Steven Saylor - Catilina's riddle

Bethesda, however, was not mollified. She stood with her hand on Diana's shoulder, pressing the child against her. 'Take off that heavy tunic, husband! Meto, put away that cloak! Where do you think you're going?'

'If Catilina and his party were seen at the pass between the ridge and the mountain—' said Meto, ignoring her.

'Then suddenly vanished—' I said.

'And then one of their horses was found riderless—'

'They must have taken refuge somewhere off the road.'

That open space concealed behind the big rock — would it be large enough to conceal nine horses?' said Meto.

'I think so. We'll know soon enough.'

'You cannot invite him to come here!' said Bethesda firmly. 'What if his pursuers give up the chase and turn back? If they should return and find him here — you heard what the man said: give him no more food and shelter. Think of your daughter!' She pressed Diana more tightly to her.

'Food!' said Meto. 'I almost forgot. What can we take to them?' 'I forbid it!' said Bethesda.

"Wife, think of handsome Catilina and the beautiful Tongilius. Would you have them wither to skin and bones for want of a few bites from Congrio's kitchen?'

Apparently my facetiousness struck the right note. Bethesda wavered and softened. 'We have some bread that was baked this morning,' she said begrudgingly. 'And there are plenty of apples—'

'I'll fetch them,' said Meto.

Bethesda pursed her lips. "The men will be cold and wet. A dry blanket or two…'

'There are blankets on our bed,' I said.

'Not those! We have others that are worn and need mending. Here, I'll get them myself' And so Bethesda was suborned into helping with our mission.

We avoided the open road that went out to the Cassian Way, and cut across fields and orchards instead. The ground was muddy and grew rocky and uneven along the foot of the ridge. I feared that one of our horses might stumble in the muck and break a leg, but we reached the highway without mishap. The hard, flat paving stones of the Cassian Way, spangled with falling raindrops, clattered beneath the horses' hooves. There is nothing so well made and impervious to the elements as a good Roman road.

We made our way to the trailhead we had found before. I had thought it might be impossible to find it amid the dark, dripping underbrush, but we rode straight to it, so easily that I thought the hand of a god must have guided us. We dismounted and slid between the trunk of the oak and the great boulder, not without difficulty, for a bundle of apples and bread was strapped to Meto's back and a bulky roll of blankets was strapped to mine. We pulled our horses after us. As I had expected, the little clearing beyond, hidden from the highway, was filled with horses tethered to tree trunks, rocks and branches.

There was a burst of lightning. The bright white glare pierced the naked branches and shone like flames in the horses' eyes. They snorted, josded one another, stamped their hooves. The thunder pealed above us. The horses threw back their heads and whinnied.

I counted them. There were nine.

The floor of the little clearing was stony, and instead of taming to a morass of mud it had become a veritable pond. The horses stood in water above their hooves. My own feet were completely submerged. The reason for so much water was clear enough. The broken path that led up the mountainside had become a runnel. I looked at the rushing water and the mud and rocks on either side of the sluice and shook my head. 'Impassable,' I said.

'But Catilina and his men must have hiked up it,' said Meto.

‘We're burdened with these heavy apples and cumbersome blankets—'

Meto adjusted the load strapped to his back and leaped up the steep, watery path, as surefooted as a fawn. 'Come on, Papal It's not as hard as it looks.'

'Old bones break more easily than young ones,' I grumbled. 'And old feet have a harder time finding their balance.' But I was talking to myself, for Meto had disappeared ahead of me. I raised my knees and put one foot ahead of the other, trying to negotiate a safe way up the slippery rocks and sliding mud.

What had I been thinking when I set out? The answer was simple: I had not been thinking at all. The excitement of the assault on my house had rattled my mind. The elation of not being murdered in my home had blotted out all memory of the agony of my previous ascent up the old pathway. If it had been difficult before — overgrown, rugged, absurdly steep — it was made twice as difficult by the rain, and the burdens we carried doubled the difficulty again. My heart pounded. My feet turned to lead — not only heavy and unresponsive, but clumsy, slipping on loosened pebbles and sliding on treacherous mud. I began to realize that the ascent was not only strenuous but perilous. It was a very real possibility that I could slip and fall down the runnel out of control for a very long way. If I broke my back, would Bethesda be scolding or sympathetic?

The descent would be even more dangerous, I realized, then pushed the thought from my mind. Meanwhile, Meto scurried ahead of me, as agile as a goat and as impervious to the water as a duck.

At last we came to the first opening, where the path joined with the last of the road from Gnaeus's house, and a footpath continued up the mountain. The muddy open space was well-trampled, offering evidence of Catilina's passage.

I shrugged and stretched my shoulders, which ached from the strain of the blankets and the climb. 'The question now,' I said, 'is whether he turned right or left.'

Meto was taken aback. 'Right, of course, up to the mine.'

'Do you think so? A secret connection between Gnaeus and Catilina might begin to explain a few things. The murder of Forfex, for example.'

'How could there be a link?'

'I don't know, and I'm too cold and wet and tired to think it through. But what if Catilina eluded his pursuers, not with the point of reaching the cave, but making his way to Gnaeus's house unseen?'

Meto shook his head. I thought that he rolled his eyes as well, but in the darkness I couldn't be sure.

He appeared to be correct, however, and my suspicions were unfounded, for on the road that led to Gnaeus's house there were no signs of footsteps in the mud. We turned back and headed up the path to the mine.

We heard the roar of the waterfall long before we came to it A glimpse of the cascade through the trees showed that the stream was greatly swollen. The stone steps leading upwards, sharp-edged and slick with rain, were like a treacherous test posed by an ill-humoured god. With the blanket strapped to my back, I had to take each step as slowly and cautiously as an old cripple.

Meto reached the top long before I did. I finally took the last step and came up behind him. When he looked back at me, for the first time that night I saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

The prospect was enough to make any man quail. The streambed, which had been almost dry when we had crossed it before, was a rushing torrent of water, thigh-deep. Only a few feet to our left, it reached the fells and poured over the precipice with a hollow roar.

Meto stared at the stream and bit his Hp.

I have always had an aversion to water. I am a poor swimmer. Once, down at Cumae, I had a nasty experience trying to negotiate my way into a sea cave. I would prefer a trial by fire to a trial by water any day. But on this night I had no choice.

For once, while Meto hung back, I stepped forward.

'Papa, be careful!'

His advice was well given. The stream pulled at my ankles. The stone bed, carved by rushing water, was smooth and sinuous, marked by deep pockets and abrupt ridges. I moved forward, feeling the way with my feet.

'Here, Meto, take my hand'

He stayed on the bank, looking at me dubiously.

'Here, we'll be stronger if we cross together.'