Catilina's Riddle (18 page)

"My neighbors are no partisans of yours, Catilina. Quite the opposite. Indeed, I strongly doubt that Gnaeus Claudius would deal with you if he knew who you are, so you'll only be wasting your time going to have a look at his mine."

"Now, Gordianus, one hardly has to like a man to do business with him; that's what lawyers are for. Beside, it's not I who would make an offer on the property. I have no money at all, only debts. I'm interested in the mine for my friend, and Tongilius would do the dealing. But seriously, Gordianus, we're far ahead of ourselves. The matter at hand is quite simple. I intend to have a look at the old mine, and Meto would dearly like to come with me. He tells me he's never seen a mine. His education is vital to you, I know, and unless one happens to be impossibly rich or else a wretched slave, how many men have the opportunity to walk through such a place? It will be an edifying experience."

I thought it over, glumly. Meto smiled at me expectantly and drew his eyebrows together. Had I spoiled him so shamelessly that he would try to charm his own father to sway his judgment? What sort of Roman father was I? The question stiffened my spine, but only for a moment. I was no more a typical Roman father than my family was a typical Roman family. Convention and piety were clothing for other men but had always fitted me poorly. I sighed and shook my head and was about to relent when the vision of Nemo loomed up before me.

"Out of the question," I said.

"But, Papa—"

"Meto, you know better than to contradict me, especially in front of a guest."

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"Your father is right," said Catilina. "His decision is all that counts.

The mistake is mine for not thinking the matter through and putting the question properly. What I should have said was this: Would
you
like to accompany me, Gordianus, and to bring your son along with you?"

I opened my mouth at once to answer, but some intuition told me that no matter how strenuously I objected or how many arguments I marshaled, in the end my answer would be the same, and so why waste my breath? I shut my mouth, considered for a very brief moment, and, feeling Meto's eyes on me, said simply, "Why not?"

A man at my time of life understandably grows cautious and staid, I told myself, but even virtues can become vices when too rigidly adhered to.

Occasionally a man must do the unexpected, the unforeseen, the uncalled-for. And so I found myself later that afternoon, after the heat had begun to dissipate, riding a little way north on the Cassian Way to the gate that opened onto the property of my neighbor Gnaeus Claudius.

The gate was a simple affair, meant only to keep goats from wandering out onto the highway. Tongilius dismounted, threw the bolt, and swung it open.

"You need not even introduce yourself," Catilina said as we rode onto the rough path beyond the gate. "I'll simply say you're with me.

The goatherd will be satisfied."

"Perhaps," I said. "Still, it seems less than honest for me to go snooping about on Claudian land without announcing myself."

"They would do the same to you," said Catilina simply. Someone had already done so, I thought, remembering Nemo.

The foothills of Mount Argentum loomed abruptly before us. The way became progressively steeper. The earth became more rocky and the trees more dense until we found ourselves in a forest strewn here and there with boulders. Animals rustled in the underbrush, disturbed by our passing, but we saw no people at all. Around a bend in the road, at the crest of a steep ridge, we arrived at the goatherds' house.

It was a rustic affair, made of hewn stones and a thatched roof without adornment. The inside was a single room shared, if my nose was correct, by all the goatherds together, some ten or more to judge by the blankets piled against the walls where they slept. They were absent now, except for their chief, who lay upon a couch with splintered legs and threadbare cushions. The couch was of Greek design and workmanship, finely made but too worn to be worth restoring. It was the kind of expensive object masters are apt to pass on to a slave when the thing's beauty is used up, but not its utility. The goatherd seemed quite happy with it. He snored softly and batted a fly from his nose.

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Catilina roused him by gently shaking his shoulder. The man blinked the sleep from his eyes and sat up. He reached for a skin of wine, swallowed a mouthful, and cleared his throat. "So you came back after all, Lucius Sergius," he said. "Just to see an old hole in the ground.

There's not much to see, as I told you. Still, for three sesterces . . ."

He looked up at Catilina and cocked his head.

"It seems I remember promising you two sesterces," said Catilina.

