Night & Demons (17 page)

“—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.

Menelaus was neither interested in nor capable of diplomacy. “That’s doggerel,” he said, speaking directly to the Prefect. “And it’s twaddle. I’ve never touched a boy carnally in my life.”

After a pause just too short for anyone else to interject a comment, the philosopher added, “I can’t claim that as a virtue. Because frankly, I’ve never been tempted in that direction.”

“Vettius?” the Prefect asked, his eyes narrowing with supposition.

The soldier shrugged. “I can’t prove an absence,” he said—his tone denying the possibility implicit in the words.
“
But if the learned Menelaus had tastes in that direction,
some
neighbor or slave would surely have mentioned it.”

“In his wallet—” Acer broke in unexpectedly.

“—the debaucher keeps

“A letter to the boy with whom he sleeps.”

“That,” shouted Menelaus, “is a lie as false and black as the heart of the charlatan whose words this poor deluded lad is speaking!”

Vettius reached toward the bosom of the philosopher’s toga.

Menelaus raised a hand to fend off what he saw as an assault on his sense of propriety. Dama caught the philosopher’s arm and said, “Let him search you now. That will demonstrate the lie to all these gentlemen.”

Vettius removed a cracked leather purse whose corners had been restitched so often that its capacity was reduced by a third. He thumbed up the flap—the tie-strings had rotted off a decade before—and emptied it, item by item, into his left palm.

A stylus. A pair of onions.

“I, ah,” Menelaus muttered, “keep my lunch. . . .”

Dama patted him to silence.

A half-crust of bread, chewed rather than torn from a larger piece. The lips of Rutilianus and his companions curled.

A tablet, closed so that the two boards protected the writing on their waxed inner sides. All eyes turned to the philosopher.

All eyes save those of Gnaeus Acer, who stood as quietly as a resting sheep.

“My notebook,” explained Menelaus.
“
I jot down ideas for my lectures. And sometimes appointments.”

Vettius dumped back the remainder of the wallet’s contents and opened the tablet.

“It’s in Greek,” he commented. He shifted so that light from the garden door threw shadows across the marks scored into the wax and made them legible.

“Yes, I take my notes—” the philosopher began.

“‘Menelaus to his beloved Kurnos,’” Vettius said, translating the lines rather than reading them in their original. “‘Kurnos, don’t drive me under the yoke against my will—don’t goad my love too much.’”

“What!” said Dama.

“Oh
. . . !” murmured several of the others in the room.

“‘I won’t invite you to the party,’” the soldier continued, raising his voice to a level sufficient to bark commands across the battlefield, “‘nor forbid you. When you’re present, I’m distressed—but when you go away, I still love you.’”

“Why, that’s not my notebook!” Menelaus cried. “Nor my words. Why, it’s just a quotation from the ancient poet Theognis!”

Dama started to extend a hand to the notebook. He caught himself before he thought the gesture was visible, but the soldier had seen and understood. Vettius handed the tablet to Dama open.

Pyrrhus’s messenger should have been smiling—should have shown
some
expression. Gnaeus Acer’s face remained as soft and bland as butter. He turned to leave the office as emotionlessly as he’d arrived.

Menelaus reached for Acer’s arm. Dama blocked the older man with his body. “Control yourself!” he snarled under his breath.

The message on the tablet couldn’t have been written by the old philosopher . . . but the forgery was very good.

Too good for Dama to see any difference between Menelaus’s hand and that of the forger.

“Lies don’t change the truth!” Menelaus shouted to the back of Gnaeus Acer. “Tell your master! The truth will find him yet!”

“Citizen Menelaus,” the Prefect said through pursed lips, “you’d better—” his mind flashed him a series of pictures: Menelaus brawling with Pyrrhus’s messenger in the waiting room “—step into the garden for a moment while we discuss matters. And your friend—”

“Sir,” Vettius interjected, “I think it might be desirable to have Citizen Dama present to hear the discussions.”

“We don’t owe an explanation to some itinerant pederast, surely?” said Caelius.

