In the town of Aricia we obtained fresh mounts at the local stable, where Tiro produced an official document, a diplomatic courier's passport signed by Pompey himself and stamped with the Great One's seal ring. The piece of parchment entitled the bearer to exchange horses at no charge, by order of the Senate's Emergency Decree. While Tiro haggled over the quality of horses the stabler offered in exchange, I heard my stomach growling and noticed there was a tavern across the way. Crossing the road, I looked toward the hills and caught a glimpse of the villa of Senator Sextus Tedius, where the secret of Clodius's death had been revealed to me. Over stale bread and mutton stew, I struck up a conversation with a local freeholder. I asked him what old Senator Tedius was up to.
"Gone off to fight with Pompey," the man said.
"You must be mistaken," I said. "Sextus Tedius is far too old and feeble. The man's a cripple."
"No mistake, citizen," said the man, laughing. "He's left his spinster daughter in charge of the villa and gone off to war. I know that for a fact, because before he left, he called everyone together at the town forum and made a long speech saying we all ought to do the same, and shame on any man who stayed behind. And us no more than farmers, and the planting season almost on us! Who does he think feeds the soldiers? Crazy old coot!" The man shook his head and lowered his voice. "Maybe things will be different when it's Caesar in charge. What do you think, citizen?"
• • •
Past Mount Alba, the way sloped steadily downward. As twilight was falling, Tiro led us off the main road to a trading post called Forum Appii on the edge of the Pontine Marshes. I thought he intended to seek accommodations for the night; the courier's passport entitled its bearers to room and board as well as fresh horses. But we rode past several inns and didn't stop until the road ended at the terminus of a broad canal, where a cluster of buildings included warehouses, stables, a tavern, and a boarding platform for the canal barge.
Tiro explained that the canal ran through the marshes with an elevated road alongside it. The barge was a long, flat vessel with a waist-high railing all around. It was pulled by a team of mules on the road, guided by boatmen with stout poles.
"There's a pen for livestock at the back of the barge, so we can bring the horses with us," Tiro explained. "We'll pay our fare, get settled on board and set out at nightfall. We'll eat dinner at our leisure and travel while we sleep. In the morning we'll be almost to Tarracina, rested and ready to push onto Formiae. It's the most civilized way in the world to travel."
It sounded reasonable enough. There were only a few drawbacks that Tiro failed to mention, such as the exorbitant price of bread and wine at every nearby tavern (provisions sold on the barge turned out to be even more expensive, and doubled in price after it started moving); the crammed conditions (the ticket seller kept loading more and more passengers until the head boatman finally drove away some of the latecomers, saying they might swamp the vessel); the incompetence of the mule driver (who took an hour to hitch up his team after the last passenger was boarded); the near impossibility of eating amid the combined smells of swamp and barnyard (the animals were penned at the rear, and the wind was at our backs); the invisible, buzzing insects (gnats in the nose, midges in the eyes); the torturous sleeping conditions (everyone side by side and head to toe, like corpses laid out after a battle, except that corpses do not fart, snore, or drunkenly sing all night); and the sheer perversity of the boatmen, who seemed to think it amusing if they could jolt everyone awake every few minutes by banging the barge against the side of the canal, and even better if they could get us well and truly snagged, which meant an hour of hammering, banging, and yelling back and forth in the darkest hour of the night.
I managed to get about an hour of sleep that night. When we docked the next morning, I stumbled off with everyone else to bathe at a spring in a nearby grove sacred to the nymph Feronia, patron goddess of freedmen. The water revived me a little. Then we were off again.
At Tarracina we rejoined the Appian Way. I felt the pains of the previous days' ride in my buttocks and thighs, and so did Fortex, I think, for I kept seeing him wince and scowl. Perhaps he was simply testing ferocious faces, in case we encountered more bandits. Tiro, well broken in to the rigors of travel, was in high spirits. In a matter of hours he would see Cicero.
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.
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.
I found Tiro and asked him what personage worthy of Cicero's hospitality had arrived accompanied by such a shabby retinue. Before Tiro could answer, I saw the visitor emerge from the little bathhouse connected by a covered walkway to the main building. He wore nothing but a large towel wrapped around his waist. His florid face and fleshy arms were flushed from the heat. His rust-colored beard and the wiry hair on his chest sparkled with beads of water. He disappeared into the house.
"But that can't be ..." I began.
Tiro nodded. "Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus."
"But I thought Caesar captured Redbeard at Corfinium."
"Captured him yes, but couldn't hold him. Or so Domitius tells it." Tiro lowered his voice. "Personally, I suspect Caesar simply let him go as a gesture of clemency. But Domitius has his own version of events. Several versions, actually. According to Cicero, in the hour since he arrived he's already told three different tales of his hairbreadth escape. I'm sure he wouldn't mind telling yet another, if you care to listen. But don't ask him about his botched suicide. He's liable to burst into tears."
I looked at Tiro sidelong, unable to tell whether he was joking.
"And whatever you do, don't mention that I'm here," he went on.
"Domitius isn't privy to the secret of your return to Italy?"
"No. We want to keep it that way, for now."
"Why don't we resume our journey, then, and get away from here? I'm rested and eager to get started."
Tiro smiled and shook his head. "Cicero may have new instructions for me, after he's spoken with Domitius. We'll leave tomorrow. Get some more rest, Gordianus. Relax while you can. The way between here and Brundisium may be hard going."
A little later, Cicero and Domitius set out on a leisurely ride around the estate, to discuss their affairs away from prying ears. Tiro seemed to vanish. Young Marcus spent the afternoon playing trigon. As for me, I passed the day pleasantly enough in my host's study. Cicero had instructed his slaves to give me access to his library, but he also must have warned them that I might snoop, for a slave was always present in the room, adding columns on a wax tablet or scrolling through a ledger, keeping an eye on me. I would have preferred to rifle through Cicero's correspondence; instead I reread the first book of the
Gallic Wars.
Cicero's copy was personally inscribed: