Steven Saylor: Roman blood

'But how can simple logic yield new knowledge? You told me you had never heard of Cicero before I came here. I've told you nothing at all about him, and yet you're able to tell me exactly why I've come. It's like producing coins out of thin air. How can you create something out of nothing? Or discover a truth without evidence?'

'You miss the point, Tiro. It's not your fault. I'm sure you're able to think as well as the next man. It's the sort of logic that's taught by Roman rhetors that's the problem. Retrying ancient cases, refighting ancient battles, learning grammar and law by rote, and all with the point of learning how to twist the law to the client's advantage, with no regard for right or wrong, or up or down for that matter. Certainly with no regard for the simple truth. Cleverness replaces wisdom. Victory justifies all. Even the Greeks have forgotten how to think.'

'If it's only a trick, tell me how it's done.'

I laughed and took a bite of cheese. 'If I explain, you'll have less respect for me than if I leave it a mystery.'

Tiro frowned. 'I think you should tell me, sir. Otherwise, how will I cure myself in the event that I'm ever lucky enough to be allowed to have a hangover?' A smile showed through the frown. Tiro was capable of striking poses no less than Bethesda. Or myself.

'Very well.' I stood up and stretched my arms over my head and was surprised to feel hot sunshine bathing my hands, as palpable as if I had immersed them in steaming water. Half the garden was rilled with light. 'We'll take a walk around the garden, while it's still cool enough. Bethesda! I will explain my deductions, Bethesda will take away the food — Bethesda! — and order will be restored.'

We walked slowly, circling the pond. Across the water Bast the cat was stalking dragonflies, her black fur gleaming in the sunlight.

'Very well, how do I know what I know about Marcus Tullius Cicero? I said he comes from a proud family. That much is obvious, from his name. Not the family name Tullius, which

I've heard before, but the third name, Cicero. Now the third name of a Roman citizen generally identifies the family branch — in this case the Cicero branch of the Tullius family. Or, if no branch name exists, it may be unique to the individual himself, usually describing a physical feature. Naso for a man with a large nose, or Sulla, the name of our esteemed and worthy dictator, so-called for his florid complexion. In either case, Cicero is a most peculiar-sounding name. The word refers to die common chick-pea and can hardly be flattering. What exactly is the case with your master?'

'Cicero is an old family name. They say it comes from an ancestor who had an ugly bump on the tip of his nose, defied down the middle, something like a chick-pea. You're right, it does sound odd, though I'm so used to it I hardly think of it. Some of my master's friends say he should drop the name if he means to go into politics or law, but he won't hear of it. Cicero says that if his family saw fit to adopt such a peculiar name, then the man who first bore that name must have been quite extraordinary, even if no one remembers why. He says he intends to make all Rome know the name of Cicero and respect it.'

'Proud, as I said. But of course that would apply to virtually any Roman family and certainly to any Roman lawyer. That he lives in Rome I took for granted. That his family roots are to the south I assumed from the name Tullius. I remember having encountered it more than once on the road to Pompeii — perhaps in Aquinum, Interamna, Arpinum—'

'Exactly,' Tiro nodded. 'Cicero has relatives all through that region. He himself was born in Arpinum.'

'But he did not live there past the age of, oh, nine or ten.'

'Yes — he was eight when his family moved to Rome. But how do you know that?'

Bast, having given up on catching dragonflies, was rubbing herself against my ankles. 'Think, Tiro. Ten is the age for a citizen's formal education to begin, and I suspect, given his knowledge of philosophy and your own erudition, that your master was not educated in a sleepy little town off the road to Pompeii. As for the family not having been in Rome for more than a generation, I assumed that from the very fact that the name Cicero is unfamiliar to me. Had they been here from the time I was young, I would surely have at least heard of them — and I wouldn't forget a name like that. As for

Cicero's age and wealth and his interest in oratory and philosophy, all that is evident simply from observing you, Tiro.' 'Me?'

'A slave is the mirror of his master. Your unfamiliarity with the dangers of wine, your modesty with Bethesda, these indicate that you serve in a household where restraint and decorum are of utmost concern. Such a tone can only be set by the master himself. Cicero is clearly a man of rigorous morals. This can be indicative of purely Roman virtues, but your comment about moderation in all things indicates an appreciation of Greek virtue and Greek philosophy. There is also a great emphasis on rhetoric, grammar, and oratory in the house of Cicero. I doubt that you yourself have ever received a single formal lesson in these fields, but a slave can absorb much from regular exposure to the arts. It shows in your speech and manner, in the polished tones of your voice. Clearly, Cicero has studied long and hard in the schools of language.

'All of which, taken together, can mean only one thing: that he wishes to be an advocate and present legal cases before the Rostra. I would have assumed so at any rate, from the very feet that you came to ask for my services. Most of my clients — at least the respectable ones — are either politicians or lawyers or both.'

Tiro nodded. 'But you also knew that Cicero was young and just beginning in his career.'

'Yes. Well, if he were an established advocate, I would have heard of him already. How many cases has he presented?'

'Only one,' Tiro acknowledged, 'and nothing you would have heard about — a simple partnership case.'

'Which further confirms his youth and inexperience. As does the feet that he sent you at all. Would it be fair to say that you're Cicero's most trusted slave? His favourite servant?'

'His personal secretary. I've been with him all my life.'

'Carried his books to classes, drilled him in grammar, prepared his notes for his first case before the Rostra?'

'Exactly.'

'Then you are not the sort of slave that most advocates send when they wish to call upon Gordianus the Finder. Only a fledgling advocate, embarrassingly ignorant of common custom, would bother to send his right hand to my door. I'm flattered, even though I know the flattery is unintentional. To show my gratitude, I promise not to spread the word that Marcus Tullius Cicero made an ass of himself by sending his best slave to fetch that wretched Gordianus, explorer of dung heaps and infiltrator of hornet's nests. They'd get a bigger laugh out of that than they ever will out of Cicero's name.'

Tiro wrinkled his brow. The tip of my sandal caught on a willow root beside the stream. I stubbed my toe and stifled a curse.

‘You're right,' Tiro said quietly, sounding very earnest. 'He's quite young, just as I am. He doesn't yet know all these little tricks of the legal profession, the silly gestures and empty formalities. But he does know what he believes in, which is more than you can say for most advocates.'

I gazed down at my toe, surprised to see that it wasn't bleeding. There are gods in my garden, rustic and wild and unkempt like the garden itself. They had punished me for teasing a naive young slave. I deserved it. 'Loyalty becomes you, Tiro. Just how old is your master?'

'Cicero is twenty-six.'

'And you?'

'Twenty-three.'

'A bit older than I would have guessed, both of you. Then I'm not ten years older than you, Tiro, but only seven. Still, seven years can make a great difference,' I said, contemplating the passion of young men out to change the world. A wave of nostalgia passed through me as gently as the faint breeze that rustled through the willow above our heads. I glanced down into the pond and saw the two of us reflected in a patch of dear water sparkling in the sunlight. I was taller than Tiro, broader in the shoulders and heavier in the middle; my jaw was more prominent, my nose flatter and more hooked, and my eyes, far from being lavender, were a staid Roman brown. All we seemed to have in common were the same unruly black curls; mine were beginning to show strands of grey.