Rutilianus looked at him.
“
No,” he said.
“
I don’t owe anyone an explanation, Caelius. But my friend Lucius is correct that sometimes giving an explanation can save later awkwardness—even in matters as trivial as these.”

For the first time, Dama could see that Rutilianus had reached high office for better reason than the fact that he had the right ancestors.

A momentary tremor shook Menelaus’s body. The philosopher straightened, calm but looking older than Dama had ever seen him before.

He bowed to the Prefect and said, “Noble Rutilianus, your graciousness will overlook my outburst; but I assure you I will never forgive my own conduct, which was so unworthy of a philosopher and a guest in your house.”

Menelaus strode out the door to the garden, holding his head high as though he were unaware of Caelius’s giggles and the smug certainty in the eyes of Vulco.

“Citizen Dama, do you have anything to add?” the Prefect said—a judge now, rather than the head of a wealthy household.

“There is no possibility that the accusation is true,” Dama said, choosing his words and knowing that there were no words in any language that would achieve his aim. “I say that as a man who has known Menelaus since I was old enough to have memory.”

“And the letter he’d written?” Macer demanded. “I suppose
that’s
innocent?”

Dama looked at his accuser. “I can’t explain the letter,” he said. “Except to point out that Pyrrhus knew about it, even though Menelaus himself obviously had no idea what was written on the tablet.”

Caelius snickered again.

“Lucius Vettius, what do you say?” Rutilianus asked from his couch. He wiped his face with a napkin, dabbing precisely instead of sweeping the cloth promiscuously over his skin.

“In my opinion,” the soldier said, “the old man didn’t know what was on the tablet. And he isn’t interested in boys. In my opinion.”

“So you would recommend that I employ the learned Menelaus to teach my sons proper morality?” Rutilianus said.

For a moment, Dama thought—hoped—prayed—

The big soldier looked at Dama, not the Prefect, and said, “No, I can’t recommend that. There’re scores of philosophers in Rome who’d be glad of the position. There’s no reason at all for you to take a needless risk.”

And of course, Vettius was quite right. A merchant like Dama could well appreciate the balance of risk against return.

Pyrrhus the Prophet understood the principles also.

“Yes, too bad,” Rutilianus said. “Well-spoken old fellow, too. But—” his eyes traced past the nomenclator as if hoping for another glimpse of the boy Ganymede “—some of those perverts are just too good at concealing it. Can’t take the risk, can we?”

He looked around the room as his smiling civilian advisors chorused agreement. Vettius watched Dama with an expression of regret, but he had no reason to be ashamed of what he’d said. Even Dama agreed with the assessment.

The wheezing gasp from the garden was loud enough for everyone in the office to hear, but only Vettius and Dama understood what it meant.

Sosius was between Vettius and the garden door for an instant. The soldier stiff-armed him into a wall, because that was faster than words and there wasn’t a lot of time when—

Vettius and Dama crashed into the garden together. The merchant had picked up a half-step by not having to clear his own path.

—men were dying.

It looked for a moment as though the old philosopher was trying to lean his forehead against the wall of the house. He’d rested the pommel of Vettius’s sword at an angle against the stucco and was thrusting his body against it. The gasp had come when—

Menelaus vomited blood and toppled sideways before Dama could catch him.

—the swordpoint broke the resisting skin beneath Menelaus’s breastbone and slid swiftly upward through the old man’s lungs, stomach, and heart.

Vettius grabbed Menelaus’s limp wrist to prevent the man from flopping on his back. The swordpoint stuck a finger’s breadth out from between Menelaus’s shoulder blades. It would grate on the stone if he were allowed to lie naturally.

Dama reached beneath the old man’s neck and took the weight of his torso. Vettius glanced across at him, then eased back—putting his own big form between the scene and the excited civilians spilling from the office to gape at it.

“You didn’t have to do that, old friend,” Dama whispered.
“
There were other households . . .”

But no households who wouldn’t have heard the story of what had happened here—or a similar story, similarly told by an emissary of Pyrrhus the Prophet. Menelaus had known that . . . and Menelaus hadn’t been willing to accept open charity from his friend.

