Steven Saylor - Catilina's riddle

Without hesitation he hoisted up his purple-bordered senator's toga to show his burly thighs. Since the wearing of a toga entails the absence of any sort of underclothes that might constrict the private parts — a man could hardly tend to the call of nature with his left arm draped, all the folds of a toga to contend with, and a loincloth as well — Mummius was dangerously near to exposing himself. As I recalled, there was quite a bit of him to be exposed. I looked about a little nervously and gestured with my hands as if I were putting out a fire, but one might as well try to stop a bear from scratching its stomach as try to stop Marcus Mummius from showing off a war wound. Fortunately the only woman who happened to be passing by was Bethesda, heading towards the kitchen with an officious air. At the spectacle of Mummius showing off his burly legs, she paused, cocked her head, and cast a cool, calculating stare as if she were passing judgment on a purchase at the butcher's market.

'Here, see this one!' Mummius pointed to a long, thin scar that ran from the pale flesh of his upper thigh down to the region of his knee, where the skin was tanned as dark as an Egyptian's. Amid the furlike covering of hair, the pink, denuded strip of flesh stood out vividly. Mummius flexed the muscles beneath and made the long scar writhe like a snake. He seemed to find this uproariously amusing, to judge by his raucous laughter. I glanced over his shoulder at Apollonius, who rolled his eyes but smiled indulgently. No doubt he had witnessed the scene many times before.

'Battle of the Abas River!' Muroinius declared, dropping the hem of his toga. 'And I was a fool to let it happen. I was on horseback and the Albanian was on foot, wearing nothing but a bearskin and rushing at me with his sword drawn, screaming at the top of his lungs. I saw himcoming — had plenty of time to knock him flat with the blunt end of my spear, or else impale him on the point, or draw my sword and parry his blows, r osimply give my horse a good kick to get out of his way. The problem was, I had too much time to think — couldn't settle on one choice or the other. Should have been pure reflex, but on that day I found out that my reflexes are as dead as Carthage. Found out the hard way. Oh, the burning when that blade broke the flesh and then tore straight down! I was the one screaming then.'

'What did you do?' said Meto, who had always loved soldiers' tales.

'Where before I had done nothing, now I did everything at once! Banged the fellow's helmet with the blunt end of my spear, whipped it around and stabbed him in the chest with the point, unsheathed my sword with my other hand and slashed his throat, then gave my horse a hard kick and headed straight into the enemy ranks! It all happened in the blink of an eye.'

'You went towards the enemy, not away? Even wounded as you were?' said Meto.

'I had no choice. Something I've learned in battles before — if you take a bad wound, the worst thing to do is stop. That's the one thing you mustn't do, because then the pain'll come crashing down on you all at once and that's the end of you. I've seen many a man die from a wound that shouldn't have killed him, just because he stopped what he was doing and gave in to the thing. No, you open your mouth in a scream to let the Furies come inside you, and you plunge into the thick of it. That way you never even feel the wound at all, and you don't bleed to death either, because all the blood rushes into your head and your sword arm, instead of pouring out of the cut'

Meto stared at him, awed.

'You know, they say there were Amazons fighting with the Albanians in that battle, though I didn't see any, and there were no women found among the dead. I'm no t sure I'd care to go up against a woman in combat… But here I am talking about myself, as usual, when this day belongs to young Meto! What a sight you make in your manly toga! Why, I remember when you were a small thing, running about the villa at Baiae, carrying messages and pestering the other — the others…'

The last word came out oddly. 'Other slaves,' he had meant to say.

I saw again the strange look that had crossed Meto's face on Mummius's arrival. So long as Mummius carried on in his usual bluff manner, boasting of his battles, Meto could simply listen in fascination, but as soon as the conversation turned to the past, Mummius became a palpable reminder of the very circumstances from which he had rescued Meto long ago. Meto's cheeks turned red, but not as red as those of Mummius, who realized that he had trod upon uncertain ground. He attempted a hasty retreat, but found himself mired.

'I mean to say — do you remember what Gordianus said of you then — that you were the eyes and ears of the household? You slipped about hardly noticed, seeing and hearing all An arm of Nemesis, he called you afterwards, for the part you played in saving all the other — the others…' Once again, like the general who finds himself lost in a fog and unwittingly circles back into the same ambush from which he had fled, Mummius stumbled over the forbidden word. I groaned.

'The other slaves,' Meto said, very quietly.

'What?' stammered Mummius, who could hardly have failed to hear.

'The other slaves, you meant to say,' said Meto. 'You were speaking of my part in saving the other slaves — meaning the others who were slaves, like myself, of Crassus.'

Mummius twisted his mouth into various shapes. Was he ever this tongue-tied when addressing his troops? 'Well — yes, I suppose that's what I'm trying to say.' Or trying not to say, I thought.

Meto lowered his eyes. 'It's all right, Marcus Mummius. There's no point in obscuring the truth; so my father has taught me. If we hide what is true, then we see only what is false.' He raised his eyes, and his gaze was steady and strong. 'We have all been many things on the way to becoming what we are. This toga does not hide what I was; that is not its purpose. It clothes what I am. I am the son of Gordianus. Today I become a man and a full citizen of Rome.'

Mummius drew back and raised his eyebrows. Then his face burst into a smile. 'Splendid!' he cried out. 'What a splendid way you have with words! You shall do us all proud in years to come, I know it!'

The tension was broken. There were smiles all around. Eco gripped Meto's shoulder and squeezed it. My sons have never been very physically demonstrative with each other, and this spontaneous gesture of affection gratified and surprised me.

'You must be very proud,' said a voice dose to my ear.

I turned to see the handsome face of a young man with a bland smile and a mischievous glint in his dark eyes, framed by a chin-strap beard and a fashionable haircut. The face was out of place and its owner most certainly uninvited; for a brief instant I was disoriented, hardly believing he was there.

'Marcus Caelius! What are you doing here?' I glanced over my shoulder. Meto and Eco were talking together in low voices. Mummius and Apollonius had turned to pay their respects to Bethesda. I seized Caelius's elbow and took him aside.

He raised one eyebrow. 'If I were of a sensitive nature I might think you were unhappy to see me.'

'Spare your wit for the Forum, Caelius.'

'Really, Gordianus do you think I would waste my wit on politicians? I find that poets and prostitutes appreciate it far more.'

'I don't think you were invited here today,' I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

'No, but Cicero was. Your elder son Eco made sure that the consul received an invitation months in advance. But Cicero cannot come today. Too busy taking advantage of his last chance to harangue the voters down in the Forum before tomorrow's election. And of course he could hardly be seen attending this party, given the fictitious state of discord between the two of you. I've been doing my best to sow those rumours of grave unhappiness between Cicero and Gordianus — all to convince Catilina that he can trust you, of course.'