Steven Saylor - Catilina's riddle

He was quite old, of course, and the old are apt to die from many causes, and at any time. But I could not help remembering that it had been Clementus who had heard a muffled splash when Forfex was dropped into the well, and afterwards had witnessed a vague shadow walking about in the night.

XXVIII

The water mill would not work.

I told myself ruefully that I was not an engineer — any more than I was a farmer, added another voice in my head — and so should hardly have been surprised when my plans turned out not to be workable. I had kept the design as simple as I could. I had built a little model out of slivers of wood that seemed to work well enough. Aratus himself, never hesitant to inject a negative note, had deemed the idea practical and the construction sound. But when I set the slaves to turning the master wheel (for at midsummer in the month of Sextilis there was not enough force in the stream to turn it), the gears revolved only for a few degrees and then jammed fast. The first time this happened, the slaves kept pushing at the master wheel until two of the wooden axles split asunder with a great noise like a thunderclap. I was more careful the next time, and the next, but the mill simply would not function.

At night I dreamed of it. Sometimes I saw it as it should be, with the stream sliding along its banks, the master wheel spinning, and the crushing blocks gnashing together like teeth, with grain pouring from the outlet in endless abundance. In other, darker dreams I saw it as a sort of monster, living but malicious, spinning out of control, crushing hapless slaves in its gears and pouring blood from its mouth.

Why did I lavish so much energy and imagination on the completion of the mill? I told myself that it was a gift to the shade of my benefactor, Lucius Claudius. It was a sign of my full adjustment to country life, a signal that I had not simply accommodated myself to being a farmer but was mastering the elements around me. It was a gesture of defiance against Publius Claudius, who thought he could rob me of my water rights. It was all these things, true enough (besides being what it concretely was, or should be, a building of intrinsic value), but it was also a diversion. The mysteries of Nemo and Forfex remained unsolved. Rather than allow these failures to prey on me, I fretted over the continuing failure of the mill instead; rather than turn my fantasies to the professional satisfaction I would feel if I could somehow resolve these mysteries once and for all — an old, familiar satisfaction, as comfortable as a worn garment — I turned my fantasies to the technical triumph of a water mill that would actually work. In the same way, my obsession with the mill allowed me an escape from the problem of our dwindling water and the looming prospect of a winter without enough hay.

These crises seem small now when compared to the greater crisis that was brewing all around us — not only down in Rome and in Etruria, but all up and down the length of Italy. I might claim that I had no intimation of the catastrophes to come, but that would not quite be true. A man who turns his back on a fire can truthfully say that he cannot see the fire, but he can feel its heat against his back; he can see the lurid light that colours the objects around him and his own shadow cast before him. But if I had an inkling of where the struggle between Cicero and Catilina would lead, I chose to fret over my water mill instead.

Towards the end of the month of Sextilis, Diana reached her seventh birthday. The birthdays of little girls are not much celebrated among Romans, but this day — the twenty-sixth day of Sextilis, four days before the Kalends of September — was doubly special in our household, for it was not only the day that Bethesda had given birth to Gordiana, but also the day when Marcus Mummius had delivered Meto to us after rescuing him from his bondage in Sicily. We had made the day a family holiday and always celebrated with a special meal; several days beforehand Bethesda began overseeing Congrio's preparations in the kitchen. Eco had always been present for the event, and this year would be no exception. As we had journeyed down to Rome for Meto's toga day, so Eco and Menenia would come up from the city for the private celebration.

They arrived by wagon on the day before Diana's birthday, with Belbo and five other slaves in attendance. The slaves, I noticed, were among the strongest in Eco's household and were all armed with long daggers tucked into their tunics. I made some joke about his going out with a bodyguard to rival Cicero's, but Eco did not laugh. 'Later,' he said enigmatically, as if to acknowledge that he owed me an explanation when I had only been jesting. - Bethesda took great pains to make Menenia feel at home, returning the courtesy that her daughter-in-law had shown her in the city; the warmth between them seemed quite genuine. Meto and Diana were delighted to have their older brother on the farm, if only for a brief visit. While all the others were engaged in one another's company, I took the chance to slip away. I found Belbo with the other slaves from Rome relaxing in a patch of shade beside the stable and taking turns in a round of trigon. They stood in a triangle, batting the leather ball back and forth. Belbo, famous for strength rather than agility, was soon out of the game. I called to him to join me. He followed as I strolled around the corner and out of hearing of the others.

'My son surrounds himself with a considerable bodyguard to protect two people with nothing valuable on their persons, on such a short journey and on such a well-travelled road.'

Belbo grinned and shook his head. 'The old Master misses nothing, as always.'

' "As always" — Belbo, I wish I were half as observant and canny as I once was, or thought I was. Why so many daggers?' 'Times in the city are tense.'

'That's awfully vague. What has my son got himself into?' 'Shouldn't that be for him to tell you?'

'If you were new in the household, I'd excuse you from talking to your old master about your new master behind his back, but you know me too well to hide anything from me, Belbo. Is Eco up to something dangerous?'

'Master, you know the life. You remember the danger from day to day.'

I stared at him steadily, unimpressed with his evasions. He was as strong as an ox and as loyal as a hound, but he was as bad at keeping secrets as he was at playing trigon. I watched his face blush red to the roots of his straw-coloured hair.

'It's me new work he's doing,' he confessed.

'For whom?'

'For the young man who was at Meto's party — you saw him, you talked to him. He came back several days later to hire the young Master..The man with the fashionable beard and hair.'

'Does that young man have a name?' I asked, knowing it already.

'Marcus Caelius,' said Belbo.

'Numa's balls, I knew it! They've cast their web over Eco as well.'

Once his meagre resistance had been breached, Belbo seemed eager to speak. 'It's something to do with a conspiracy — a plot to murder Cicero and bring down the government. The young Master's been going to meetings at night in secret I don't hear a lot; I stay outside with the other slaves and bodyguards. But there are big people at these meetings, I can tell you that — senators, equestrians, patricians, people I've seen in the Forum for years. Marcus Caelius is often there as well.'

While he spoke, I shook my head and clenched my teeth. Eco should have known better, I told myself than to let himself be drawn into the affairs of Marcus Caelius and his master, whether that master was Cicero or Catilina. To investigate the circumstances of a simple murder or ferret out the truth in a property dispute was one thing; to put on a blindfold and be pushed back and forth in the devious plot and counterplot between Cicero and Catilina was quite another. It was more than the unacceptable degree of clanger and uncertainty; I had taught Eco to be a Finder, not a spy. To my mind, there is honour in uncovering the truth and laying it out for all to see in the sunlight, but none at all in covering it from view and whispering in the dark.