11

 

Armed men stood guard at the door of Cicero’s house and patrolled the roof. More men were stationed inside the vestibule. I felt as if I were entering a general’s camp.

The shutters had been closed in the dining room to keep out the cold. Pallid winter light seeped in from the garden, warmed by the glow of hanging lamps. Cicero was already settled on a dining couch with Marcus Caelius beside him. Tiro gestured for Eco and me to take places on the couch opposite, which was long enough for all three of us to share.

Caelius was looking smug about something, as usual, which irritated me, as usual. “Marcus Caelius, you’ve come up in the world since I last saw you.”

He lazily raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, you appear to be a free citizen now. When our paths last crossed in the Forum—in that shed behind the temple—I took you and Titus Annius Milo for runaway slaves.”

Cicero and Tiro frowned. Eco glanced at me uncertainly. Caelius’s face became a blank mask for a moment, then he burst out laughing. “Oh, Gordianus, I wish I’d thought of that one myself! ‘Caelius has come up in the world.’” He wagged his finger. “If one of my rival tribunes uses it against me, I shall know you’ve taken to writing speeches for the enemy.”

“Gordianus would never consider doing that, surely,” said Cicero, fixing his eyes on me. “Shall we plunge straight into the meal? I can hear your stomachs growling from here. Only simple fare, I’m afraid. The cook tells me it’s impossible to find provisions in the markets. But it’s best for a man to keep his diet simple, anyway.” Cicero had suffered from chronic dyspepsia for as long as I had known him.

The food was superb, nonetheless. A fish soup with dumplings was followed by bits of roasted chicken wrapped in pickled grape leaves with an aromatic cumin sauce. Cicero had learned to appreciate the finer pleasures which befitted a man of his stature.

He ate cautiously, nonetheless, scrutinizing each spoonful and slice before putting it into his mouth, as if he could tell by looking which morsel might set off his indigestion. “Speaking of coming up—or going down—in the world, Gordianus, it strikes me that accepting a ride in the litter of a certain lady these days would cause many people to think that the passenger had lowered himself considerably.”

“How could that be? A litter goes to and fro, Cicero, not up and down.”

Caelius laughed. “It all depends who’s in the litter with her.”

Cicero looked at Caelius shrewdly. “Not a prudent comment, my friend, considering your own history with the lady in question. Or the role you played in her—”

“Comeuppance!” said Caelius, almost choking on a bite of chicken to get the word out ahead of Cicero. I gathered it was a sort of game between them, punning at the expense of their enemies, particularly the Clodii.

“I assume you’re referring to a visitor I had earlier today,” I said.

“The lady who swept you away,” said Caelius.

“How is it that you know who my visitors are, Cicero? I’d hate to think that my house is being watched.”

Cicero put down his spoon. “Now really, Gordianus! We live on the same street. I have slaves and visitors coming and going all day. They all know the lady’s litter. Everyone does. She could hardly park the thing in front of your house without people noticing.” He picked up the spoon again and toyed with it. “But the curious thing is that you should have gone off with her. I don’t know where—you see, I don’t have anyone watching you, or else they’d have followed.”

“But you’d like to know?”

“Only if you care to tell me.”

“As a matter of fact, it wasn’t the lady in question who—well, she does have a name, doesn’t she, so why not use it? Yes, I left in Clodia’s litter, but it wasn’t Clodia who wanted me.”

“Pity,” said Caelius.

“Is it? I wouldn’t know.” The edge in my voice surprised me.

“Clodia was only acting as go-between. She took me to her sister-in-law’s house, if you must know.”

“I see.” Cicero didn’t seemed surprised. Had he sent a spy to follow the litter after all? “Would it betray a confidence to tell us what Fulvia wanted with you?”

“She wanted my help in a certain personal matter. Nothing unusual.”

“Oh, I seriously doubt that.”

