valuable garum. Why not sell it to the neighbor? What do you two do with the money Fabricius pays you? Enjoy a night of wine and women down in Pompeii?”
Their faces turned red.
“I thought so. But what was it you said about the squirrels? They’re only as the gods made them.’ Hard to blame you for taking advantage of the occasional accident—except that what began as an accident has become a regular occurrence. If it happens that you two have been damaging batches of garum on purpose—”
“You can’t prove that!” said Patro, his voice rising to a desperate pitch.
“No. But I intend to stop it from happening again. What do you say? I’ll turn a blind eye to this morning’s mischief, in exchange for your promise that you’ll never sell garum to Fabricius again.”
The two of them looked very relieved and very repentant.
“Very well. Now, let’s see you empty that spoiled batch of garum in the stream!”
On the way back to Rome, I pondered the dilemma I had gotten myself into. How could I assure Lucius Claudius that the problem had been taken care of, without getting those two young slaves into trouble? And further, how could I let Lucius know, without getting Acastus into trouble, that the foreman needed an assistant with a sharper pair of eyes and ears and a more suspicious temperament?
I would think of something. After all, a lifetime’s supply of the world’s best garum was at stake!
ARCHIMEDES’S TOMB
“When I learned that you and your son were here in Syracuse, Gordianus, I sent Tiro to find you at once. You have no idea what a comfort it is, seeing a familiar face out here in the provinces,” Cicero smiled and raised his cup.
I returned the gesture. Eco did likewise, and the three of us sipped in unison. The local vintage wasn’t bad. “I appreciate the welcome,” I said, which was true. Indeed, Tiro’s unexpected appearance at the dingy inn down at the harbor where Eco and I were staying had taken me by complete surprise, and the invitation to dine with Cicero and to spend the night at his rented house surprised me even more. In the five years since Cicero had first employed me (to assist him in the defense of Sextus Roscius, accused of parricide), our relationship had been strictly professional. Cicero generally treated me with a cool diffidence: I was merely the Finder, useful for digging up dirt. I regarded him with wary respect; as an advocate and rising politician, Cicero seemed genuinely interested in justice and truth—but in the end he was, after all, an advocate and a politician.
In other words, we were on friendly terms, but not exactly friends. So I found it curious that he should have invited Eco and me to dine with him purely for pleasure. His twelve months as a government administrator here in Sicily must have been lonely for him indeed if the sight of my face could bring him much enjoyment. “You’re not exactly at the end of the world here,” I felt obliged to point out. “Sicily isn’t all that far from Rome.”
“True, true, but far enough to make a man appreciate what Rome has to offer. And far enough so that all the gossip gets a bit distorted on the way here. You must tell me everything that’s been happening in the Forum, Gordianus.”
“Surely your friends and family keep you informed.”
“They write, of course, and some of them have visited. But none of them have your. . .” He searched for the word. “Your particular perspective.” Looking up at the world, he meant, instead of down. “Ah, but now that my year of service is up, I shall soon be back in Rome myself. What a relief it shall be to leave this wretched place behind me. What’s that the boy is saying?”
On the dining couch beside me, my mute son had put down his cup and was shaping thoughts in the air with his hands. His pictures were clear enough to me, if not to Cicero: high mountains, broad beaches, stony cliffs. “Eco likes Sicily, or at least the little we’ve seen of
Their faces turned red.
“I thought so. But what was it you said about the squirrels? They’re only as the gods made them.’ Hard to blame you for taking advantage of the occasional accident—except that what began as an accident has become a regular occurrence. If it happens that you two have been damaging batches of garum on purpose—”
“You can’t prove that!” said Patro, his voice rising to a desperate pitch.
“No. But I intend to stop it from happening again. What do you say? I’ll turn a blind eye to this morning’s mischief, in exchange for your promise that you’ll never sell garum to Fabricius again.”
The two of them looked very relieved and very repentant.
“Very well. Now, let’s see you empty that spoiled batch of garum in the stream!”
On the way back to Rome, I pondered the dilemma I had gotten myself into. How could I assure Lucius Claudius that the problem had been taken care of, without getting those two young slaves into trouble? And further, how could I let Lucius know, without getting Acastus into trouble, that the foreman needed an assistant with a sharper pair of eyes and ears and a more suspicious temperament?
I would think of something. After all, a lifetime’s supply of the world’s best garum was at stake!
ARCHIMEDES’S TOMB
“When I learned that you and your son were here in Syracuse, Gordianus, I sent Tiro to find you at once. You have no idea what a comfort it is, seeing a familiar face out here in the provinces,” Cicero smiled and raised his cup.
I returned the gesture. Eco did likewise, and the three of us sipped in unison. The local vintage wasn’t bad. “I appreciate the welcome,” I said, which was true. Indeed, Tiro’s unexpected appearance at the dingy inn down at the harbor where Eco and I were staying had taken me by complete surprise, and the invitation to dine with Cicero and to spend the night at his rented house surprised me even more. In the five years since Cicero had first employed me (to assist him in the defense of Sextus Roscius, accused of parricide), our relationship had been strictly professional. Cicero generally treated me with a cool diffidence: I was merely the Finder, useful for digging up dirt. I regarded him with wary respect; as an advocate and rising politician, Cicero seemed genuinely interested in justice and truth—but in the end he was, after all, an advocate and a politician.
In other words, we were on friendly terms, but not exactly friends. So I found it curious that he should have invited Eco and me to dine with him purely for pleasure. His twelve months as a government administrator here in Sicily must have been lonely for him indeed if the sight of my face could bring him much enjoyment. “You’re not exactly at the end of the world here,” I felt obliged to point out. “Sicily isn’t all that far from Rome.”
“True, true, but far enough to make a man appreciate what Rome has to offer. And far enough so that all the gossip gets a bit distorted on the way here. You must tell me everything that’s been happening in the Forum, Gordianus.”
“Surely your friends and family keep you informed.”
“They write, of course, and some of them have visited. But none of them have your. . .” He searched for the word. “Your particular perspective.” Looking up at the world, he meant, instead of down. “Ah, but now that my year of service is up, I shall soon be back in Rome myself. What a relief it shall be to leave this wretched place behind me. What’s that the boy is saying?”
On the dining couch beside me, my mute son had put down his cup and was shaping thoughts in the air with his hands. His pictures were clear enough to me, if not to Cicero: high mountains, broad beaches, stony cliffs. “Eco likes Sicily, or at least the little we’ve seen of
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