David Drake - Balefires

His companions bobbed and muttered approval.

Vettius took a bi-fold notebook of waxed boards from the wallet in the bosom of his toga, but he didn't bother to open the document before he said, "Menelaus comes from Caesarea in Cappadocia where his father was one of the city councilors."

Like Dama's father.

"Was schooled in Gaza, then Athens. Returned home and taught there for most of his life. Moved to Rome about five years ago. Gives lessons in oratory and philosophy-"

"Epicurean philosophy," the subject of the discussion broke in, before Dama could shush him.

"Epicurean philosophy," Vettius continued, giving Dama-rather than Menelaus-a grin that was not entirely friendly. "In the Forum of Trajan; to about a dozen pupils at any one time. Doesn't get along particularly well with the other teachers who've set up in the same area. For the past three months, he's been attacking one Pyrrhus the Prophet in his lectures, but the two haven't met face to face."

Dama was ready this time. His finger tapped Menelaus's shoulder firmly, even as the older man opened his mouth to violently-and needlessly-state his opinion of Pyrrhus.

"Well, weknow he's a philosopher!" Caelius said. "What about his personal life?"

"He doesn't have much personal life," Vettius said. He betrayed his annoyance with a thinning of tone so slight that only Dama, of those in the office, heard and understood it. "When he's a little ahead, he buys used books. When he's behind-"

Menelaus winced and examined the floor.

"-which is usually, and now, he pawns them. Stays out of wineshops. Every few months or so he visits a whore named Drome who works the alleys behind the Beef Market.

"These aren't," Vettius added dryly, "expensive transactions."

Dama looked at the philosopher in amazement. Menelaus met his gaze sidelong and muttered, "Ah, Dama, I-thought that when I grew older, some impediments to a calm mind would cease to intrude on my life. But I'm not as old as that yet. I'm ashamed to admit."

Macer opened his mouth as if about to say something. Lucius Vettius turned toward the man and-tapped his notebook, Dama thought, with the index finger of his left hand.

Dama thought the soldier's gesture might be only an idle tic; but Macer understood something by it. The councilor's eyes bulged, and his mouth shut with an audible clop.

"Last year," Vettius continued calmly, "Menelaus moved out of his garret apartment at night, stiffing his landlord for the eight-days' rent."

"Sir!" the philosopher blurted in outrage despite Dama's restraining hand. "When I moved there in the spring, I was told the roof tiles would be replaced in a few days. Nothing had been done by winter-and my books were drenched by the first heavy rains!"

"The pair of Moors sharing the room now-" said Vettius.

"If you want to believe-" Vulco began.

"-say the landlord told them when they moved in that the roof tiles would be replaced in a few days," Vettius continued, slicing across the interruption like a sword cutting rope. "That was three months ago."

He turned to the philosopher and said coldly, "Do you have anything to add tothat, Faustus Menelaus?"

Menelaus blinked.

Dama bowed low to the soldier and said, "My companion and I beg your pardon, sir. He did not realize that the life of an exceptionally decent and honorable man might contain, on close examination… incidents which look regrettable out of context."

"Well, still…" Rutilianus said, frowning as he shifted on his couch. "What do you fellows think?"

All four of his civilian companions opened their mouths to speak. Macer was fractionally ahead of the others, blurting, "Well, Severiana certainly won't be pleased if an opponent of Pyrrhus the Prophet enters your household!"

"Didn't I tell you to leave my wife out of this?" Rutilianus snarled.

Macer quailed as though he'd been slapped. The other civilians froze, unwilling to offer what might not be the words the aroused Prefect wanted to hear.

Vettius looked at them with cool amusement, then back to Rutilianus. "If I may speak, sir?" he said.

"Of course, of course, Lucius," Rutilianus said, wiping his forehead with a napkin. "What do you think I should do?"

Dama squeezed Menelaus's shoulder very firmly, lest the old philosopher interrupt again-which Dama was quite sure would mean disaster. The soldier wasn't the sort of man whose warnings, voiced or implied, were to be ignored without cost.

"I can't speak to the fellow's philosophy," Vettius said.

He paused a half-beat, to see if Menelaus would break in on him; and smiled when the philosopher held his peace. "But for his life-Citizen Dama stated the situation correctly. The learned Menelaus is an exceptionally decent and honorable man, fit to enter your household, sir-"

Vulco started to say something. Before the words came out, the soldier had turned and added, in a voice utterly without emotion, "-or your council. From a moral standpoint."

Vulco blanched into silence.

Dama expressionlessly watched the-almost-exchange. This Vettius could go far in the imperial bureaucracy, with his ability to gather information and his ruthless willingness to use what he had. But the way the soldier moved, his timing-thrusting before his target was expecting it, ending a controversy before it became two-sided-those were a swordsman's virtues, not a bureaucrat's.

Dama's right palm tingled, remembering the feel of a swordhilt. In five years, he'd turned his father's modest legacy into real wealth by a willingness to go where the profits were as high as the risks. He knew swordsmen, knew killers…

"Even with the…?" the Prefect was saying. His eyes looked inward for a moment. "But yes, I can see that anyone's life examined closely might look-"

Rutilianus broke off abruptly as if in fear that his musings were about to enter territory he didn't care to explore.

"Well, anyway, Menelaus," he resumed, "I think we'll give you-"

"Gaius, dearie," called a silk-clad youth past the scowling nomenclator, "there's somebody here you justhave to see."

Rutilianus looked up with a frown that softened when he saw the youth-the boy, really-who was speaking. "I'm busy, now, Ganymede. Can't it wait…?"

"Not an eentsy minute," Ganymede said firmly, lifting his pert nose so that he looked down at the Prefect past chubby cheeks.

"Oh, send him in, then," Rutilianus agreed with a sigh.

The nomenclator, his voice pitched a half-step up with scandal and outrage, announced, "The honorable Gnaeus Aelius Acer…"he paused "… emissary of Pyrrhus the Prophet."

"Thatcharlatan!" Menelaus snapped.

"It ill behooves a pagan to criticize a Christian, you!" Macer retorted.

"Pyrrhus is no Christian!" said Menelaus. "That's as much a sham as his claim to know the future and-"

Dama laid a finger across his friend's lips.

A young man whose dress and bearing marked his good family was being ushered in by the nomenclator.

Rutilianus glanced from the newcomer to Menelaus and remarked in a distant tone, "A word of advice, good philosopher: my wife believes Pyrrhus to be a Christian. A belief in which I choose to concur."

He turned to the newcomer and said, "Greetings, Gnaeus Acer. It's been too long since you or your father have graced us with your company."

Instead of responding with a moment of small talk, Acer said, "Pyrrhus to Gaius Rutilianus, greetings. There is-"

There was a glaze over the young man's eyes and his voice seemed leaden. He did not look at the Prefect as his tongue broke into singsong to continue:

"-one before you

"With whose beard he cloaks for boys his lust.

"Cast him from you hastily

"And spurn him in the dust."

Pyrrhus's messenger fell silent. "I think there's a mistake-" Dama began while his mind raced, searching for a diplomatic way to deny the absurd accusation.