"But no matter. You'll be paid."

"And who are they?" The goatherd stroked his grizzled chin and squinted at our silhouettes in the doorway. "Your friend Tongilius I met this morning, but not this man, nor the boy beside him."

"Friends of mine," said Catilina. He moved so that a jingling sound was produced by the little bag of coins within his tunic.

"Oh, friends of yours are friends of mine!" said the goatherd heartily.

He raised the wineskin and squeezed a long draft of wine between his lips, then stood up and wiped his mouth. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let me fetch my mule and we'll begin."

The goatherd's name was Forfex, so called, I imagine, for his proficiency at shearing his flock. His hair and beard were gray and his skin looked as brown and tough as old leather. Despite his age he moved with the wiry agility of a slave who has spent his life on rocky hillsides, learning to be as surefooted as the goats in his charge. He struck me as a naturally cheerful fellow, sitting atop his little mule and humming a song. The coins in his bag and the wine in his belly had put him in an especially good mood.

The way led at first beneath a high canopy of trees that grew alongside a deep, rugged streambed on our left-hand side. The stream was dry, or nearly so; little ponds of stagnant water appeared here and there among the tumbled boulders. We proceeded toward the south and shortly came to a juncture where a little bridge crossed the ravine and led to the main house. Through the trees and rocks I caught glimpses of a rustic two-story structure set against a steep hillside. Chickens and dogs surrounded the place. The hounds, smelling us across the ravine, roused themselves and began to bark. The more energetic ones ran to and fro, throwing up clouds of dust and causing the chickens to flutter and cluck. Forfex shouted at the dogs to be quiet. To my surprise, they obeyed.

We did not take the bridge but rode on, leaving the house behind.

The way became steeper and steeper; the forest became more and more dense. At length we came to what appeared to be a dead end. Only when we entered the little clearing was I able to see the narrow passage that led away to the left through a bower of low branches.

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"We'll have to dismount here," said Forfex.

"This is the path that leads to the mine?" asked Catilina.

"Yes."

"But how can it be so narrow? Surely at one time there must have been a great traffic of men and beasts upon it."

"At one time, yes, but not for many years," said Forfex. "Once it was practically a road, as broad as two men laid head to head. But when the mine failed there was no more reason to use the path, except for driving goats. Stop using a path and you see what happens—the woods reclaim it. It's still passable, yes, but not on horseback. You'll need to dismount and leave your horses here."

As I was tying the reins to a branch, I noticed another path that opened into the woods. It was even more overgrown, so much so that I might have missed seeing it altogether. I stared into the shadowy under-growth, trying to make out its course, then realized that Catilina was standing behind me, looking over my shoulder.

"Another path," he said to me in a low voice. "Where do you suppose it leads?" Then he called Forfex over. "Is this another pathway?"

The old goatherd nodded. "Or used to be. Nobody uses it at all, so far as I know, except perhaps to go looking for a lost kid."

"Where does it lead?"

"Down to the Cassian Way, if I remember correctly. Yes, pretty much straight down the mountain toward the south and west. It used to let out on the highway not far from the gate to Claudia's farm. That way you could send a slave from Claudia's house all the way up to this clearing and on up to the mines without his having to go up north as you did and enter by the main gate. But the path hasn't been cleared in years and years. It may be blocked by fallen branches and stones, for all I know; we get some fierce storms up here on the mountain in the winter, blowing over trees and setting off landslides. It takes many a slave to keep the pathways clear."

"Then one would pass this pathway on the ride up from Rome, before coming to the main entrance?" said Catilina.

"Oh, certainly. I daresay that's another reason it was built, so that slaves bought at market in the city could be driven up to the mine as directly as possible. It's a very steep path, you see, and very rough—I remember taking it once when I was a boy. A road fit only for mine slaves, too steep for horses; no one would take it by choice so long as there was an easier way. But as I say, it's been disused for many years. I doubt you can see much evidence these days of where it used to branch off from the Cassian Way."