“Really? I suppose you think she wanted my help in something to do with her husband’s death. But we all know the story behind that already, don’t we? Milo himself laid out the facts at Caelius’s contio for all Rome to hear: Clodius staged a vicious ambush, the tide turned against him, one of Milo’s slaves put an end to him. Ask Caelius. He was there. He heard the story just as Eco and I did, though Milo was cut off before he could quite finish,” Caelius returned my glance, unblinking and unamused. “No, Fulvia hardly said a word about Milo, if that’s what you’re thinking. Nor did she have much to say about Milo’s friend, Marc Antony.”

Cicero looked genuinely nonplused. “Antony? Milo’s friend? I doubt that the two of them even know each other.”

I looked at Caelius, who seemed as lost as Cicero—no telltale smirk, no twitch of secret amusement.

“Then I must be mistaken. Perhaps I mixed up the names. That happens more and more as I get older. You’re only a little younger than I am, Cicero. Don’t you find it’s a problem, keeping names straight? A man learns so many of them over a long lifetime. Where do all the names go? It’s like words on a tablet, you can only fit in so many, and then you have to write smaller and smaller until the letters become illegible and the scribbles all run together. Some people have a gift for names, I suppose, or even a slave especially trained for the task.”

Cicero nodded. “Tiro has always had a knack for keeping names straight. He’s saved me from making many a gaffe—all those small-town voters from the hinterland who take offense if you can’t remember their family tree all the way back to King Numa!” It was a politician’s joke. We all laughed, but Caelius practically brayed.

“But this business about Marc Antony . . .” said Cicero.

I shrugged. “As I said, he was hardly mentioned at all. You say he’s not a friend of Milo. Is he friend of yours, then, Cicero?”

He looked at me thoughtfully. “We’re not enemies, if that’s what you mean.”

It was my turn to look puzzled.

“There’s no ill will between Marc Antony and myself,” he said, “at least not on my part.”

“Come, Cicero,” said Caelius, rolling his eyes. “It’s obvious that Gordianus is looking for information about Antony. Why, I can’t imagine. But there’s no reason to be coy. Gordianus is your guest, sharing your food. I suggest we tell him whatever he wants to know. And then, perhaps at another time, he’ll return the favor and tell us something he knows.”

Cicero looked dubious for a moment, then opened his hands in a gesture of acquiescence. “What do you already know about Marc Antony?”

“Almost nothing. I know that he’s one of Caesar’s lieutenants, and I understand he’s back from Gaul to run for office.”

“A quaestorship,” said Caelius, “and likely to win a spot, if and when there’s a vote.”

“His politics?”

“He’s allied with Caesar, of course,’ said Cicero. “Other than that, his only program so far as I can discern is self-advancement.”

“He’s an original then, unique among Roman politicians,” I said. Neither Cicero nor Caelius responded to this joke. Tiro predictably frowned, taking offense on behalf of his former master. Eco kept a straight face but shook his head almost imperceptibly, wondering at his father’s impertinence.

“I understand he’s very popular with his troops,” I said. “So my son Meto tells me.”

“And why not? Antony has the common touch.” Cicero’s tone was not complimentary. “He’s of noble birth, but they say he drinks and carouses with the lowest soldiers from the barracks. He’s always been like that. He used to hang out with his mother’s household slaves and freedmen when he was growing up. Always the little boy who liked to get dirty. Always attracted to loud, vulgar pleasures. Well, he got a bad start.”

“Tell me.”

“One would have to go back to his grandfather, at least . . .” Of course, I thought; the career of any Roman of high birth could never be described beginning merely with his own birth. “The old fellow was quite a power back when I was growing up—one of my tutors in rhetoric, as a matter of fact, and one of the best. Magnificent speeches! Words that rumbled like thunder! But he would never publish them; he said that only a fool would do that, because it just gave your enemies a way to point out your inconsistencies.” Cicero, who had made a career of publishing and disseminating his speeches, laughed ruefully.

Caelius smiled. “Wasn’t there some scandal involving Antony’s grandfather and a Vestal Virgin?”

“Caelius, must you always have a scandal?”

“Yes! And if there’s not one, I’ll invent it!”

