Стивен Сейлор - The Throne of Caesar

“Which would make Caesar king of Egypt!”

Though I had lowered my voice to a hoarse whisper, Cinna winced and raised a finger to his lips. “Not so loud, Gordianus.”

I shook my head. “Cicero will be apoplectic.”

“He may not be in attendance. Too busy dictating his deathless thoughts to Tiro.”

“If not Cicero, then surely someone will speak against the idea.”

“I don’t think you understand how business is conducted in the Senate these days, Gordianus. Debate is severely restricted, especially in the case of emergency legislation, the category into which this bill falls.”

“Caesar might wish to bed some barbarian princess, and that qualifies as an emergency?”

Cinna smiled. “The urgency is dictated by the Dictator’s impending departure. It’s a piece of business that must be tended to before he leaves, which means on the Ides, and quickly, as there will be other equally pressing matters on the agenda.”

“You mean Caesar’s put this off until the last moment, so that he can get it done in a rush, before there’s time for people to react.”

“If you must put it so bluntly.”

“The Senate may say yes, but what about the People’s Assembly? As a tribune, isn’t that where you should be introducing this legislation?”

“In due course, I’ll put the exemption before the people directly. Unfortunately, that will have to wait until after Caesar departs. But having already been approved by the Senate, the bill will have no trouble being similarly approved by the people. You’ve never heard me orate, have you? Just as you’ve never read my poetry! I have a way with words, Gordianus. I can be as persuasive as Cicero, as eloquent as Scipio, as impassioned as the Gracchi brothers.”

“Are you sure you want to take the blame for introducing such a measure?”

“Blame? There may be some opposition at the start, and some lingering resentment from old-fashioned republicans like Brutus or Cicero. But the benefits I reap will be much greater.”

“Has Caesar promised you some extravagant reward?”

“Of course he has, but I’m talking about my reputation. Think, Gordianus! When Caesar finally comes back to Rome—the greatest conqueror since Alexander, a king many times over, with wives residing in countless foreign capitals, showering the people with untold riches pouring into Rome, handing out lucrative foreign postings to all his favorite senators—no one will care how many wives he’s taken or how many princes he’s produced, as long as no one here in Rome ever has to address him as king. There will be triumphal processions and games and feasts and rejoicing for months. And for having introduced the legislation that made it all possible, Gaius Helvius Cinna will be hailed as a genius, not just of poetry but also of politics. Not many men can claim such a double distinction. Perhaps none, come to think of it, when you consider those dreadful verses produced by Cicero. Even Caesar stumbled when it came to writing poetry—”

“By Hercules, Cinna, you’ve just delivered the only news shocking enough to make me forget my own shocking news, and now you’re rambling on about poetry again.”

“Because in the end it all comes back to poetry, as you would know if you weren’t such an ill-read dullard. Politics comes and go. Poetry endures forever.”

I put down my cup. “On that note, I’ll take my leave.”

“No, stay! Can I tempt you with more Falernian?”

“My head is spinning already. Or is it the room?” I blinked.

He smiled. “So, we’ve each managed to startle the other with a bit of good news. And where else but the Salacious Tavern?” He spread his arms and scanned the room. The gamblers had gone. Two of the whores were back, chatting to each other and comparing their fingernails. The tavernkeeper was carrying a flaming taper from lamp to lamp. Beyond the shutters night had fallen, suddenly, as happens in Martius.

“But remember, Gordianus, you promised to keep my news a secret.”

I nodded. Whom would I be tempted to tell? Meto probably knew already. My mind-reading wife and daughter would be harder to keep in the dark, but I would do my best.

I stood.

“Before you go, Gordianus, there’s one last thing.”

“Yes?”

Cinna flashed a crooked smile. “It’s so trivial, I almost forgot. Probably I shouldn’t bother to mention it. But—as long as you’re here…”

XI

Cinna dipped a fingertip into his cup of wine and on the wooden tabletop he traced what looked like a Greek letter. He added letters, until a word appeared:

προσοχή

“You know Greek?” he asked.

“Enough.” I sat down. “That’s the Greek word for ‘beware.’”

“Yes. Someone scratched those letters in the sand in front of my doorstep.”

“When did this happen?”

“A few days ago.”

“Is it still there?”

“Certainly not! I erased it with my foot immediately. I didn’t want it to be seen by everyone passing by, and certainly not by any visitor to my house.”

“Which way did the letters face? I mean, was it written so it was right side up as you stepped out of the house, or as you stepped in?”

“The first. ”

“So it was addressed to someone in the house, not to someone coming to see you.”

“So it would seem.”

“Curious that it was written in Greek, not Latin.”

“Curious that it was there at all!”

“Were you alarmed by this message?”

Cinna shrugged. “It’s not a pleasant word to see as you leave your house.”

“I should think not. Do you have any idea who wrote it, or why?”

“Not a clue.”

“Have you received any other messages of this sort?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“A pity you scratched it out. The way any given person makes Greek letters can be quite distinctive.”

Cinna shook his head. “I didn’t recognize the handwriting, though I admit I didn’t scrutinize it very carefully, or for very long. My impulse was to erase it at once, before my daughter could see it, though I fear she may have. Sappho is a very sensitive girl.”

“Sappho?” Though he mentioned her occasionally, this was the very first time I had heard him call her by name. “Is Helvia not pretty enough?” That would be the only name assigned her by law.

“Why shouldn’t I bestow on my beloved only child the name of my favorite poet? My favorite in Greek, anyway. Her favorite as well. She knows every line of Sappho by heart. She’s even tried to live up to her namesake.”

“You daughter writes poetry?”

“A bit. Nothing special. To be honest, she’s not very good. Still, better than Cicero.”

“For what that’s worth.” We both laughed. “Do you think this message might have been intended for her?”

Cinna furrowed his brow. “That seems doubtful. Sappho’s led a very sheltered life. She knows hardly anyone outside the household. I suppose I’ve been even more protective than most fathers, having lost my wife at a very young age.” He shook his head. “Sappho is such a mild creature, as meek as a sparrow. I can’t imagine that anyone would want to harm her.”

“Then the warning was for you?”

Cinna shrugged.

“Are you worried, or not?”

“Should I be?”

“Your recent actions as a tribune on behalf of Caesar, contriving a way to expel those two other tribunes who disrespected him—I fear that you deeply offended some of your fellow citizens.”

“Granted.”

“And this scheme you’re about to launch on Caesar’s behalf, this permission to marry and propagate as he wishes—that, too, might cause a few people to get angry at you. Very angry.”

“As I’ve told you, that’s a secret.”