Roman Blood (35 page)

The litter arrived and came to a halt. The Nubians lowered their burden. A man-at-arms cast back the yellow gauze that shielded the occupant of the box. Sulla arose, smiling, corpulent, his ruddy face shining in the torchlight. He wore an elaborate robe of Asiatic design, an affectation he had acquired during his campaigns against Mithridates; it was in shades of green embroidered with silver. His hair, once as fair as Chrysogonus's, was thick and faded, a pale yellow like millet porridge.

Chrysogonus stepped forward to greet him, bowing slightly. They embraced. They spoke briefly, laughing and smiling. They put their arms around each other's shoulders and disappeared into the house.

The litter bearers were dismissed. The retinue, casually sorting themselves into ranks of importance, followed their master into the house.

The musicians, still playing, followed them. The torchbearers followed last, leaving behind two of their number to flank the door and cast a diminished light of welcome for any late arrivals. From within came a muted sound of clapping and cheering. The soul of the party had arrived.

T w o days before, Rufus had shown me the exterior of Chrysogonus's mansion, pointing out each entrance and explaining as best he could remember the placement of the rooms within. On the northward side, around the corner from the portico and shielded by a stand of cypress trees from the grounds in the rear, there was a small wooden door recessed in the wall. It led, so Rufus thought, into a pantry adjoining the vast kitchens at the back of the house. We were to wait there until Rufus came, unless he managed on his own to find the slaves of Sextus Roscius, Felix and Chrestus, in which case he would send them to us. Darkness hid us from the street. The cypress trees concealed us from the litter bearers who idled in the open space between the house and the stables.

The house itself had no windows at all on the northern side, only a deserted, unlit balcony on the upper story.

I was afraid that Tiro would become agitated, unused as he was to sitting idle in the dark, but he seemed quite content to lean against the bole of a tree and stare into the night. He had said almost nothing to me 228

since our tryst with Roscia. He was wounded more deeply than he showed. Occasionally he glanced at me and then quickly away, his dark eyes flashing.

It seemed that we waited a very long time. Music from within mingled with the sound of crickets, and at some point I heard voices declaiming, interrupted at regular intervals by bursts of laughter and applause. Finally the door flew open. I stiffened against the tree, ready to run, but it was only a slave girl lugging a pail of dirty water. She blindly flung it into the darkness, then spun around and slammed the door behind her.

Tiro brushed his legs where the farthest-flung drops had spattered the hem of his tunic. I reached into my sleeve and felt the handle of my knife—the same knife the mute son of Polia had given me on the street of the House of Swans long ago, it seemed, and far away.

I was almost dozing when the door at last opened again. I clutched the knife and sat upright. The door creaked quietly on its hinges, swing-ing open with such conspicuous stealth that I knew it must be either Rufus or else assassins come to murder us.

"Gordianus?" A voice whispered.

"Step outside, Rufus. Close the door behind y o u . "

He closed it with the same exaggerated stealth and then stood blinking like a mole, unable yet to see in the darkness despite the bright moon.

"Have you found them y e t ? " I asked.

"They're in the house, yes. Or at least there are two slaves called Felix and Chrestus, both new to the household; so one of the serving girls tells me. But I've seen nothing of them. They don't serve guests. They have no contact with anyone outside the household. Chrysogonus uses them as personal drudges. The girl says they almost never leave the upper floors."

"Perhaps she can take them a message."

"I already asked. Useless, she says. Chrysogonus would be furious if they came down during the party. But she's willing to take you to them."

"Where is this girl?"

"Waiting for me, in the pantry. She found an excuse to come fetch something."

" O r she might be running to Chrysogonus this very moment."

Rufus looked worriedly at the door, then shook his head. "I don't think so."

" W h y n o t ? "

229

" Y o u know how it is. You can tell when a slave is willing to do some dirty business behind her master's back. I don't think she cares for Master Golden-Born very much. You know what they say, slaves hate working for a freedman—it's a former slave who makes the crudest master."

I looked at the door, thinking how easily death could lurk behind it.

I took a deep breath, then decided to trust Rufus's judgment. "Lead the way."

