Steven Saylor - Catilina's riddle

The water loosened my muscles. I felt my mind relaxing as well. 'You came from up north?' I said. 'Faesulae and Arretium.' 'Heading down to Rome?' 'Tomorrow.'

For a while we were silent. The water cooled a bit. I knocked on the wall. A slave appeared. I told him to add fuel to the fire and to bring us each a fresh cup of watered wine.

'You must be very happy in this place, Gordianus,' said Catilina. His tone was desultory, that of a tired man sharing a bath with another at the end of a long day, making minor conversation.

'Happy enough.'

'I myself have never attended to the day-to-day running of a farm. I used to own a few outside Rome, but I sold them long ago.'

'It's not exactly the bucolic dream that sentimental poets like to imagine.'

He laughed softly. 'I suppose reality has somewhat rougher edges.'

'Yes. There are problems — small ones, big ones, always more than you can shut back into Pandora's box, no matter how hard you work.'

'Running a farm is not so different from running a republic, I imagine.' There was an edge to his voice, at once wistful and bitter.

'It's all a matter of scale,' I said. 'Of course, some problems are probably the same for all men — wondering whether one can trust a slave, trying to placate a demanding wife… do I see you smile, Catilina? Trying to do the right thing by a son who thinks he is a man but is still only a boy…'

'Ah, Meto. You're having trouble with him, then?'

'Ever since he put on his manly toga, we cannot seem to come to an understanding. He puzzles me. To be fair, my own behaviour towards him perplexes me. I tell myself that he's at an awkward age, but I wonder if it's not my age that's the problem'

Catilina laughed. 'How old are you?'

'Forty-seven.'

'I'm forty-five myself. An awkward age, indeed! Who are we, where have we been, to what end are we headed- and is it too late to change the destination? All in all, I think it's harder to be forty-five than sixteen, if only because one sees so much more clearly all the possibilities that are forever out of reach. Old enough to have grown tired of one's own cleverness and skills, old enough for the passions of one's youth to have grown stale. Old enough to have seen beauty wither, while death claims more of one's acquaintances than are still alive. And yet one still goes on living. Certain ambitions and appetites diminish, but others take their place. All the while, the petty business of life continues — eating, drinking, copulation; grappling with the contentious natures of parents, spouses, children. I don't know what your problems with Meto might be, but I think you're very lucky to have him. My own son, being gone — I often wish, especially nowadays..He left this thought unfinished.

For a while we were both quiet. I felt myself melting not only into the heat of the bath but also into a familiar role. Catilina was changed from his previous visit, when he had been in such total, calculating control of all that passed between us. He was a man who needed to speak, and I, as I had been for so many before him, was a listener, the sieve into which he could pour the raw material of whatever burdened him — bitterness, remorse, frustration, fear. There is something in me that draws the truth from other mem this curse, or gift, was passed in the blood from my father, bestowed on us by the gods. Cicero might say that Catilina was using that gift against me, turning me into his confidant for his own ends. A part of me, too, was sceptical.

But there was nothing disingenuous in the sigh that passed from Catilina's lips. 'Were you in Rome on election day?' he asked quietly.

'Yes. The whole family was there, for Meto's coming-of-age.' 'Ah, yes, I remember Caelius telling me that the boy had just turned sixteen.'

'He cast his first ballot.' 'For me, I hope.'

'Yes, as a matter of fact. Our century went for Silanus, though.'

Catilina nodded gravely. He didn't ask for whom I had voted, taking my support for granted, I suppose. What if he had asked me? For Nemo, I could have said For Nobody. For a headless corpse buried in a hidden grave not far from where we sit. For a moment I considered confronting him with the riddles of Nemo and Forfex. I tried to imagine where such a confrontation might lead. If he was responsible, he would never admit it, no matter how self-revealing his mood. If he knew nothing of the matter and I blamed it on Caelius, a confrontation between them must ensue, and Caelius would be compromised I could hardly voice my suspicions of Circero without revealing my own role as Cicero's tool, and by extension endangering Eco.

I had time to tread this barren circle more than once in my thoughts before Catilina spoke again. 'Do you ever find yourself plagued with doubts, Gordianus? Ah, I see the look on your face, though just barely. Thank the gods for this steam — the naked face of doubt is hard to look at!' He sipped his wine. 'Do you think it's only the closeness of our ages, the coincidence of having been born a few years apart, that gives us this mutual understanding? What else do we have in common? I'm a patrician, you're a plebeian; I love the city, while you've abandoned it for a farm; I believe in exploring every appetite, while you appear to be a man of great restraint. I'm bold and rash in my politics, while I suspect that you would turn your back on politics altogether if you could. But you hate the powers-that-be in Rome as much as I do — so Marcus Caelius tells me — and though you won't do more, I'm thankful at least that you'll grant me refuge when I need it. Caelius also drew my attention to your son Eco. A valuable man, as canny as his father, some say. Caelius and Eco both tell me not to burden you too much with my plans, and so I won't You do enough to let me sit here on a September night, sharing with me your wine and your bath, listening to a failed candidate ramble on about his misfortunes. Would you call for your slave again? I'd like some more wine.'

I realized then that the cup from which he had been drinking when I joined him was not his first; no wonder his tongue was loosened and his guard relaxed. I called for the slave, who brought fresh wine.

'Should I have him heat the water?' I asked.

'It's more than hot enough already, don't you think? I'm fairly cooked.' With that Catilina pulled himself up and sat on the edge of the tub, leaning back against the wall. Steam billowed from his flesh. Rivulets of water reflected the lamp's amber glow and made the hair on his broad chest glisten. 'Perhaps it's time to take the cool plunge.'

'There is no cool plunge tonight'

'What? A hot bath without a cool one to follow? Rather like lovemaking without the climax.'

'Blame the interrupted coitus on a small problem with my well.'

Catilina raised an eyebrow. I studied his face for a sign that he understood, but saw none.

'Until the autumn rains come, we're short of water here on the farm. The well was polluted last month.'

'Polluted?'

I hesitated, but only for an instant Since the subject had come up, why not mention Forfex and see how Catilina reacted? ‘We found a body at the bottom of the well.'

'How awful! I suppose you took your foreman to task. What was it, a goat?'

'It wasn't the body of an animal.'

He cocked his head, made a strained face and blinked several times. The wine had slowed his wits temporarily, but it also exaggerated his expressions; it was hard to tell whether he was acting or not. '"What do you mean?' he said.

'I mean it was a man we found in the well.'

'What, one of your slaves took a fall?'

'Not one of mine. A neighbour's slave. You knew the man.'

'I doubt it.'

'No, he was known to you. I know, because I was there. Forfex.'

He knitted his brow. 'The name means nothing to me.'