Catilina's Riddle (48 page)

hough the day had been long and hot, the night was pleasant. I was covered with dust, sweat, and grime. It was late, T but in the flush of my excitement, sleep seemed far away.

While I spent a few final moments doting on the water mill, I sent word to the household slaves to prepare a hot bath.

Given the shortage of water, this was a considerable extravagance—for many days we had all made do with sponges and strigils to clean ourselves. But I deserved a reward, I told myself.

Meto declared himself too exhausted to share the bath with me; instead he sponged himself from a bowl of water and went straight to bed. As I opened the door to the baths, a wave of warm steam flowed over my naked body, swallowing me. The lamp burned very low. I could hardly see the tub, but located it by following the sound of its gentle gurgling. I climbed over the edge and lowered myself gingerly into the hot water, hissing as it nipped at my scrotum. I slowly settled into the pool until the water came to my neck. I let out a long breath and felt my muscles turn to mist.

As I stretched out my legs, I touched another limb beneath the water. I gave a start, but only a small one. I was not really surprised to find that Catilina was already in the water.

We sat at opposite sides of the tub, facing each other. Our calves touched, but I didn't bother to draw away. I was too tired to move, I told myself. Through the veils of mist I saw Catilina smiling. He held up a cup of wine and took a sip.

"You don't mind my being here, I hope? In your bath, I mean."

"I should be a poor host to deny any guest that pleasure." Besides, I thought, Catilina deserved to share in this small gift to myself, since

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without him I should have had nothing to celebrate or to keep me up so late.

"I heard the slaves pass the order to stoke the furnace and I couldn't resist. I've been riding horseback so much lately that my buttocks have turned to stone." He groaned and flexed beneath the water. The motion caused his leg to rub against mine.

"Where is Tongilius?"

"Already abed and sleeping like a baby. Your mill—it works, now?"

he said.

"Yes. Glorious! You should have been there."

"The triumph was yours, Gordianus, not mine. You must be very proud of your accomplishment."

"It was sweet when we set the wheels in motion and the thing began to move, like a creature coming to life. I would have sent for you, but I thought you must already be asleep."

"No fear of that. Lately I've given up sleep altogether. No time for it." "You're managing to stay busy, then?" I said, then realized the implication—that a man who has just lost a bid for power usually has time to spare.

"Busier than I've ever been in my life. Quite as busy as if I had won the election, I imagine. I doubt there's another man in the Republic who has as hectic a schedule as I do."

"Oh, I can think of one," I said.

"The consul. Yes, but Cicero can afford to close his eyes occasionally. He has so many surrogate eyes—and ears—all over Rome to keep watch for him while he slumbers."

For a long moment I scrutinized Catilina's face through the mist, and decided there was no ulterior meaning in this reference to Cicero's spies. It was doubtless a subject much on Catilina's mind, no matter in whose company he found himself. The circle of those he could trust was growing smaller and smaller.

The water loosened my muscles. I felt my mind relaxing as well.

"You came from up north?" I said.

"Faesulae and Arretium."

"Heading down to Rome?"

"Tomorrow."

For a while we were silent. The water cooled a bit. I knocked on the wall. A slave appeared. I told him to add fuel to the fire and to bring us each a fresh cup of watered wine.

"You must be very happy in this place, Gordianus," said Catilina.

His tone was desultory, that of a tired man sharing a bath with another at the end of a long day, making minor conversation.

"Happy enough."

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"I myself have never attended to the day-to-day running of a farm.

I used to own a few outside Rome, but I sold them long ago."

"It's not exactly the bucolic dream that sentimental poets like to imagine."

He laughed softly. "I suppose reality has somewhat rougher edges."

"Yes. There are problems—small ones, big ones, always more than you can shut back into Pandora's box, no matter how hard you work."

"Running a farm is not so different from running a republic, I imagine." There was an edge to his voice, at once wistful and bitter.

"It's all a matter of scale," I said. "Of course, some problems are probably the same for all men—wondering whether one can trust a slave, trying to placate a demanding wife . . . do I see you smile, Catilina?

