Стивен Сейлор: The Throne of Caesar

I cleared my throat. “I suspect that my daughter simply followed a line of reasoning—taking her cues from your reactions, which are as easy to read now as when you were a youth. Add to her capacity for deduction a certain degree of intuition—inherited from her mother—and you begin to see how Diana was able, essentially, to read your mind.”

Tiro frowned. “Even so—I never said a word about … any sort of … conspiracy.”

“You never had to. We had already established that your visit had something to do with the Dictator. Now what could that be, and why come to me? To be sure, I have a link to Caesar—my son Meto is quite close to him. Over the years, he’s helped the Dictator write his memoirs. Meto will continue to do so when he leaves Rome before the end of the month, when the Dictator heads off to conquer Parthia. Could it be that Cicero is so eager to know when the next volume of Caesar’s memoirs will be published that he would call me to his house to ask me? I think not. And as for anything to do with Caesar or the Parthian campaign that isn’t already common knowledge—well, Cicero knows that I would never let slip anything Meto might have told me in confidence.

“So, what is this concern of Cicero’s, having to do with Caesar, and why summon me? Most likely it’s something to do with crime or conspiracy—those are the areas where my skills and his interests have intersected in the past. But what crime? What conspiracy?

“If this were ten years ago, or even five, I’d presume that Cicero was mounting a defense for an upcoming trial. But there are no trials any longer, not in the old-fashioned sense. All courts are under the jurisdiction of the Dictator. And everyone knows that poor Cicero’s voice has grown rusty, with no speeches to give in the Senate or orations to deliver at a trial. They say he spends his time reading obscure old texts and writing yet more texts for lovers of abstruse lore to pore over in the distant future. What is Cicero working on now, Tiro? ”

“He’s very nearly finished with his treatise on divination. It’s going to be the standard text for any—”

“Ha! No wonder you’re up on your Etruscan vocabulary, if you’ve been helping Cicero translate texts on haruspicy. Well, I doubt that Cicero wants to pick my brain about such matters, since I know no more about divination than the average Roman.”

“Actually, Papa, I suspect you know more than you realize,” said Diana.

“Kind words, daughter. Nevertheless, I think we’re back to crime or conspiracy. Who has not heard the rumors flitting about Rome the last couple of months—rumors that someone intends to kill Caesar? But how credible are such rumors? Certainly, after so many years of bloodshed and civil war, there must be quite a few citizens who would like to see our dictator dead. But who are they? How many are out there? Is it only a disgruntled senator or two, or is Rome full of such men? Do they have the will and the capacity to act? Do they have time to act? Because once Caesar leaves for Parthia, each day will take him farther and farther from Rome—a general on campaign, surrounded by handpicked officers every minute of the day, virtually impossible to kill.

“Is there or is there not a plot afoot to kill Caesar? That’s a question Cicero must have on his mind these days. It’s on my mind as well. After so much suffering in the past few years, we all wonder what the future might hold—and no Roman can imagine the future now without taking Caesar into account, one way or another. The death of Caesar—well, it’s almost unthinkable. Or … is it?”

Tiro made no answer. He was looking across the pond at Bast, staring at the unmoving cat that crouched and stared at a twittering bird on a roof tile.

“Or,” I continued, struck by a terrible thought, “I suppose it could be that Cicero is part of such a conspiracy—and he thinks he might be able to recruit me.”

“Certainly not!” protested Tiro. He gave such a start that the bird flitted off and the cat bolted away, its claws scraping the paving stones. “Cicero is most certainly not involved in any plot to harm the Dict ator,” he said, so distinctly it was almost as if he feared some spy might be listening to us.

“But he nevertheless thinks that I might know something in this regard,” I said. “I suppose that makes sense. My son Meto might have let slip some detail arising from Caesar’s own network of informers. But I would never share such privileged intelligence with Cicero, or with anyone else.”

Tiro sighed. “Even so, Gordianus, Cicero very much wants to talk to you. Won’t you come—as a favor to me, if not to him?”

Diana took a step closer. “Perhaps we should go, Papa.”

“We? Oh, no, you won’t be coming along, dear daughter. Though I suppose I should take that hulking husband of yours for a bodyguard. Would you fetch Davus for me, Diana?”

“But Papa—”

As if to illustrate where her priorities should lie, her two children suddenly joined us. Aulus hurtled straight toward me. Little Beth toddled after him. I gathered my arms around them and sat one on each knee, groaning at the weight. Beth was still tiny, but at the age of seven Aulus was getting bigger every day. Perhaps he would grow to be as big as his father.

The children’s nursemaid appeared, a look of chagrin on her wrinkled face. “Apologies, Mistress! Apologies, Master! I don’t seem to have enough hands to hold the two of them when they’re determined to run to their grandfather.”

“It’s no bother, Makris,” I said. “You would need as many arms as the hydra has heads to hold these two in check.”

I glanced at Tiro and saw a wistful look on his face. Whatever else the Fates had given him—a good master, then freedom, then a considerable degree of prestige and the respect of his fellow citizens—they had not given him progeny.

“But Papa, surely we should offer refreshments to your guest,” said Diana.

“Morning refreshment will be supplied, but by Cicero, not by me. Quit stalling, daughter, and fetch Davus. ”

“It’s such a short walk,” said Tiro, standing up. “My own bodyguard is waiting for us outside. Later, he can walk you home—”

“Then how would Davus report to Diana all he sees and hears? Yes, daughter, I know you dream that the two of you should someday work as a team—you the brains, him the brawn.”

Diana made a grunt of exasperation, then went to find her husband.

“I trust that Cicero will supply refreshment?” I said to Tiro as I gently ejected the children from my knees, one at a time. “I have cause for celebration.”

“What’s that?”

“My hangover is cured!”

III

When first we met, I had lived on the Esquiline Hill and Cicero near the Capitoline Hill. To visit him I had to traverse both the Subura (Rome’s roughest neighborhood) and much of the Forum (the heart of Rome, with its splendid temples and magnificent public spaces). Since then we had both moved up in the world. My house and his were both on the Palatine Hill, Rome’s most exclusive area. We were practically neighbors.

At one point during the short walk, I had a clear view of the top of the Capitoline Hill to the north, crowned by the Temple of Jupiter, one of the most imposing structures on earth. In a prominent place before the temple stood a bronze statue. Though the features were indistinct at such a great distance, I knew the statue well, having seen it unveiled on the day of Caesar’s Gallic Triumph. Standing atop a map of the world, striking a victorious pose and looking down on the Roman Forum below, stood not a mere mortal but a demigod—so declared the inscription on the pedestal, which listed Caesar’s many titles, ending with the declaration, DESCENDANT OF VENUS, DEMIGOD . The statue was visible from virtually every part of the city.