The old man did not speak. A trail of sluggish blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. His eyes blinked once in the sunlight, twice—

Then they stayed open and began to glaze.

Dama gripped the spatha’s hilt. One edge of the blade was embedded in Menelaus’s vertebrae. He levered the weapon, hearing bone crack as the steel came free.

“Get back!” the merchant snarled to whoever it was whose motion blurred closer through the film of tears. He drew the blade out, feeling his friend’s body spasm beneath his supporting arm.

He smelled the wastes that the corpse voided after mind and soul were gone. Menelaus wore a new toga. Dama’d provided it “as a loan for the interview with Rutilianus.”

Dama stood up. He caught a fold of his own garment in his left hand and scrubbed the steel with it, trusting the thickness of the wool to protect his flesh from the edge that had just killed the man he had known and respected as long as he had memory.

Known and respected and loved.

And when the blade was clean, he handed the sword, pommel-first, to Lucius Vettius.

There were seats and tables in the sideroom of the tavern, but Vettius found the merchant hunched over the masonry bar in the front. The bartender, ladling soup from one of the kettles cemented into the counter, watched hopefully when the soldier surveyed the room from the doorway, then strode over to Dama.

The little fella had been there for a couple hours. Not making trouble. Not even drinking
that
heavy . . .

But there was a look in his eyes that the bartender had seen in other quiet men at the start of a real bad night.

“I thought you might’ve gone home,” Vettius said as he leaned his broad left palm on the bar between his torso and Dama’s.

“I didn’t,” the merchant said. “Go away.”

He swigged down the last of his wine and thrust the bronze cup, chained to the counter, toward the bartender. “Another.”

The tavern was named
At the Sign of Venus.
While he waited for the bartender to fill the cup—and while he pointedly ignored Dama’s curt demand to
him
—Vettius examined the statue on the street-end of the counter.

The two-foot-high terracotta piece had given the place its name. It showed Venus tying her sandal, while her free hand rested on the head of Priapus’s cock to balance her. Priapus’s body had been left the natural russet color of the coarse pottery, but Venus was painted white, with blue for her jewelry and the string bra and briefs she wore. The color was worn off her right breast, the one nearer the street.

Dama took a drink from the refilled cup. “Menelaus had been staying with me the past few days,” he said into the wine. “So I didn’t go back to my apartment.”

The bartender was keeping down at the other end of the counter, which was just as it should be. “One for me,” Vettius called. The man nodded and ladled wine into another cup, then mixed it with twice the volume of heated water before handing it to the soldier.

“Sorry about your friend,” Vettius said in what could have been mistaken for a light tone.

“Sorry about your sword,” Dama muttered, then took a long drink from his cup.

The soldier shrugged.
“
It’s had blood on it before,” he said. After a moment, he added, “Any ideas about how Pyrrhus switched the notebook in your friend’s purse?”

Like everyone else in the tavern, the two men wore only tunics and sandals. For centuries, togas had been relegated to formal wear: for court appearances, say; or for dancing attendance on a wealthy patron like Gaius Rutilius Rutilianus.

Dama must have sent his toga home with the slaves who’d accompanied him and Menelaus to the interview. The garment would have to be washed before it could be worn again, of course . . .

“It wouldn’t have been hard,” the merchant said, putting his cup down and meeting Vettius’s eyes for the first time since walking behind his friend’s corpse past the gawping servants and favor-seekers in the reception hall.
“
In the street, easily enough. Or perhaps a servant.”

He looked down at the wine, then drank again. “A servant of mine, that would probably make it.”

Vettius drank also. “You know,” he said, as if idly, “I don’t much like being made a fool of with the Prefect.”

“You’re
still alive,” Dama snapped.

Vettius looked at the smaller man without expression. The bartender, who’d seen
that
sort of look before also, signaled urgently toward a pair of husky waiters; but the soldier said only, “Yeah. We are alive, aren’t we?”

Dama met the soldier’s eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “That was out of line.”

“Been a rough day for a lot of people,” said Vettius with a dismissive shrug. “For . . . just about everybody except Pyrrhus, I’d say. Know anything about that gentleman?”