Trying to do the right thing by a son who thinks he is a man but is still only a boy . . . "

"Ah, Meto. You're having trouble with him, then?"

"Ever since he put on his manly toga, we cannot seem to come to an understanding. He puzzles me. To be fair, my own behavior toward him perplexes me. I tell myself that he's at an awkward age, but I wonder if it's not my age that's the problem."

Catilina laughed. "How old are you?"

"Forty-seven."

"I'm forty-five myself. An awkward age, indeed! Who are we, where have we been, to what end are we headed—and is it too late to change the destination? All in all, I think it's harder to be forty-five than sixteen, if only because one sees so much more clearly all the possibilities that are forever out of reach. Old enough to have grown tired of one's own cleverness and skills, old enough for the passions of one's youth to have grown stale. Old enough to have seen beauty wither, while death claims more of one's acquaintances than are still alive. And yet one still goes on living. Certain ambitions and appetites diminish, but others take their place. All the while, the petty business of life continues—eating, drinking, copulation; grappling with the contentious natures of parents, spouses, children. I don't know what your problems with Meto might be, but I think you're very lucky to have him. My own son, being gone—

I often wish, especially nowadays . . ."He left this thought unfinished.

For a while we were both quiet. I felt myself melting not only into the heat of the bath but also into a familiar role. Catilina was changed from his previous visit, when he had been in such total, calculating control of all that passed between us. He was a man who needed to speak, and I, as I had been for so many before him, was a listener, the sieve into which he could pour the raw material of whatever burdened him—bitterness, remorse, frustration, fear. There is something in me that draws the truth from other men; this curse, or gift, was passed in the blood from my father, bestowed on us by the gods. Cicero might say

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that Catilina was using that gift against me, turning me into his confidant for his own ends. A part of me, too, was skeptical.

But there was nothing disingenuous in the sigh that passed from Catilina's lips. "Were you in Rome on election day?" he asked quietly.

"Yes. The whole family was there, for Meto's coming-of-age."

"Ah, yes, I remember Caelius telling me that the boy had just turned sixteen."

"He cast his first ballot."

"For me, I hope."

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Our century went for Silanus, though."

Catilina nodded gravely. He didn't ask for whom I had voted, taking my support for granted, I suppose. What if he had asked me? For Nemo, I could have said. For
Nobody.
For
a headless corpse buried in a hidden
grave not far from where we sit.
For a moment I considered confronting him with the riddles of Nemo and Forfex. I tried to imagine where such a confrontation might lead. If he was responsible, he would never admit it, no matter how self-revealing his mood. If he knew nothing of the matter and I blamed it on Caelius, a confrontation between them must ensue, and Caelius would be compromised. I could hardly voice my suspicions of Cicero without revealing my own role as Cicero's tool, and by extension endangering Eco.

I had time to tread this barren circle more than once in my thoughts before Catilina spoke again. "Do you ever find yourself plagued with doubts, Gordianus? Ah, I see the look on your face, though just barely.

Thank the gods for this steam—the naked face of doubt is hard to look at!" He sipped his wine. "Do you think it's only the closeness of our ages, the coincidence of having been born a few years apart, that gives us this mutual understanding? What else do we have in common? I'm a patrician, you're a plebeian; I love the city, while you've abandoned it for a farm; I believe in exploring every appetite, while you appear to be a man of great restraint. I'm bold and rash in my politics, while I suspect that you would turn your back on politics altogether if you could. But you hate the powers-that-be in Rome as much as I do—so Marcus Caelius tells me—and though you won't do more, I'm thankful at least that you'll grant me refuge when I need it. Caelius also drew my attention to your son Eco. A valuable man, as canny as his father, some say. Caelius and Eco both tell me not to burden you too much with my plans, and so I won't. You do enough to let me sit here on a September night, sharing with me your wine and your bath, listening to a failed candidate ramble on about his misfortunes. Would you call for your slave again? I'd like some more wine."

I realized then that the cup from which he had been drinking when I joined him was not his first; no wonder his tongue was loosened and his guard relaxed. I called for the slave, who brought fresh wine.

