Steven Saylor - Catilina's riddle

I found them encamped in the foothills of the Apennines, outside a small town called Pistoria. Antonius's much larger force was only a few miles away. In order to reach Catilina, I had to make a great circuit on side roads and across open country, avoiding Antonius's men.

I feared that I might be challenged and attacked as I rode in plain sight down the rocky hillside towards the village of camp fires and tents, but no one took much notice of a lone man on horseback, wrapped in a heavy cloak and wearing no armour. Once within the camp I found myself surrounded by many men who looked no more like soldiers than I did, whose only weapons appeared to be hunting spears and carving knives or even sharpened stakes. Some were younger than me, but many were older. Among these were Sulla's veterans, many of whom wore ancient armour that might have fitted them once but no longer did. Mixed with the ragtag bands were groups of men in decent legionary dress, well-armoured and well-armed, who had the look of disciplined troops.

The mood was less grim than I had expected. The atmosphere was coloured by that sense of shared resignation that makes even strangers seem blood kin. Men laughed and smiled, stood next to blazing fires to warm themselves, and talked to one another in low voices. Their faces were weary and sombre, but their eyes were bright. They appeared hopeless but not despairing — hopeless in the sense of having come to a place beyond hope, which is to say beyond false dreams or vain ambition. They had followed Catilina to this place willingly, and their faces bore no resentment

I searched their faces for the one I sought, suddenly at a loss. Among these thousands of men, how was I to find Meto, if indeed he was here at all? I was weary and had come to the end of a long journey and suddenly seemed to have no energy left But even as I felt gripped by uncertainty, I found that my feet had taken me to the centre of the camp, towards a tent that stood out from the others. Red and gold pennants were posted at its corners, and before it, mounted atop a tall standard, was the silver eagle Catilina had carried with him from Rome. In the cold, bright sunlight it looked almost alive, like the eagle that had come to earth on the Auguraculum on the day of Meto's manhood.

Two soldiers in legionary regalia barred my way. 'Tell Catilina I want to see him’ I said quietly. They looked sceptical. 'Tell him my name is Gordianus the Finder’

They looked at each other sourly. Finally the more senior officer shrugged and stepped inside the tent flap. After along wait he opened it and gestured for me to enter.

The interior of the tent was crowded but orderly. Sleeping cots had been pushed out of the way to make room for small folding tables, upon which maps had been unrolled, with weights to hold down the corners. Leather satchels lay about, stuffed full of documents. Carefully laid out on a table, as if on display, were the ceremonial axes and other insignia that by rights can be carried into battle only by a duly elected magistrate; Catilina must have brought them from Rome, thinking that by such signs he could instill in his men a sense of legitimacy, or perhaps to convince himself of the same.

Among the small circle of men who sat and conferred at the centre of the tent, I first recognized Tongilius, who saw me and nodded. He was resplendent in a shining coat of mail and a crimson cape; with his tousled hair pushed carelessly back from his face, he looked like a young Alexander. Other faces turned to glance at me, and among them I recognized several of the young men with whom I had weathered the howling storm in Gnaeus's mine. There was also a broad-shouldered boulder of a man with white hair and a white beard. His round, ruddy face reminded me of Marcus Mummius. He could only be Manlius, the grizzled centurion who had organized the disgrunded Sullan veterans and was now their general

These men glanced at me for only a moment, then returned their attention to the man who sat with his back to me, speaking to them in a low voice: Catilina. I looked around the room and suddenly noticed another figure who sat by himself on a sleeping cot at a far comer of the tent, bent over a piece of armour that he was furiously polishing. Even from the back I knew him at once, and my heart leaped into my throat.

There was a sudden burst of acclamation from the group of men around Catilina, who had finished his address. The men stood up and quickly filed out of the tent. Tongilius smiled at me as he passed.

Catilina turned around in his chair. His drawn cheeks and feverish eyes made him look more striking than ever, as if the strain of recent days had refined and purified his handsome features. He gave me a quizzical smile. I stiffened the muscles in my jaw to keep from smiling in return.

"Well, Gordianus the Finder. When the guard whispered your name in my ear, I could scarcely believe it. Your timing is impossibly exquisite. Have you come to spy on me? Too late! Or in your own perverse manner, have you finally decided to cast your lot with me at the last possible moment?'

'Neither. I've come for my son.'

'I fear you may be too late,' said Catilina quietly.

'Papa!' Intent on his work, Meto had not heard Catilina speak my name, but at the sound of my voice he put down the armour he had been polishing and turned his head. A succession of emotions animated his face until he abruptly stood and walked stiffly out of the tent.

I turned to follow him, but Catilina gripped my arm. 'No, Gordianus, let him go. He’ll come back in his own time.'

I clenched my fists, but the wiser part of me listened to Catilina and obeyed. 'What is he doing here? He's only a boy!' I whispered.

'But he wants so desperately to be a man, Gordianus. Can't you see that?'

A terrible feeling of dread swept over me. 'None of that matters! I refuse to let him die with you!'

Catilina sucked in his breath and looked away. I had spoken the ill-omened word.

'Oh, Catilina! Why didn't you flee to Massilia, as you said you would? Why did you stay in Italy instead of accepting exile? Did you really think—'

'I stayed because I wasn't allowed to leave! The way was blocked. The Senate's forces in Gaul cut off every pass through the Alps. Cicero had no intention of letting me escape with my life. He wanted a final confrontation. I had no choice. Outmanoeuvred,' he said, dropping his voice to a hoarse whisper. 'Outmanoeuvred at every turn. And my so-called compatriots in Rome — what a pack of fools, letting themselves be duped into that scandal with the Allobroges! That was the end of it. After that… But you were there, weren't you? As was Meto. His report to me was astonishingly vivid. Your son understands everything that's happened. He's incredibly wise for his years. You should be proud of that.'

'Proud of a son I can't understand, who defies me this way?'

'How can you not understand him, Gordianus, when he's exactly like you? Or like you once were, or could have been, or might still be. Brave, as you are. Compassionate, as you are. Committed to a cause, as you might be if you'd allow yourself.

Hungry for all that life has to offer, as you must have been once.'

‘Please, Catilina, don't tell me that you've seduced him, too.' He paused for a long moment then smiled wistfully. 'All right, I won't.'

I walked blindly to the cot where Meto had been sitting. I picked up the breastplate he had been polishing. For a moment I studied my reflection, distorted amid the hammered flourishes of lions' heads and griffins, then threw the breastplate across the room. 'And now you have him polishing your armour, like a slave!'

'No, Gordianus, that's not my armour. It's his. He wants it to be very bright, for the battle.'

I stared at the various pieces on the cot — the greaves to protect his shins, the plumed helmet with its visor, the short sword tucked into its scabbard. The pieces were a hodgepodge that normally would have belonged to men of different ranks; even I could see how makeshift it all was. I tried to imagine Meto wearing it, and could not