicero ever visited the oracle at Delphi? Has he seen the shrine to Magna Mater at Ephesus and tasted the milk that flows from her marble breasts? Or climbed the great pyramids in the dead of night and listened to the voice of the wind rushing through the ancient stones?'

'No, I suppose not.' Tiro lowered his eyes. 'Cicero has never been outside of Italy.'

'But I have, young man.' For a moment, I was lost in thought, unable to pull free from a flood of images, sights, sounds, smells of the past. I looked around the garden and suddenly saw just how tawdry it was. I stared at the food before me and realized how dry and tasteless the bread was, how sour the cheese had gone. I looked at Tiro, and remembered who and what he was, and felt foolish for expending so much energy to impress a mere slave.

‘I’ve done all those things, seen all those places. Even so, I suspect in many ways I'm an even greater doubter than your sceptical master. Yes, it's merely a trick. A game of logic'