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"Should I have him heat the water?" I asked.

"It's more than hot enough already, don't you think? I'm fairly cooked." With that, Catilina pulled himself up and sat on the edge of the tub, leaning back against the wall. Steam billowed from his flesh.

Rivulets of water reflected the lamp's amber glow and made the hair on his broad chest glisten. "Perhaps it's time to take the cool plunge."

"There is no cool plunge tonight."

"What? A hot bath without a cool one to follow? Rather like lovemaking without the climax."

"Blame the interrupted coitus on a small problem with my well."

Catilina raised an eyebrow. I studied his face for a sign that he understood, but saw none.

"Until the autumn rains come, we're short of water here on the farm. The well was polluted last month."

"Polluted?"

I hesitated, but only for an instant. Since the subject had come up, why not mention Forfex and see how Catilina reacted? "We found a body at the bottom of the well."

"How awful! I suppose you took your foreman to task. What was it, a goat?"

"It wasn't the body of an animal."

He cocked his head, made a strained face and blinked several times.

The wine had slowed his wits temporarily, but it also exaggerated his expressions; it was hard to tell whether he was acting or not. "What do you mean?" he said.

"I mean it was a man we found in the well."

"What, one of your slaves took a fall?"

"Not one of mine. A neighbor's slave. You knew the man."

"I doubt it."

"No, he was known to you. I know, because I was there. Forfex."

He knitted his brow. "The name means nothing to me."

"You remember, my neighbor's goatherd up on the mountain. He showed us the abandoned mine."

"Oh, yes! Of course, Forfex. But dead, you say. Fell down your well.

Polluted it, you say . . . "

"He wasn't discovered until several days later."

"I shouldn't like to have seen it when you pulled him out."

I nodded. "The body was badly bloated and decayed."

"But you were able to recognize him, despite that?"

"Despite what?" I looked at him carefully. Did he already know the body had been missing its head?

"The decay, I mean. I've seen what happens to corpses left to nature, especially in water."

"We were able to figure out his identity, even so."

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"What was he doing on your farm, anyway?"

"We're not sure."

"An unpleasant fellow, that neighbor of yours. He should keep his slaves on his own property."

"You might have an easier task convincing Gnaeus Claudius of that if you hadn't gone trespassing on his land yourself."

"That's right, I suppose I did," said Catilina with a laugh so genuine that I could scarcely believe he was hiding anything from me. "And I took you with me, didn't I?" He slid back into the hot water with a hiss and shut his eyes. He was quiet for so long that I almost thought he was asleep. Then, opening his eyes, he announced: "Too hot! But no cool plunge to follow," he mused. "Have you had enough, Gordianus?"

"I
think so. Any more and Congrio will be serving me on a platter tomorrow with an apple in my mouth."

"Well, then, let's cool off in the open air," suggested Catilina.

"I thought I'd simply dry myself—"

"Nonsense! It's a beautiful night. On the far side of the horizon where the sun descended, the god of the warm west winds is stirring in his sleep; he dreams of spring; he sighs, and the grasses sway. Let's take a walk and let Zephyrus dry us with his gentle breath." He rose and stepped out of the tub. "Come, join me, Gordianus."

"What, without getting dressed? Without even drying ourselves?"

"Oh, we'll put on our shoes. Here, I've slipped mine on already.

And I'll take these towels, in case we need something to sit on."

I stepped from the tub. With his toe, Catilina pushed my shoes toward my feet. I stepped into them, bent down and drew the straps taut.

"The hallway is dim," he said, opening the door, "but I think I remember the way." He walked toward the atrium. Naked and wet, my skin hot from the bath, I followed.

The moon was bright and full, like a lamp set high above the atrium.

Its white light shimmered in the pool and lit the columns along one side, casting stark shadows behind them. Thinking we had reached our destination, I stopped and looked down at my naked reflection foreshor-tened in the black water. The pool was so still that I could see the stars reflected in it. Reflected, too, was the bemused expression on my face—