Стивен Сейлор - The Throne of Caesar

“Ah, that explains it,” said Diana. “Though I would never have betrayed Fulvia’s trust, not even to—”

“Enough, daughter,” said Bethesda, who saw the look on my face. “What’s done is done. Fulvia’s friendship is genuine. If she excluded us, she was only doing what she deemed wisest.”

“Now we shall see if you can keep a secret from Fulvia,” I said. “She mustn’t know I’ve told you.”

“I suspect that Fulvia will never ask, and we will never tell,” said Bethesda.

“Nor shall I,” mumbled Davus, with a bit of flatbread stuffing his mouth.

“All the secrets one must live with these days!” I muttered. “The world will think that Cinna’s murder was an unfortunate case of mistaken identity and never know the truth of who killed him or why.”

“Would you have it otherwise, Papa? If people knew how he came to die, they’d also know what he did to Sappho. Fulvia at least allowed him to keep his reputation as a poet intact.”

“Even as she oversaw the burning of his final masterpiece!”

“He insisted on living the Zmyrna, ” said Bethesda. “Fulvia saw to it that he experienced the Orpheus and Pentheus as well.”

Her matter-of-fact tone made me shiver. “So the world will remember him for the Zmyrna only, and for dying a stupid, meaningless death,” I said, “and people will think Sappho was a dutiful daughter who killed herself from grief, not guilt.”

“I’m sure she felt both,” said Diana quietly.

“So you think Fulvia was right, about the incest?” asked Bethesda.

“I doubted it at first—I didn’t want to believe it—but Cinna’s own written words confirmed it. Fulvia acted righteously, or at least believes she did.”

“I’m not completely sure that avenging Sappho was her only motive,” said Diana.

“What else?” I asked.

“Cinna was quite wealthy, was he not? With Sappho dead, and no close relatives to make a claim, who’s likely to get his hands on the entire fortune now?”

I blinked. “Antony. But surely you don’t think Fulvia killed Cinna to get hold of his estate?”

“Fulvia has a great deal of experience at building a fortune through inheritance,” noted Diana. “And she’ll always need more and more money, if her ambitions for Antony are to be realized. Knowing that Antony would become Sappho’s guardian on Cinna’s death, and being well versed in the legal means by which a guardian might lay claim to an unmarried girl’s estate—well, I won’t say that’s the only or even the main reason she plotted against Cinna. But things have worked out to Fulvia’s advantage, haven’t they?”

I shook my head. “She couldn’t have foreseen Sappho’s suicide.”

“Even with Sappho alive, Antony and Fulvia would have controlled her inheritance, and could have scared off any suitors.”

“What a schemer you make her out to be! Next you’ll be telling me that Fulvia had a hand in Caesar’s assassination.”

Diana blinked and cocked her head. “That very odd idea came out of your mouth, Papa, not mine. But it would make sense. How else was Antony ever to fulfill the destiny Fulvia has in mind for him and become ruler of Rome? Caesar could only stand in his way.”

“Daughter, you’re cynical beyond your years. But back to Cinna: Fulvia justified the killing as a pious act. You suggest she was driven by self-interest.”

“Perhaps, Papa, like many powerful men in Rome, Fulvia is motivated by both virtues and vices, so mixed together it’s impossible to sort them out.”

I shivered, despite the warm sunlight.

“But Papa, today is your birthday!” said Diana, clapping her hands. “No more talk of death and deceit and other’s people’s drama. You must do something special.”

“Yes, husband, you must do something to celebrate,” said my wife. “Something out of the ordinary. ”

Davus nodded enthusiastically.

I took a deep breath. “Yes, I’ve been thinking about that. Today I believe I will do something special, something unusual—something I haven’t done before, anyway. And so I shall—after a long midday nap, which surely I deserve on my sixty-sixth birthday. Bring me a sleeping couch, and a coverlet, and Bast the cat.”

CODA

“Are you well rested, Papa?”

“Yes, Diana. That little nap cleared the cobwebs from my head.”

“ Little nap? You slept for hours. It’s almost sundown.”

“I blame the purring of Bast the cat. It puts me in a trance. Yes, I’ll probably be wide awake well into the night. We have plenty of oil for the lamps here in the library, don’t we?” I glanced around the little room that housed my small but precious collection of scrolls. Stacked on a high shelf was the newest addition, my copy of Cinna’s Zmyrna.

“We can make the room as bright as daylight if you wish.”

“You exaggerate. Even with twice as many lamps, this room would be no brighter than twilight. I find it difficult to read, let alone write, by such insufficient light. It’s these old eyes of mine.”

“If you want to read something, let me do it for you. I love to read aloud.”

“Yes, and you have a most pleasant voice. But it’s a bit of writing I intend to do.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I shall mark this birthday by embarking on a project that’s been in my mind for quite some time. Cinna encouraged the idea. Any time I shared with him some anecdote from my investigations for Cicero, or my dealings with Caesar, or my travels as a young man, he would say, ‘You really must write your memoirs someday.’ And I would roll my eyes and tell him that only politicians were vain enough to write down their life stories. And yet…”

“Yes, Papa?”

“Perhaps I do have a few stories that might entertain a handful of readers. I may have a worthwhile insight or two about the powerful men and women I’ve known. I might even dare to reveal a few dangerous secrets, especially now that so many of the people involved are dead and beyond caring.”

“That would be splendid, Papa.”

“Do you really think so? Of course, some of the most amazing things I’ve witnessed in my lifetime would be quite hard to capture in words.…”

“Such as?”

“I’m thinking of your mother. Stories about lustful girls turning into trees are all very well, but the metamorphosis of a headstrong Egyptian slave girl into a haughty Roman matron—to chart that transformation would surely tax the skills of even the finest poet.”

“Such stories are seldom told.”

“All the more reason for me to do so.”

“You might even tell the story of Cinna’s death. The true story.”

“I think not! For as long as either Fulvia or Antony is alive—or the witch Polyxo, for that matter—that shall be a tale too dangerous to tell.” I shivered. I felt that quicksilver sensation of “already seen” that I had recently discussed with Tiro, the mental phenomenon of re-experiencing an exact moment from the past. I was sure the Etruscans had a word for it, though I couldn’t remember it.…

“What are you thinking, Papa?”

“I was thinking of Cinna, and Sappho, and I was reminded of my very first investigation for Cicero, involving the murder of Sextus Roscius, and the secrets it revealed—some of those secrets strikingly similar to those surrounding Cinna. Uncannily so! But the case of Sextus Roscius revealed other secrets, too, not just about the crime, but about the whole rotten state of affairs in Rome under the dictator Sulla. The highest perpetrators were too powerful ever to be brought to justice.” I sighed. “And so it is with Fulvia. If Caesar were still alive, there might be some appeal to him, especially since Cinna was his friend. But with Caesar gone, Antony and Fulvia are far too powerful to cross. When it comes to meting out justice, not much has changed in my long lifetime. Well, I shall never conduct another such investigation. I am truly retired from all that.”