“Well, you happen to be right. There was a trial for despoiling a Vestal somewhere in the distant past, but he was acquitted of that and went on to a truly distinguished career. Ended up serving as consul, then censor, and was finally elected to the college of augurs for life. But his rise really began with his military service. He was one of the first to mount a campaign against the pirates in Cilicia. Did so well, he was awarded a triumphal procession in Rome. The Senate allowed him to decorate the Rostra with the beaks of the ships he had captured, and even voted to erect a statue of him.”

“A statue?” said Eco. “I don’t recall ever seeing it.”

“That’s because it was pulled down shortly after he was executed during the civil war. I remember seeing his head on a spike in the Forum; it gave me nightmares for months afterward. Quite a shock, seeing an old tutor in that condition. Even the canniest politician was liable to make a fatal misstep back in those days.”

“Rather like these days,” murmured Caelius.

Eco, I noticed, put down a piece of chicken he had been about to eat.

“Anyway,” Cicero continued, “Antony’s grandfather had an extraordinary career, even if it did end so ingloriously. Antony never knew him, of course; the old man was killed a few years before Antony was born.

“Now Antony’s father was another matter altogether. Good-looking, well liked, generous to his friends, but a terrible bungler. Like his father before him, he was sent to quell the pirates. Raised a massive war chest, gathered a formidable navy, then squandered it all in losing skirmishes from Spain to Crete. When he negotiated a humiliating peace with the pirates, that was the last straw. The Senate rejected the treaty in outrage. Antony’s father died in Crete, some say of shame. Antony was only about—what, Caelius? Eleven or twelve years old?”

Caelius nodded. “And we all know one outcome of his father’s failure. The Senate looked around for someone else to put an end to the pirate problem. Pompey got the commission and came down on the pirates like a tidal wave. His own tide has been rising ever since.”

“But you’re taking us astray,” said Cicero. “Gordianus doesn’t want to hear about Pompey. He wants to know about Marc Antony. Well, he’s no Pompey, but Caesar seems to think he’s competent. As you see, if Marc Antony has any military acumen, then it must have come from his grandfather. But there’s also a strong element of his father in him. Antony’s charming, affable, boisterous, and entirely too reckless. Of course, some of that may be due to the unfortunate influence of his stepfather.”

“His stepfather?” I said.

Cicero looked rueful. “Well, it’s hardly Antony’s fault that his mother made that disastrous second marriage and tied her fortunes to such a loser. I suppose Julia thought she was marrying up, since Lentulus had been a consul, was a patrician like herself—”

“Lentulus? You mean Antony’s stepfather was—”

“Yes, ‘Legs’ Lentulus,” said Cicero with loathing in his voice, “so called for pulling up his toga to bare his legs like a schoolboy in for a strapping when his fellow senators put him on trial for embezzling public money. A man so flagrantly corrupt that he was finally expelled from the Senate—and so persistent that he managed to worm his way back in again. Superstitious as well; some charlatan fortuneteller convinced him that he was destined to become dictator because of a few lines of doggerel in the Sibylline Books. That’s how Lentulus got involved with Catilina and his traitorous clique. We all know how that ended.”

Indeed we did. It had happened in the year that Cicero was consul. The so-called conspiracy of Catilina had been ruthlessly put down; under Cicero’s authority, Lentulus and a number of others had been executed without a formal trial. The Best People had lauded Cicero for his decisiveness in saving the Republic; many among the populists had condemned him as a murderous tyrant. A backlash had followed, culminating in the vengeful legislation masterminded by Clodius to send Cicero into exile. The Senate had eventually rescinded the exile; Cicero was a powerful player on the stage in Rome again; and Clodius was dead . . .

“It’s ten years since Catilina,” I said quietly.

“Yes, and for ten years Marc Antony has carried a grudge against me,” said Cicero. “He’s never come to terms with the hard fact that his stepfather had to die. Antony was only twenty at the time. Passionate young men can’t always be reached by reason. They can carry resentments for a long time.” Cicero sighed, whether from emotion or dyspepsia I couldn’t tell. “I’ve heard that he even claims that I refused to hand over the body to his mother after Lentulus was strangled, and Julia had to come begging to my wife to intercede. Nonsense! An obscene lie! I saw to it that the bodies of all the conspirators were given proper burial.” Cicero winced and pressed his hand to his belly. He surveyed what remained of the meal before him as if to identify the guilty dish which had set off his indigestion.

