Стивен Сейлор - The Throne of Caesar

“Now that is surely a lie. To eat and drink I can believe, since that’s what I’m here to do, but not the one without the other. No one comes to the Salacious Tavern just to choke on stale bread or nibble some moldy cheese.”

“I hope we can do better than that.” He clapped his hands to attract the tavernkeeper’s attention. “Wine for all of us, my good man, including this big fellow.” Cinna nodded to Davus, with whom he had become acquainted on previous visits. “And bring whatever you have to eat that won’t make us ill.”

The tavernkeeper looked aggrieved. “We happen to have a bit of grilled fish caught in the Tiber this morning, served with a fine garum and olives on the side, and flatbread hot from the oven.”

“Sounds delicious!” declared Cinna. Davus’s stomach growled.

“What brings you out on this lovely day, Finder? Making the rounds of your soon to be colleagues?”

“Something like that.”

“You might as well ask him, too,” said Davus.

“Ask me what?” Cinna raised an eyebrow.

I was puzzled for a moment, then realized what Davus meant. “I need to acquire a new toga, of course, and on short notice, so I’m wondering—”

“Wonder no more. The fellow for you is Mamercus, located— ”

“On the Street of the Ironmongers,” we all three said together.

Cinna smiled. “I see I’m not the first to recommend him.”

“I thought senators were supposed to disagree about things. How else can they hold a debate?”

“You’re behind the times, Gordianus. ‘Consensus’ is our watchword now. We have consensus on just about everything, thanks to the Dictator.”

“Even on the question of a tailor, apparently.”

“Well, Mamercus is the best.”

“Just as you are the best poet in Rome,” I said, reaching for the cup of wine offered by the tavernkeeper. When we all three held cups, Cinna raised his aloft. “Here’s to always demanding the best,” he said.

“And never settle for less,” I added, and at once made a liar of myself by emptying a cup of rather mediocre wine.

“When he was young, my father-in-law was a friend of the best poet in the world,” said Davus, endeavoring to say something useful. Cinna stiffened. Davus didn’t understand how sensitive poets can be when ranked against other poets, even the dead.

I smiled. “My old tutor, Antipater of Sidon, certainly thought he was the best poet in the world, and never hesitated to call himself that, though I’m not sure how many others thought the same. Besides, that was a long, long time ago. Antipater has been gone for … well, for almost a lifetime, it seems.”

“Ah, yes, you’ve mentioned this connection to Antipater of Sidon before,” said Cinna. “It was he who took you to see the Seven Wonders of the World.”

“We traveled together when I was young, yes.”

“He was a great poet, there’s no disputing that, though his work seems rather quaint nowadays—all those poems about Myron’s statue of a cow! I happened to pass by Antipater’s gravestone a few days ago and thought of you, so I paused to take a good look at it. Quite extraordinary. And talk about old-fashioned! The images are a sort of rebus, meant for the viewer to decipher. A rooster, a palm branch—I confess I couldn’t make it out. ”

“Yes, and the gravestone would be even more extraordinary if Antipater were actually buried there,” I said.

“What?”

“By Hercules, you’ve done it again, Cinna!” I muttered. “I’ve let slip a secret, and for no reason other than your presence.”

“But you must explain. If the tomb of Antipater of Sidon is empty—why, that’s just the sort of thing from which one might fashion a poem.”

“Perhaps. But the story is too complicated for me to recount it now.”

“Then you’ll recount the story in your memoirs, I hope. Along with everything else you can remember about Antipater. Aren’t you thinking of writing an account of your life and travels?”

“By Hercules, how drunk was I when I told you that?”

“Very. Which does not negate the idea. In wine, truth. Or tall tales, at least. The readers won’t much care which you tell, or if you mix them up together.”

I shook my head. “No one writes memoirs these days except politicians hoping to sway voters, or generals trying to secure a place in history.”

“Oh, I’d much rather read the life story of Gordianus the Finder than that of Sulla, or even Caesar’s war diaries.”

I sipped more wine. “To be sure, I have met a great many interesting people. And I’ve witnessed great events. And the stories I have to tell might differ considerably from the official versions.”

“Exactly! Your memoirs would offer a different version of things. As you say, the memoirs of great men are mostly propaganda, entirely self-serving.”

“I’m not sure that even the most honest man could give a true reckoning of his time. My daughter said to me only last night that the perspective of every man is different and yet the same, with the universe circling himself at the center. Two men never share exactly the same truth. And the gods are just as self-centered, if we’re to believe Homer.”

“Antipater, Homer—for a man as ill read as yourself, you do like to drop names. You’ll be talking about the good old days with Catullus next.”

“Catullus! You know, I never set foot in this place without thinking of him. Poor put-upon poet, lifting a cup here at the Salacious Tavern and longing for his Lesbia.” I laughed. “For a while, his poems gave this place quite an infamous reputation. You could hardly get in the door. Then the excitement died down. But you must have known Catullus much better than I did.”

“We were close, for a time.” Cinna nodded thoughtfully. “Now there was a great poet. And a great judge of poetry, as well. Do you know the compliment he paid me? Or rather, the compliment he gave to my Zmyrna ?”

“No, but I suspect I soon will.”

Cinna cleared his throat. “According to Catullus, my Zmyrna ‘will travel as far as the deep-channeled streams of Satrachus. The centuries will grow gray in long perusal of the Zmyrna. ’ A poem for all the world, and a poem for the ages—so said Catullus.”

The fish arrived, served on skewers. There was a bowl of garum for dipping, and another bowl with olives, and a generous piece of flatbread that we tore into three portions.

“Whatever happened to Catullus?” said Cinna. “The last I heard, he was called to Verona on some family business, and he never came back. Then I heard he was dead, but no one seemed to know how or why. Then came the civil war, with death and confusion everywhere, and people forgot about Catullus. Not about his poems. Every literate person knows those by heart. But the man himself, and whatever became of him, is a mystery.” He gave me an arch glance. “Now there’s a puzzle you might investigate, Finder, something to draw you out of retirement. The mystery of the vanished poet!”

“I decline the case. I’m much too busy.”

“Doing what?”

“For a start, I need to see that tailor about a toga. But before I do that…” I thought of Caesar’s list of names.

“Yes?”

“I’m trying to think of an excuse to call on Marc Antony.”

“Don’t you know him?”

“Our paths have crossed. And my wife seems to be on surprisingly familiar terms with his wife. But Antony has become such an important fellow. I’m not sure I can trouble a consul with my little question about a tailor.”

“Why not? I shall take you there myself.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“Without an appointment?”