Catilina nodded. Forfex turned away, to tend to his mule. Under his breath, I thought I heard Catilina murmur, "Good, very good."

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C H A P T E R T W E L V E

e proceeded on foot. The narrow path was so steep that in places the stones underfoot had been cut into steps. Within the woods the air was still and hot, but the shade at least provided protection from the low-w ering sun. I found myself breathing hard and struggling to keep up. Meto seemed not to suffer at all from the heat and the steepness; he would run ahead of the party, double back, and run on again. Tongilius likewise showed no discomfort. But they were both young, I told myself, while Catilina was nearly my own age. Yet he seemed not to suffer at all. He picked up a fallen limb to use as a staff, sang a marching song under his breath, and kept up a steady rhythm. Where did he find such energy, especially without a full night's sleep?

While on the main path, we had moved away from the stream on our left, but now we seemed to be converging with it again, for I began to hear the sound of trickling water. To ascend much higher we would have to cross the stream eventually. I wondered what sort of state the bridge would be in. Given the general condition of the path, I feared it might be no more than a rope wound between tree trunks on the opposing banks. The sound of trickling water grew louder and more insistent.

But there was no bridge. Instead, we came to a vertical stairway of sheer rock, some thirty or more steps cut into the solid stone. Meto ascended first, running up the steps with the surefootedness of a goat.

Tongilius followed him, and then Catilina, who planted his staff in the crevices between each step and pulled himself up by it. Our guide, out of breath, allowed me to pass him. By the time I reached the top my heart was pounding and my brow was covered with sweat.

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The steps emerged into a clearing above a high waterfall. Here the stream flowed across a wide, flat bed of rock cut with fingerlike rivulets.

We hardly got our sandals wet crossing to the other side. While I scooped up a handful of water to cool my face and wet my lips, Meto scurried to the edge of the cliff, where the water gathered against a lip of rock before spilling over. He picked his way among stones covered with treacherous moss and peered over the abyss. He looked so slight standing against the empty sky that I imagined a puff of wind could blow him over the edge.

I
followed after him and grabbed his tunic.

"But, Papa, look!"

The tops of high trees shivered below us. The slope of the mountain reared on our right, but to the north the view was wide open. I could see the Cassian Way disappearing into the dusty horizon, its paving stones shimmering like a white ribbon. Away to the west the sun was a blood-red globe hovering above the dark hills. High trees obscured the view of my farm, but I could see quite clearly the ridge where I sometimes retreated and talked with Claudia.

"Yes," I said, "a pretty view."

"No, Papa, at the foot of the waterfall!"

The lip of rock made it impossible to look down without leaning over the edge. I stepped cautiously forward and peered downward. Heights have never particularly intimidated me, but the sheer drop made me catch my breath. The waterfall ended some thirty feet below, where the thin trickle spilled into a shallow pond covered with green scum. The pond was ringed by jagged boulders, and the boulders by high trees with thick, bark-covered roots that coiled among the stones and disappeared in the water. But it was not the stones or the trees that caused me to shiver. It was the skeletons.

Some were all in pieces scattered amid the rocks—a splintered rib cage here, a broken skull there, and farther away a leg bone or a bit of spine. Others were very nearly intact and immediately recognizable as the remains of a whole body, as if a man had been wedged amid the rocks and then been blasted by the gods until only his bones remained.

Altogether I saw many more scattered bones among the roots and rocks than I could count.

Forfex, having at last made his way up the steps, walked up to us, huffing and puffing. He peered over and saw what we were looking at.

"Oh, yes," he said. "You'll see plenty more like them before we're done."

"What do you mean?"

"Plenty more bones."

"The bones of men?"

"What else does a mine owner use to work the pits?" He shrugged.

"I suppose you might see the remains of a goat here and there, but goats

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are generally more surefooted—and if one falls and breaks its neck, you go after it and fetch the carcass so you can eat it, don't you? Whereas the body of a dead slave isn't much worth going after, is it? You might break your own neck hopping from rock to rock and end up like one of these," he laughed. He uncorked the wineskin slung across his shoulder, then sucked at the spout.