He nodded and stealthily opened the door. The lintel was so low I had to stoop. Tiro followed behind me. There was no reason for him to come, and I had meant to leave him outside, but when I looked over my shoulder I saw a look of such determination on his face that I acquiesced.

With a faint creaking he closed the door behind us.

The girl was young and pretty with long black hair and creamy skin that glowed like honey in the soft light from the lamp in her hand. Had she been a courtesan, her looks would have been unremarkable; for a mere serving girl, her beauty seemed absurdly extravagant. Chrysogonus was famous for surrounding himself with pretty decorations and toys.

"These are the men," Rufus explained. "Can you take them upstairs quietly, so no one will notice?"

The girl nodded and smiled, as if he were foolish even to ask. Then her lips parted, she made a tiny gasp and spun around. The door behind her had begun to open.

The room was low and narrow, lined with shelves and crammed with bottles, urns, bowls, and sacks. Garlics hung from the ceiling, and the musty odor of flour was heavy in the air. I backed into one corner as deeply as I could, pushing Tiro behind me. At the same instant Rufus slid one arm around the girl's waist and pulled her close, pressing his mouth over hers.

The door opened. Rufus kissed the girl a moment longer and then they drew apart.

The man in the doorway was tall and broad, so large he almost filled the frame. Lit from behind, his hair made a shimmering golden halo around his darkened face. He chuckled softly and stepped closer. The girl's lamp, quivering in her hand, lit his face from below. I saw the blue of his eyes and the dimple in his broad jaw, the high cheekbones and the smooth, serene brow. He was only paces away and could surely have seen me between the clay pots and urns had it not been for the darkness. I 230

realized the girl was intentionally blocking the light with her body, blinding him with the lamp and casting us into deeper shadow.

"Rufus," he said at last, ending with a lingering hiss, as if it were not a name but a sigh. He said it again, slurring it and placing a strange accent on the vowels. His voice was deep and resonant, playful, showy, as intimate as a touch. "Sulla is asking for you. Sorex is about to dance.

A meditation on the death of Dido—have you seen it? Sulla would hate for you to miss it."

There was a long pause. I imagined I could see the backs of Rufus's ears turn red, but perhaps it was only the lamplight shining through.

" O f course, if you're busy, I'll tell Sulla that you've gone out for a walk." Chrysogonus spoke slowly, like a man with no reason to hurry.

He turned his attention to the girl. He ran his eyes over her body and reached for her. He touched her; where, I couldn't see. She stiffened and gasped and the lamp shook in her hand. Tiro gave a jerk behind me. I blindly laid my hand over his and squeezed it hard.

Chrysogonus took the lamp from the girl's hand and set it on a shelf.

He loosened her gown where it was clasped at her throat and slid it over her shoulders. It fluttered down her body like doves descending until she stood naked. Chrysogonus stepped back, pursing his broad, fleshy lips and looking from Rufus to the girl with a heavy-lidded stare. He laughed softly. " I f you want her, young Messalla, of course you can have her. I deny my guests nothing. Whatever pleasure you can find in my house is yours without asking. But you needn't do it like a schoolboy, cowering here in the pantry. There are plenty of comfortable rooms upstairs. Have the girl take you there. Parade her through the house naked if you want—ride her like a pony! It won't be the first time." He touched her again, his arm moving as if he were tracing a mark across her naked breasts. The girl gasped and quivered, but stood absolutely still.

He turned and seemed about to go, then turned back. "But don't take too long. Sulla will forgive me if you miss the dance, but later on Metrobius will be introducing a new song by . . . ah, well, by some sycophant or other—who can remember all their names? The poor fool's here tonight, trying to curry favor. I understand the song is an homage to the gods for sending a man to stop the civil strife: 'Sulla, Rome's favorite, savior of the Republic,' I think it begins. I'm sure it goes on in the same nauseatingly pious vein—except . . . ." Chrysogonus smiled and laughed behind pursed lips, a low, gravelly laugh that he seemed to keep to 231

himself, like a man rolling coins in his hand. "Except that Metrobius tells me he's taken the liberty of adding a few ribald verses of his own, scandalous enough to get the young author's head chopped off. Imagine the look on the silly poet's face when he hears his homage turned into insults right in front of Sulla, who of course will grasp the jest at once and play along, stamping his feet and pretending to be outraged—just the sort of joke Sulla adores. It will be the evening's high point, Rufus; for some of us, anyway. Sulla will be very disappointed if you're not there to share it." He made an insinuating smile, stared at them for a long moment, then retreated and shut the door behind him.

