The same two guards were stationed in front of Cicero's house. They had moved to one side, where the trunk of a great yew tree shielded them from the hubbub of the street. I considered asking one of them to walk me home- a common courtesy Cicero would surely have approved- but I decided against it. However unwittingly, I had got them into enough trouble already, arousing their master's suspicion against them.
But if they were as loose with their tongues as Cicero seemed to think, it seemed foolish not to ask them a few questions.
"A wild night," I commented.
"Inside and out," noted the older one.
"Inside? In the house, you mean?"
"It's crazy in there. Has been all day. Glad I'm out here, never mind the cold."
"I understand there was shouting earlier."
"Well…"
"Your master himself told me so."
This freed the man's tongue. "It was him who did most of the shouting."
"This was when that fellow Numerius was here, Pompey's kinsman?"
"Yes."
"Did Numerius come often to see your master?"
The guard shrugged. "A few times since the Master got back to Rome."
"So they had quite a shouting match, did they? For you to hear them all the way out here, I mean."
He ducked his head a bit and lowered his voice. "Funny thing, how the sound from the courtyard in the middle of the house seems to carry over the roof and land right here in front of the door. Acoustics, they call that. This spot by the yew tree is like the last row of seats in Pompey's theater. You may be too far away to see the stage, but you can hear every word!"
"Every word?"
"Well, maybe not quite. Every other word."
"Words like…?"
The older guard frowned and drew back a bit, realizing that I was fishing, but the younger one now seemed eager to speak up. "Words like 'traitor,' " he said. "And 'secret'… and 'liar'… and 'the money you owe to Caesar'… and 'what if I tell Pompey?' "
"Was this Cicero speaking, or Numerius?"
"Hard to tell, the way they were talking on top of each other. Though I'd say the Master's voice carried better, probably on account of his training."
Poor Cicero, betrayed by his oratorical expertise. "But which of them said what? Who said the word 'traitor'? Who owes a debt to-?"
The older guard stepped forward, brusquely elbowing his companion aside. "That's enough questions."
I smiled. "But I was only curious to know-"
"If you've got more to ask, you can ask the Master. Do you want to be announced again?"
"I've already taken up enough of Cicero's time."
"Well, then." He crossed his arms. His bristling beard grazed my chin as he backed me into the street.
"Just one more question," I said. "Numerius came to this house alone and left alone- so your master told me. But did he come alone? Was there no one loitering in the street while he visited Cicero? And when he left, did you notice anyone who joined up with him- or who might have been following him?"
The guard said nothing. His companion now joined him in backing me farther into the street, almost into the path of a careening handcart pushed by two reckless slaves. The handcart swerved and almost struck a team of litter-bearers. The litter lurched and almost ejected its passenger, a fat, bald merchant who appeared to be wearing every jewel and bauble he possessed, fleeing the city and loath to leave behind anything of value.
The string of near collisions momentarily distracted the guards. They backed away, then moved toward me again. I stood my ground and looked from one to the other. The situation suddenly seemed comic, like a pantomime in the theater. The menace the guards projected was all for show. They were overgrown boys compared to the brute Pompey had stationed in my house.
I took a deep breath and smiled, which seemed to confound them. As I turned to walk away, I saw the older guard cuff the younger against the back of the neck. "Loudmouth!" he muttered. His companion cringed and accepted the rebuke in silence.
• • •
The rim road around the crest of the Palatine Hill is wider than most roads in Rome. Two litters can pass one another and still leave room for a pedestrian to walk on either side without brushing against a sweaty litter-bearer. Such congestion would be rare; the rim road is less traveled than most in Rome, lined by large houses and situated high above the turbulence of the Forum and the marketplaces. But on that night, the road was crowded with vehicles and people and lit up as bright as day with what seemed to be an army of torchbearers. Illuminated by those torches I saw a succession of unhappy faces- dazed citizens fleeing the city, weary slaves toting loads, determined messengers shoving past the rest.
Several times I imagined I was being followed. Whenever I turned around to look, the confusion in the street made it impossible to tell. My sight and my hearing were not what they once had been, I told myself. I was mad to be out without protection on such a night.
I arrived at the door of my house and took one last look behind me. Something caught my eye. It was the man's carriage and his overall bearing that attracted my notice. I felt that I recognized him at once, in the way that one often knows a familiar person at a distance or from the corner of one's eye. The man turned about before I could get a clear look at his face and headed back in the direction I had come from, walking very fast. He vanished into the crowd.
I could have sworn by Minerva that the man I had just seen was Cicero's secretary, Tiro, who was supposed to be in Greece, too sick to leave his bed.
V
I passed a cold, fitful, sleepless night. It would have been warmer if Bethesda had been beside me. She slept in Diana's room. I suspected that her abandonment of our bed was as much to punish me as to comfort our daughter; if Diana had to sleep without her spouse, then so should I. I rose several times to pass water and pace the house. From Diana's room I heard the two of them talking in low voices, sometimes weeping, long into the night.
The next morning, before I had dressed or eaten, even before my first disparaging glance of the day from Bethesda, who remained shut away with Diana, a slave arrived at the front door with a message. Mopsus ran into my room without knocking and handed me a wax tablet. I wiped the sleep from my eyes and read:
If you are still in Rome and this message finds you, I beg you to come to me at once. My messenger will show you the way. We do not know one another. I am Maecia, the mother of Numerius Pompeius. Please come as soon as you can.
While the messenger waited in the street, I withdrew to the garden, still wearing my nightclothes. I paced back and forth before the statue of Minerva, looking furtively up at her. On some days her eyes gazed back, but not that morning. What could the virgin goddess know of a mother's grief?
My stomach was empty but I had no appetite. I shivered in my woolen gown and hugged myself. After a certain age, a man's blood grows thinner year by year, until it becomes like tepid water.
At last I returned to my bedchamber. To show respect for the dead, and for a dead man's mother, I would put on my best toga. Wearing it would also serve to demonstrate to anyone who saw me that Gordianus, at least, was going about his business as calmly as on any other day. I opened the trunk and smelled the chips of cedar scattered inside to ward off moths; nothing looks sadder than a moth-eaten toga. The garment was just as it had come from its last washing at the fullers, lamb-white, neatly folded, and loosely bound with twine.