Antony’s grandfather, his father, his stepfather—they had all risen to glory and had all ended in ruin. The world is like a spinning disk, driving men and women to the edge and then hurling them this way and that into the void beyond its whirling rim. Most are never seen again, but some manage to grab hold of the edge and claw their way back to the center, not once but again and again. Cicero was one of those. So was Caelius.

“You’ve explained his lineage,” I said. “What about Antony himself?”

“He fell in with a bad crowd—Clodius and his gang of aristocratic young incorrigibles,” said Cicero. “The usual formula for dissipation: high living, radical politics, mad schemes for the future. And no money to finance any of it. Antony’s father left an estate so encumbered with debts that Antony refused his inheritance. Technically he started his career as a bankrupt. It was young Gaius Curio who covered his debts. He and Antony were like peas in a pod. Companions in debauchery. Inseparable. So close that their relationship gave rise to all sorts of . . . nasty rumors. Well, when Curio’s father got the bill for Antony’s debts, he went through the roof. Came seeking my advice. I told him to grit his teeth, hand over the silver, and forbid his son ever to see Antony again. The next time Antony came calling on Curio the watchmen turned him away. So what did Antony do? Scaled a wall and let himself down through a hole in the roof, directly into Curio’s bedroom, like a determined suitor!”

Cicero and Caelius shared a laugh, interrupted by another wince from Cicero as he gingerly clutched his belly. “Anyway, Antony solved his money problems when he married a woman named Fadia, the daughter of a rich freedman. A freedman! The scandal of marrying that far below one’s station would have ruined an aristocrat when I was young, but I suppose the incorrigibles in Antony’s circle applauded him for flouting convention and landing a big dowry. At least the marriage seems to have gotten Antony’s mind off Curio; I’m told that Antony fathered several children before Fadia died. Meanwhile, he spent some time in Greece studying oratory, put in some military service in Judaea and Syria, helped put down a revolt against King Ptolemy in Egypt, and eventually hitched himself to Caesar and headed for Gaul. Oh, and a couple of years ago he found time to get married again—this time to his cousin Antonia.

“And now Marc Antony has become one of Julius Caesar’s most trusted lieutenants. I suppose he’s good at his job if Caesar deems him worthy of grooming for office and sends him back to Rome to stand for quaestor.”

While the slaves brought water and wine to refill the cups and cleared away the dishes, I mulled over all that Cicero had told me. Sempronia said that Antony had chased after Clodius with a sword on the Field of Mars, trying to kill him. But according to Cicero, Antony had been a member of Clodius’s intimate circle.

“So Antony and Clodius were good friends,” I ventured.

“They were,” said Caelius, whose age and quicksilver alliances made him more privy to the intimate affairs of the radical generation than Cicero, “until their little misunderstanding over Fulvia.”

“Misunderstanding?”

“Apparently Antony misunderstood that Fulvia was Clodius’s wife and thought she was free for the taking.” Caelius flicked his tongue to catch a drop of wine at the corner of his mouth.

“You mean—”

“Oh, the affair probably meant nothing to Antony. Between his boyhood lover Curio, his two wives, and all the whores of his youth, what was a little fling with Fulvia? But Clodius was furious when he found out. He and Fulvia were still newlyweds, more or less. And Clodius always tended to fly off the handle at the least provocation, didn’t he? This was, oh, about six years ago. After that, there was a chill between Antony and Clodius. And then a whole sea between them, when Antony went off to Greece and Judaea. And then several mountain ranges, when Antony headed up to Gaul. He and Clodius never saw eye to eye again. They were never close enough.”

“Except on the Field of Mars?” I suggested.