No one moved. I watched the flickering caress of the lamplight as it licked in silhouette about the sleek flesh of the girl's thighs and hips.

Finally she stooped and gathered up her gown. Tiro, wide-eyed and resolute, pushed his way from behind me and helped her cover herself.

Rufus studiously looked elsewhere.

" W e l l , " I finally said, "I believe the master of the house himself has given us permission to go snooping upstairs. Shall w e ? "

232

TWENTY-FIVE

T H E door through which Chrysogonus had vanished led into a short hallway. A narrow passage on the left opened onto the noise of a busy kitchen. The curtain which draped the opening on the right still swayed from Chrysogonus's passing. The girl led us through neither passage but instead to a door, at the end of the hall, that opened onto a winding flight of stone steps.

"There's another staircase in the room where the master entertains,"

she whispered, "very showy, very fine marble, with a statue of Venus in the center. But this is the stair the slaves use. If we pass anyone, just ignore them, even if they look at us oddly. Or better yet, give me a pinch hard enough to make me squeal and pretend you're all drunk. They'll think the worst for sure, and then they'll leave us alone."

But we met no one on the stairs, and the upstairs hall was deserted.

From somewhere below we could hear the muffled music of flutes and lyres, and an occasional burst of applause or laughter—presumably in appreciation of Sorex's dance—but the upper floor was dim and quiet.

The hallway was quite broad and fabulously decorated, opening onto wide, high rooms even more sumptuously appointed. Every surface seemed to be carpeted, draped, inlaid, or painted. Everywhere the eye turned there was a riot of colors, textures, and shapes.

"Vulgar, isn't i t ? " said Rufus with a noble's disdain. Cicero would have 233

agreed, but the furnishings were vulgar only for being so cramped and ostentatiously displayed. What impressed me most was the consistency of Chrysogonus's taste in acquiring only the best and most expensive handicraft and artwork—embossed silver, vessels of Delian and Corinthian bronze, embroidered coverlets, plush carpets from the East, finely carved tables and chairs with inlays of shell and lapis, intricate mosaics of richly colored tiles, superb marble statues and fabulous paintings.

That all these creations had been looted from the proscribed there could be no doubt; otherwise it would have taken a lifetime to accumulate so many things of such high quality and disparate origin. Yet no one could say that Chrysogonus had looted blindly. Let others take the chaff; for himself he had chosen only the best, with the trained eye for quality developed by slaves of the rich who dream of someday being free and rich themselves. I was glad that Cicero was not with us; to see Sulla's former slave living in stolen luxury on such a grandiose scale might have agitated his delicate bowels beyond endurance.

The hallway narrowed. The rooms became less resplendent. The girl lifted a heavy hanging, allowing us to pass beneath; she dropped it, and all sound from downstairs vanished. The world changed as well, and we were abruptly back in a house of plain plastered walls and smoke-stained ceilings. These were the rooms of necessity—storage chambers, slave quarters, work rooms—yet even here the booty was piled high. Crates of bronze vessels were stacked in the corners, rolled carpets drooped like sleepy watchmen against the walls, chairs and tables were wrapped in heavy cloth and piled to the ceiling.

The girl stole through the maze, glanced furtively about her, then motioned for us to follow. She drew back a curtain.

"What are you doing up here?" asked a petulant voice. "Isn't there a party on tonight?"

" O h , leave her alone," said another, speaking through a mouthful of food. "Just because Aufilia brings me extra portions and turns her nose up at your ugly face . . . but who's this?"

" N o , " I said, "don't get up. Stay where you are. Finish your meal."

The two of them sat on the hard floor, eating cabbage and barley from cracked clay bowls by the light of a single lamp. The room was small and narrow with bare walls; the tiny flame carved their wrinkles into caverns and cast their stooped shadows all the way to the ceiling. I stayed in the doorway. Tiro moved in close behind me, peering over my shoulder.