meant he was one of the few currently operating officers of the state.
"But I'm not sure that you've met my other friend," said Cicero. He gestured to the third man, who hung back, peering at me distrustfully. The fellow was short and stocky, with the kind of muscular, barrel-shaped body that looks even stouter in a toga. His fingers were short and blunt, as was his nose. His face was round, with a small mouth and deepset eyes under shaggy eyebrows. The shadow of his beard was so heavy that it gave his jaw a dark, greasy look. No wonder he had been the natural enemy of the lithe, long-limbed, effortlessly elegant Clodius. Physically, two men could hardly have been more opposite.
Milo was back in town after all.
VI
"Of course I recognize Titus Annius Milo," I said. "But you're right, Cicero. We've never been introduced."
"Well, then, it's about time. Milo, this is Gordianus, called the Finder, a man of great ingenuity. We became acquainted many years ago, when I took on my first murder case. You've read my defence of Sextus Roscius, of course; everyone has. But not many people know the part that Gordianus played. Thirty years ago!"
"Our paths have crossed from time to time since then," I said dryly.
"And our relationship has always been ..." The great orator searched for a word.
"Interesting?" I suggested.
"Exactly. Come, let's move to the study. It's chilly in the atrium."
We retired to a small, well-heated room towards the back of the house. The walk down the hallway and through the central garden gave me a chance to peruse the surroundings. The furnishings, draperies, paintings and mosaics were all of the finest; I had seen nothing more impressive even in Clodius's house. The scale of Cicero's place was more modest, to be sure, but in some ways that made it more pleasing. Cicero had always had impeccable taste.
He had always had enough money to indulge his tastes, as well, but he now seemed to have prospered well beyond merely keeping up appearances. It takes real wealth to have a fountain decorated with gold-dusted mosaics, or to hang a painting signed by Iaia of Cyzicus on the study wall, or to display on a table to itself) covered by a thick piece of perfectly transparent glass (which must itself have
carried a handsome price), a scrap of an original scroll of a dialogue with corrections in Plato's own hand. Roman law forbids advocates from collecting fees for their services; every case is pro'bono. Yet successful advocates manage to become rich nonetheless. Instead of mere bags of silver they are rewarded with generous gifts of property or exclusive opportunities to invest. Cicero was one of the best advocates in Rome, and he had always known how to cultivate the Best People. His house was full of beautiful, rare, expensive things. I could only imagine the treasures that had been destroyed or looted when the Clodian mob burned his old house.
At Cicero's direction a slave pulled a circle of chairs closer to the flaming brazier. Before we had settled ourselves, another slave brought silver cups and a ewer of heated wine. Instead of hovering nearby, Tiro joined us. He was a citizen now, Cicero's confederate, not his slave. Still, I noticed he held a wax tablet and a stylus on his lap, for taking notes.
Cicero sipped daintily from his cup. Tiro did likewise. The wine was well watered; Cicero was not a man for strong indulgences. The same could hardly be said of Marcus Caelius, or at least of the Caelius I had known before Cicero reformed him. He saw me watching him and made a show of following his mentor's example, pursing his lips and barely touching them to the rim. The expression gave him such a simpering look that I decided he was deliberately mocking Cicero.
Milo made no pretence at delicacy. He drained his cup in a single swallow and held it out to the slave for more.
"Gordianus, was that surprise I read on your face when you recognized Milo?" Cicero cocked his head. "You weren't expecting to find him
"But I'm not sure that you've met my other friend," said Cicero. He gestured to the third man, who hung back, peering at me distrustfully. The fellow was short and stocky, with the kind of muscular, barrel-shaped body that looks even stouter in a toga. His fingers were short and blunt, as was his nose. His face was round, with a small mouth and deepset eyes under shaggy eyebrows. The shadow of his beard was so heavy that it gave his jaw a dark, greasy look. No wonder he had been the natural enemy of the lithe, long-limbed, effortlessly elegant Clodius. Physically, two men could hardly have been more opposite.
Milo was back in town after all.
VI
"Of course I recognize Titus Annius Milo," I said. "But you're right, Cicero. We've never been introduced."
"Well, then, it's about time. Milo, this is Gordianus, called the Finder, a man of great ingenuity. We became acquainted many years ago, when I took on my first murder case. You've read my defence of Sextus Roscius, of course; everyone has. But not many people know the part that Gordianus played. Thirty years ago!"
"Our paths have crossed from time to time since then," I said dryly.
"And our relationship has always been ..." The great orator searched for a word.
"Interesting?" I suggested.
"Exactly. Come, let's move to the study. It's chilly in the atrium."
We retired to a small, well-heated room towards the back of the house. The walk down the hallway and through the central garden gave me a chance to peruse the surroundings. The furnishings, draperies, paintings and mosaics were all of the finest; I had seen nothing more impressive even in Clodius's house. The scale of Cicero's place was more modest, to be sure, but in some ways that made it more pleasing. Cicero had always had impeccable taste.
He had always had enough money to indulge his tastes, as well, but he now seemed to have prospered well beyond merely keeping up appearances. It takes real wealth to have a fountain decorated with gold-dusted mosaics, or to hang a painting signed by Iaia of Cyzicus on the study wall, or to display on a table to itself) covered by a thick piece of perfectly transparent glass (which must itself have
carried a handsome price), a scrap of an original scroll of a dialogue with corrections in Plato's own hand. Roman law forbids advocates from collecting fees for their services; every case is pro'bono. Yet successful advocates manage to become rich nonetheless. Instead of mere bags of silver they are rewarded with generous gifts of property or exclusive opportunities to invest. Cicero was one of the best advocates in Rome, and he had always known how to cultivate the Best People. His house was full of beautiful, rare, expensive things. I could only imagine the treasures that had been destroyed or looted when the Clodian mob burned his old house.
At Cicero's direction a slave pulled a circle of chairs closer to the flaming brazier. Before we had settled ourselves, another slave brought silver cups and a ewer of heated wine. Instead of hovering nearby, Tiro joined us. He was a citizen now, Cicero's confederate, not his slave. Still, I noticed he held a wax tablet and a stylus on his lap, for taking notes.
Cicero sipped daintily from his cup. Tiro did likewise. The wine was well watered; Cicero was not a man for strong indulgences. The same could hardly be said of Marcus Caelius, or at least of the Caelius I had known before Cicero reformed him. He saw me watching him and made a show of following his mentor's example, pursing his lips and barely touching them to the rim. The expression gave him such a simpering look that I decided he was deliberately mocking Cicero.
Milo made no pretence at delicacy. He drained his cup in a single swallow and held it out to the slave for more.
"Gordianus, was that surprise I read on your face when you recognized Milo?" Cicero cocked his head. "You weren't expecting to find him
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