We arrived at Formiae that afternoon. Tiro, not wanting to be observed, avoided the town and the main road to Cicero's villa. Instead we took an alternative route through uncleared woodland. The road dwindled to a bridle path, the path to a trail, the trail to a faint trace amid briars and brambles. Twilight was falling. Shadows gathered in the woods. I feared we might become lost, but Tiro knew the way. Just as the sun was sinking, we emerged from the woods into a vineyard. Beyond the vines I caught glimpses of a handsome villa with white walls and a red roof.
There was a little covered porch along the back of the house, where a man in a long white tunic sat with a scroll on his lap. He was turned sideways in his chair with a hand raised, instructing a young slave where to hang a lamp so that he might continue reading. The slave saw us approaching through the vineyards. He gave a shout and pointed. The man turned about and rose with a start. The scroll tumbled to his feet and unfurled.
I had never before seen such a look of panic on any man's face, nor such a complete transformation when he recognized his visitors. He smiled and laughed and strode out to greet us, leaving the slave to gather up the scroll.
We had arrived at Cicero's retreat.
XIII
After the travails of the night barge, the simple accommodations at Cicero's villa seemed luxurious beyond measure.
I suspected that our host and his family, left to themselves that night, would have eaten only casually; but for our arrival, a formal dinner was hastily prepared. We dined on couches in a spacious room off the central garden, and Cicero gave me the place of honor to his left. Cicero's wife, Terentia, seemed to be in a foul mood and said little, except to give orders to the serving girls. Young Marcus, not quite sixteen, had been out hunting all day with the manager of the estate and ate ravenously; the years of my increasing estrangement from Cicero had coincided with the boy's growth to manhood, and I would hardly have recognized him. Tullia's appetite was as voracious as her younger brother's, and Cicero made a joke of it, saying his daughter was eating for two; her pregnancy was beginning to show, and Cicero seemed rather pleased to show her off. A grandchild is a grandchild, his expression seemed to say, even if the marriage had taken place behind his back and the father was a dissolute wastrel and a partisan of Caesar. Every time I looked at the girl, with her beaming face and gently swollen belly, I thought of Aemilia back in Rome.
The food was simple, but better than anything I had eaten for quite some time in Rome, where fresh meat and spices were hard to come by. Young Marcus had killed two rabbits that day, and they provided the main course. There was also asparagus stewed in raisin wine, and a chickpea soup heavily spiced with black pepper and dill weed.
The talk was simple as well, mostly about our journey. Marcus was especially eager for details of the ambush outside the city. Tiro described the skirmish and praised Fortex, who was off eating in the kitchen. "The man saved Gordianus's life, I have no doubt."
"It's true," I said. "One of the wretches was about to pull me off my horse, when your man Fortex threw a piece of hardened dung from the roof of the shrine. He must have been, what, at least thirty feet away? Struck the bandit right between the eyes."
Young Marcus laughed and clapped his hands. Cicero shrugged. "The slave did no more than he should have. He's a bodyguard, after all. When I bought him, I was assured he had quick reflexes and excellent aim. I made a wise purchase."
After the sleepless night on the barge and the long day's ride, I was exhausted. As soon as the dessert of aniseed cakes with raisins had been offered to everyone, I excused myself. A slave showed me to my room and helped me change into a sleeping tunic. I fell onto the bed and was asleep almost at once.
As happens sometimes on a journey, my sleep was easily disrupted. I suddenly woke, needing to pass water and having no idea what time it was. My little room was pitch-dark and I assumed I had slept for hours. But when I opened my door, hoping for a bit of stray moonlight to help me locate my chamber bowl, I saw light from an open door across the garden. I heard low voices. Someone was still up.
I found the chamber bowl and relieved myself. I went back to bed, but was no longer sleepy. After a while I got up and opened my door again. The light still shone from the room across the way. I heard quiet laughter.
I stepped out of my room, under the shadow of the colonnade. I peered across the moonlit garden. The room opposite mine was evidently Cicero's study; by the flickering light of the brazier within I could see a pigeonhole bookcase stuffed with scrolls. One voice was Cicero's, the other Tiro's. The two of them were up late talking, probably sharing a bit of midnight wine. All their lives they had been master and slave, then statesman and secretary, now spymaster and spy. No doubt they had a great deal to catch up on.
The night was still. Cicero's trained orator's voice carried like a bell on the crisp air. I distinctly heard my name. Tiro said something in response, but his voice carried less clearly and I didn't catch it. They both laughed, then were silent for a while. I imagined them sipping from their cups.
When Cicero spoke again, his tone was serious. "Do you think he knows who killed Numerius?"
I strained to hear Tiro's reply, but caught only a mumble.
"But he must know something," said Cicero. "Why else is he going all the way to Brundisium with you to see Pompey?"
"Ah, but is he going to Brundisium?" said Tiro. "Somewhere between here and there…"
"Is Caesar," said Cicero. "And with Caesar, Gordianus's son, Meto. I see your point. What is Gordianus up to?"
"Does it really matter?" I heard the shrug in Tiro's voice.
"I don't like surprises, Tiro. I've had far too many over the past year. Tullia's marriage to Dolabella… Caesar crossing the Rubicon… this unsavory business with Numerius Pompeius. No more nasty shocks! Especially not from Gordianus. Find out what he knows, Tiro."
"He may know nothing."
"Gordianus always knows more than he lets on. He's hiding something from you, I'm sure of it."
I heard footsteps and drew back into the shadows. A slave crossed the garden, carrying something in each hand, and went into the study.
"Good, the extra lamps!" Cicero exclaimed. "Light yours, Tiro, and I shall light mine. Every year that passes, my eyes grow weaker… There, now we have light enough to read. Have a look at this latest letter from Pompey. Nothing but a long rant against Domitius Ahenobarbus for losing Corfinium…"
The glow from the open doorway was strong enough now to dispel the concealing shadows of the colonnade. I stepped back into my room so as not to be seen by the departing slave. I lay on the bed and closed my eyes, thinking to rest for just a moment before going back to listen, and slept until noon of the following day.
• • •
I woke to the smell of roasting pork.
An hour earlier, another guest had arrived at Cicero's villa, accompanied by a sizable retinue. Cicero had ordered a pig butchered to feed the lot of them. After I splashed my face with water and dressed, I found my way to the roasting pit behind the house where a crowd of men passed a wineskin and watched the carcass as it was slowly turned on a spit. They appeared to be a ragtag bodyguard of freedmen and slaves. Their tents, pitched outside the house, were tattered and patched and their stacks of mismatched weapons and armor looked to be of poor quality.
Some of the men were playing trigon in a clearing by the vineyard. Young Marcus was among them, laughing and monopolizing the leather ball. An enthusiastic athlete and hunter was quite the opposite of what I would have expected of Cicero's son. I wondered if his father approved of his consorting with such lowly types.