Caelius threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, that! How could I forget? Cicero, you must remember my telling you about it. Last year, during one of the canceled elections, Antony and Clodius ran into each other, quite by accident, I imagine. They had words. Antony pulls out his sword—brave slayer of a thousand Gauls—and Clodius lets out a shriek and takes off like a scared rabbit. I suppose that made Antony the dog; what could he do but give chase? Of course, if he’d caught Clodius it might have been more the case of the dog and the ferret, with the mutt getting his nose bitten and howling all the way back to Gaul.”

“What started the fight? The old business about Fulvia? But you say that was six years ago . . .”

Caelius shrugged. “Who knows? Clodius and Antony are both famous for long memories and short tempers.”

“How did we ever get started on the subject of Marc Antony, anyway?” said Cicero.

“Fulvia must have been feeling nostalgic when Gordianus visited her this morning,” said Caelius. “Did she discuss all her former lovers with you?”

“No,” I said. “And neither did Clodia.” The grin froze on Caelius’s face. Cicero gave him an unsympathetic glance. I pulled myself upright on the couch. “An excellent meal, Marcus Cicero. Perfect for the middle of the day—not too light, not too heavy. I might say the same for the conversation. Now I think that my son and I must be on our way.”

 

“Why did you bring up Marc Antony?” asked Eco on the short walk back to my house.

“Antony was the reason Fulvia wanted to see me. He’s offered to help prosecute Milo. She’s not sure whether to trust him. She has a suspicion that he was involved somehow in Clodius’s death. Or it may be her mother who suspects Antony, and Fulvia wants to prove him innocent.”

“Did she tell you that she and Antony used to be lovers?”

“No. And just because Cicero and Caelius say so, that doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“But she did tell you about the chase across the Field of Mars last year?”

“Yes.”

Eco nodded. After a moment he laughed. “That was amazing, the way you handled them.”

“Who?”

“Cicero and Caelius.”

“Was it? I’m sure they thought it was they who were handling me. I probably told them more than I should have. And now, for a few scraps of information about Antony, they’ll act as if I owe them the world.”

“But the way you talk to them sometimes—practically insulting them to their faces!”

“Yes, well, it’s a strange thing, but people like Cicero and Caelius like to be insulted.”

“Do they?”

“That’s been my experience. I needle them, they needle me back. They know they have nothing to fear from me; nothing I might say can really hurt them. They enjoy my needling, the way one sometimes enjoys having a mosquito bite—the itch gives them something to scratch. Not like a bee sting; not like the bloody sores I’ve seen Cicero inflict on his enemies with a barbed word or two.”

Davus let us in. From the look on his face I knew that something was up. Before Davus could speak, a voice rumbled behind him.

“The master of the house, home at last!”

He was a big man, probably a gladiator or a soldier, despite the richly embroidered fabric of his gray tunic and dark green cape. His nose had been broken, maybe more than once, and each of his hands was the size of a baby’s head. His own head was as bald as a baby’s, and almost as ugly. He had the look of a man who could walk through a dangerous place without being bothered.

“A visitor,” said Davus, unnecessarily.

“So I see. And who sent you . . . citizen?” I said, noting the iron ring on his finger. He was probably someone’s freedman.

“The Great One,” he said bluntly. His voice was like gravel in a sluice.

“You mean—”

“That’s all I ever call him. It’s how he likes to be addressed.”

“I’m sure. And what does the Great One—”

“The honor of your presence, at your earliest convenience.”

“Now?”

“Unless you can make it earlier.”

“Davus—”

“Yes, Master?”

“Tell your mistress that I have yet another errand. This one will take me outside the city walls, I imagine.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

I looked to the man I’d decided to call Baby Face, who smiled and said, “I brought a whole troop of bodyguards with me.”

“Where are they?”

“I told them to wait across the street, down the Ramp a ways. I figured there was no need to bother your neighbors with a lot of traffic.”

“You’re more discreet than some of my callers today.”

“Thank you.”

“Eco, will you come with me?”

“Of course, Papa.” Eco had never met the Great One either. I noticed that my stomach was suddenly churning. I couldn’t blame Cicero’s cook.

So I set out for the third time that day, thinking again of the old Etruscan proverb. But this was not a downpour. This was a deluge.