Steven Saylor - Catilina's riddle

'Yes, Eco's house now. On the Esquiline. It's a little hard to find—'

'Ah, but you and Lucius were such good friends, I'm sure his old slaves in the city will know how to find the place. I shall be there.' 'We look forwards to having you.'

'And, Gordianus — consider seriously what I said, about Gnaeus. You must watch yourself. You have a family to look after.' Before she turned away, her face took on a quite stern, almost severe expression.

The moment she disappeared into the brush I licked the honey from my lips and suddenly craved another cake, too late. Meanwhile, Catilina and Tongilius had picked up speed and made rapid progress on the Cassian Way. Meto and I watched them for a while longer, until their blue-cloaked figures began to merge with the northern horizon, obscured, by the rippling heat that rose from the sun-baked paving stones.

'Catilina is a fascinating man,' said Meto.

'Catilina,' I said, 'is a blur on the horizon.'

XV

The following days passed without incident — or rather, without any unpleasant interludes of the Nemo variety. Of incident there was an abundance, for transporting a family from the farm to the city, even for a brief visit, is a matter of complex logistics and planning. When I consider that great generals like Pompey are able to move their armies successfully over vast arenas on land and sea, complete with tents and cooking utensils and stocks of food and all their daily needs, I am truly awed.

Aratus told me he had always been in charge of helping Lucius pack his things, and since Lucius had gone back and forth from city to countryside quite often and had no doubt travelled in considerable luxury, this claim at first impressed me. Then I realized that Lucius, being so rich, could have afforded to own two or more of everything, and so had little need to carry his necessities on his back like a turtle. Conversely, Bethesda and I had to plan very carefully to bring enough so that Eco would not be burdened by us, and at the same time make sure that the farm was well provisioned in our absence. It was a considerable job.

Nevertheless, I managed to make time to begin construction on the water mill. The time was right for the project, for the weather continued clear and hot, and the flow in the stream diminished appreciably from day to day. This made it easy to remove stones and to fill areas that needed levelling with mortar and brick. I was disturbed to see the water become so slow and shallow, but, fortunately, the farm had a well at the foot of the ridge. The well had been there since before anyone living was born, Aratus told me. It was situated among olive trees and ringed with a low stone wall. The shaft was so deep it barely sent back a faint echo from its watery black depths. The old well had always been reliable, Aratus assured me, even in years of drought.

Meanwhile, between work on the mill and preparations for the trip to Rome, I enjoyed my respite from worrying over unwanted visitors. The election would be held on the fifth day before the Ides; thus the consular contest would be decided even before we set out for Rome. I could arrive in the city without giving the matter another thought; hopefully, I would be able to enjoy Eco's company and Meto's day of manhood without any further worries about matters over which I had no control and in which I had no interest. Catilina would be elected, or he would not, but in either event his brief incursion into my lite would be over.

It bothered me that the mystery of Nemo's death and identity and his appearance in my stable had never been explained, but it would have bothered me more if further threats had followed, or if Diana and Bethesda were to stay behind while I went to Rome. But we would all be together in the city, safe in Eco's house, or as sate as anyone can be in a place like Rome.

On the day before we were to leave, I took a few moments from the preparations for the trip and the work on the mill and stole away by myself to the place where Meto and Aratus and I had buried Nemo. I stood before the simple stele and ran my fingers down the vertical letters that spelled the name of no one. 'Who were you?' I said. 'How did you die? What became of your head, and who arranged it so that I would find you in my barn?' I tried to convince myself that the whole incident was now over and done with, but at the same time I felt something else that was harder to dispel than my vague foreboding: a sense of guilt and failure, of an obligation denied. Not my obligation to Cicero, which had now been discharged, but to the shade of Nemo.

I shrugged. To relieve a kink in the muscles of my shoulders, I thought — or was it to demonstrate my indifference to the restless dead? What did I owe Nemo, after all? If I had seen his face, would I have even known him? It seemed to me unlikely. He had been neither client nor friend, so far as there was any way of knowing. I owed him nothing. I shrugged — yet I did not turn my back on his gravestone, and instead found myself staring at it, studying each of the four letters of the name I had given him, which was not a name at all but the very opposite.

Other men live with mysteries, never knowing the truth from day to day; it is a way of surviving in a world in which the truth is always dangerous to someone. I would live in ignorance as well, and prosper, and protect my family. I would do what the mighty demanded of me, and otherwise mind my business. So I told myself, but with faltering conviction. Why had I come to Nemo's burial place at all unless it was to pay my respects and converse with his shade? I had made vows to other dead men, to find their killers, to see that some semblance of justice prevailed. I had done so because the gods had made me wayward and dissatisfied with ignorance and injustice. But I had never made a vow to Nemo while he lived, I reasoned, arguing with myself; he was no one, and I owed him nothing.

I turned my back on the stele, but not easily; I could almost feel the hand of Nemo on my shoulder, holding me back, trying to extract from me a promise I would not make. I tore myself away, cursing everyone from Numa to Nemo, and made my way back to the stream.

I yelled at Aratus for no reason that afternoon, and after dinner Bethesda told me that I had been as cross as a child all day. In bed she did her best to raise my spirits, and succeeded at least in raising something eke. Within the familiar recesses of her body I found warm solace and left my worries behind. Afterwards she grew talkative. Her speech came quickly, all in a rush, which was not at all like her usual languid way of talking, especially after sex. It was the chance to go back to the city, after being away for so long, that excited her so. She catalogued the temples she would visit, the markets where she would shop, the neighbours she would impress with her new status as a country matron.

At last she grew weary. Her voice slowed and deepened, but I could tell, even with my eyes shut, that she smiled as she spoke. Her happiness gave me comfort, and I fell asleep to the soothing music of her voice.

The gods smiled on the day of our journey. The heat relented and occasional breezes wafted across the paving stones of the Cassian Way. A procession of white, puffy clouds paraded across the sky, threatening no rain but providing long passages of soothing shade. The wagon that carried Bethesda and Diana did not break an axle, and the horses on which Meto and I rode made no complaint. I picked out a few of the brawniest and ugliest slaves to accompany us as bodyguards — more for show than for any skill they might have in fighting — and though they knew little about riding horseback, they managed the journey without mishap.

Just north of Rome the Cassian Way branches in two directions. The smaller, southerly branch leads around the Vatican and Janiculum hills to join with the Aurelian Way, which enters the city at its very heart across the ancient bridges that cross into the great catde markets and thence into the Forum. Arriving by the Aurelian Way is always impressive — the first glimpse of the glimmering Tiber, dotted with small ships and lined with warehouses and shipyards along its banks; the clattering of hooves on the bridges; the looming skyline of the great city, dominated by the Temple of Jupiter high atop the Capitoline Hill; the slow progress through the markets and the sheer spectacle of the Forum with its magnificent array of temples and courts. It would have been a fitting way to enter the city for the purpose of celebrating Meto's coming of age as a Roman citizen, but simple pragmatism made me decide against it, for the traffic on the Aurelian Way going into the city on a late afternoon can be as slow as a dead man's pulse, and with a wagon in our retinue I dreaded being trapped on one of the bridges or amid the market stalls.