Стивен Сейлор - The Throne of Caesar

He sighed. “Even you, Gordianus, must know how Orpheus died.”

“I think so.”

“And how Pentheus the king of Thebes died, after offending Bacchus?”

“I know the play by Euripides.”

“Name-dropping Euripides—you, who pretend to be such an ignoramus! But of course, they’re both murder stories, aren’t they—the horrible end of Orpheus and the even more horrible end of Pentheus? And murders, at least once upon a time, provided your livelihood.”

“But no longer. I’m retired now. No more murders for me.”

“Except in verse, perhaps? Yes, Gordianus, now is the time of your life to tend a garden, take long walks, and acquire a taste for poetry. ”

“Yet here I sit, drinking wine in a tavern while the sun’s still up, listening to a poet complain. Go ahead. Share a verse or two of this new masterwork.”

“But I can’t. I never recite my work before it’s published, while it’s in progress—still alive and breathing.”

“So no one has yet heard it or read it?”

“Actually, the scroll—the only one in existence, written in my own hand—is now in the possession of its first reader. I tremble, awaiting his judgment.”

“Then the new poem is finished. And you are here to celebrate. No wonder Falernian,” I said, and took a sip of the most famous of Italian wines.

“To celebrate? Not exactly. I’m here in this godsforsaken place trying to forget that he might be reading my verses at this very moment. Is he marveling at my masterwork—or is he shaking his head and grumbling under his breath, wondering how I could have wasted ten years on such drivel?”

“Who is this lucky reader whose opinion you esteem so highly?”

“Just … a man who owes me a favor. Or two. Otherwise he’d never have found time.”

“A busy fellow, then?”

“No one in Rome is busier.”

“Some high magistrate? A politician—and yet you trust his judgment about your verses. Whom could that be?”

“I thought you were retired from this business of teasing out secrets, Gordianus.”

“Old habits die hard.”

“But you’ll never guess. I shall dedicate the poem to him—provided he likes it—since he was instrumental in getting me to finally finish the poem.”

“How so?”

“In a matter of days he’s to leave Rome, and will likely be gone for months if not years. For him to read the poem and give me his thoughts, I had to finish the blasted thing. Only yesterday I wrote the very last line—in my own hand, mind you, as I never trust any scribe to properly take my dictation.”

“Someone who’s leaving Rome with Caesar, then? Am I getting closer?”

“Oh, no, Gordianus, you shall draw me out no further! Let’s change the subject. Just what are you doing in this place at such an hour? I can come anytime I wish, being a widower with no wife to nag me, but your lovely Egyptian wife keeps a rather tight leash on you.”

“You’ve never even met Bethesda.”

“Yet the picture you’ve drawn of her is quite vivid in my head. She won’t like it that you’re here, drinking wine at my expense, instead of sitting quietly at home in your garden while she pesters the kitchen slaves to fix a dinner worthy of their master. I think you have a reason for being here. Not a tragedy, as you don’t look sad. You’re the one who’s come here to celebrate.”

I grunted and drank more wine. What would Cinna make of my elevation to the Senate? I was not ready to share the news. But just as Gordianus the Finder was said to have an uncanny power to draw secrets from others, so Cinna the poet was somehow able to draw out my secrets.

“That’s why you’re wearing your toga. Something big has happened. But what? It’s no use resisting me, Gordianus. ‘As a Punic Psyllus by touch charms a sleep-inducing asp—’”

I gave a start. “What’s that? That verse you just quoted?”

“That, Gordianus, was a line from my Zmyrna. You’ve practically been begging me to recite a bit of it ever since you arrived—”

“But I heard it earlier today, when I was at…” I stopped myself, for if I revealed I had been to visit Caesar, Cinna might somehow deduce the reason. In our friendly guessing game I would avoid giving him any clues if I could.

I had a sudden realization and drew a sharp breath. “ That’s who’s rea ding your new poem! That’s why he quoted you earlier today, because you and your work are on his mind.…”

Now it was Cinna who drew a sharp breath. “Then the man you were visiting was…”

“And the man reading your poem is…”

“Caesar!” we said in unison.

“I should have known,” I said. “Who but the world’s greatest man could pressure the world’s greatest poet to finish his new masterpiece?”

Cinna laughed. “Your flattery will not deflect me, Gordianus. Yes, it’s in Caesar’s hands that my new poem resides, awaiting his judgment. And it’s from Caesar that you’ve just come, dressed up in your toga. The Dictator must have summoned you for a private interview. Not to hire you; you’re adamant that you’ve retired. For some personal reason, then. But what? Let me think.…”

I was busy with my own thoughts. “ You’re the one who’s been talking about me to Caesar. It’s from you that he knows I frequent this establishment. Confess, Cinna! You’ve been gossiping about me.”

“Only to Caesar. To no one else. No one else is much interested in you these days, Gordianus. Yes, when I delivered the new poem to Caesar, and we talked of this and that, for some reason he mentioned your name, and I did happen to say that occasionally I see you here and share a cup of wine with you. I thought nothing of it at the time—the poem was the only thing on my mind—but now I wonder why your name came up at all, unless Caesar had some very specific reason for inquiring about you. When I mentioned seeing you here at the Salacious Tavern, he asked me if you had become a drunkard, and I assured him you hadn’t. He’s had enough of drunkards—all the trouble he had with Antony, when Antony was carousing every night with that actress. I promise, I gave a sterling account of your character—that’s what he seemed to be interested in, your good character. But why should Caesar care? Unless…”

By the look on his face, I knew that Cinna was drawing close to the truth. Was this how my own face looked when on the verge of a realiz ation? For an instant I seemed to glimpse myself in Cinna’s handsome face and sparkling gray eyes.

He put down his cup, laughed and slapped both thighs. “By Jupiter, Neptune, and Pluto! It can’t be true! But it is. The Dictator has gone and made you a senator, hasn’t he?”

I shook my head in wonder and drank more wine. From this man I had no secrets.

X

“Will marvels never cease? Since Caesar became dictator, it’s as if the world’s been turned upside down. Anything can happen. Anything!” Cinna stared at me for a long moment, then snapped his fingers for more wine.

“But … how did you guess?” I asked.

“There’s a typical pattern of events. First, Caesar takes it into his head to make some fellow a senator or a magistrate. Next, Caesar makes a few discreet inquiries. If no alarming secrets come to light, Caesar invites the candidate for a private chat and springs the good news, impressing the delighted new senator with his boundless largesse. It was the same with me, when Caesar put me forward for tribune. I could hardly believe my good fortune. But your good fortune is even harder to credit.” He furrowed his brow. “Almost impossible!”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious, Cinna.”

“As serious as I ever am.”