step on the trail. It's steeper than it looks."
That hardly seemed possible. The trail was hardly a trail at all, just a descending series of little cleared spots large enough for a man to place his foot amid the gnarled trees and thorny bushes sprouting out of the western face of the Palatine Hill. Directly below us was the congested warehouse district.
"Tiro, where are you taking me? If we're heading down, why not take the Ramp?"
"Too much risk of being recognized."
"But you don't avoid the Ramp. I've seen you on it twice myself."
"Oh, I'm not worried about being recognized. But you would be. And then someone would start to wonder, 'Who was that swarthy bearded fellow I saw with Gordianus the Finder today?' "
"Then why not talk privately inside Cicero's house?"
"The guards, for one thing. They tend to hear things they shouldn't. Then they talk."
That was true enough.
"And also ..." Tiro hesitated, deliberating where next to put his foot. "To be candid, Cicero doesn't want people coming and going in the house while he's not there."
"You think I might snoop?"
"I didn't say that, Gordianus. But it's Cicero's house. While he's away, I'll obey his wishes."
A loose stone slipped from under my foot and skittered down the hillside. I gripped the branch of a cypress tree for balance, caught my breath, and cautiously sought the next foothold.
At last we reached the lower slopes of the Palatine, where the path gradually flattened and meandered amid trash heaps piled behind the warehouses. Tiro led me this way and that, undaunted by the maze of narrow alleys stinking of urine. At length we turned a corner and I saw ahead of us a familiar sign— an upright post surmounted by an erect marble phallus.
"Not the Salacious Tavern!"
"We ran into each other here after Milo's trial," said Tiro. "Remember? That was the last time I saw you— over two years ago."
"I remember the hangover," I said, but I was thinking of my last visit to the tavern, and the host's account of a swarthy, bearded foreigner ...
Tiro laughed. "You were getting over a hangover the very first time we met. Do you remember that?"
"A bright-eyed young slave came to my house on the Esquiline Hill and asked if I'd help his ambitious young master defend an accused parricide."
"Yes, but before I could speak, you demonstrated a cure for your hangover."
"Did I? What was it?"
"Concentrated thought, so as to flush the brain with fresh blood. It was quite remarkable."
"You were hardly more than a boy, Tiro. You were easily impressed."
"But it was amazing! You deduced who'd sent me and why, without my saying a word."
"Did I? A pity I can no longer concentrate my mind so keenly. I can't begin to imagine, for instance, why Cicero's right-hand freedman is wandering about Rome incognito."
Tiro looked at me shrewdly. "You haven't grown less keen, Gordianus, just craftier. You could work it out, if you cared to, but you'd rather draw it out of me."
Over the door of the tavern, the hanging phallus-shaped lamp cast a faint glow to brighten the chilly, overcast afternoon. "A waste of oil," I remarked to Tiro, "considering the shortages in the city."
"Words like 'shortage' have no meaning at the Salacious Tavern," said Tiro, knocking on the door. "Have you been here in the last year or so?"
I shrugged. "Once, I think."
"The place is under new management," he went on. "But nothing's changed. Same girls, same smells, same foul wine— but the taste improves after the second cup."
The peephole opened, then the door. "Soscarides!" the eunuch practically shrieked, gripping Tiro's hands. He failed, as yet, to notice me. "My favorite customer, who also happens to be my favorite philosopher!"
"You've never read a word I've written, you dog. You told me so the first day I came here, two months ago," said Tiro.
"But I keep meaning to," insisted the eunuch. "I placed an order with a book dealer down in the Forum. Really, I did! Or I tried to. The fellow claimed he'd
That hardly seemed possible. The trail was hardly a trail at all, just a descending series of little cleared spots large enough for a man to place his foot amid the gnarled trees and thorny bushes sprouting out of the western face of the Palatine Hill. Directly below us was the congested warehouse district.
"Tiro, where are you taking me? If we're heading down, why not take the Ramp?"
"Too much risk of being recognized."
"But you don't avoid the Ramp. I've seen you on it twice myself."
"Oh, I'm not worried about being recognized. But you would be. And then someone would start to wonder, 'Who was that swarthy bearded fellow I saw with Gordianus the Finder today?' "
"Then why not talk privately inside Cicero's house?"
"The guards, for one thing. They tend to hear things they shouldn't. Then they talk."
That was true enough.
"And also ..." Tiro hesitated, deliberating where next to put his foot. "To be candid, Cicero doesn't want people coming and going in the house while he's not there."
"You think I might snoop?"
"I didn't say that, Gordianus. But it's Cicero's house. While he's away, I'll obey his wishes."
A loose stone slipped from under my foot and skittered down the hillside. I gripped the branch of a cypress tree for balance, caught my breath, and cautiously sought the next foothold.
At last we reached the lower slopes of the Palatine, where the path gradually flattened and meandered amid trash heaps piled behind the warehouses. Tiro led me this way and that, undaunted by the maze of narrow alleys stinking of urine. At length we turned a corner and I saw ahead of us a familiar sign— an upright post surmounted by an erect marble phallus.
"Not the Salacious Tavern!"
"We ran into each other here after Milo's trial," said Tiro. "Remember? That was the last time I saw you— over two years ago."
"I remember the hangover," I said, but I was thinking of my last visit to the tavern, and the host's account of a swarthy, bearded foreigner ...
Tiro laughed. "You were getting over a hangover the very first time we met. Do you remember that?"
"A bright-eyed young slave came to my house on the Esquiline Hill and asked if I'd help his ambitious young master defend an accused parricide."
"Yes, but before I could speak, you demonstrated a cure for your hangover."
"Did I? What was it?"
"Concentrated thought, so as to flush the brain with fresh blood. It was quite remarkable."
"You were hardly more than a boy, Tiro. You were easily impressed."
"But it was amazing! You deduced who'd sent me and why, without my saying a word."
"Did I? A pity I can no longer concentrate my mind so keenly. I can't begin to imagine, for instance, why Cicero's right-hand freedman is wandering about Rome incognito."
Tiro looked at me shrewdly. "You haven't grown less keen, Gordianus, just craftier. You could work it out, if you cared to, but you'd rather draw it out of me."
Over the door of the tavern, the hanging phallus-shaped lamp cast a faint glow to brighten the chilly, overcast afternoon. "A waste of oil," I remarked to Tiro, "considering the shortages in the city."
"Words like 'shortage' have no meaning at the Salacious Tavern," said Tiro, knocking on the door. "Have you been here in the last year or so?"
I shrugged. "Once, I think."
"The place is under new management," he went on. "But nothing's changed. Same girls, same smells, same foul wine— but the taste improves after the second cup."
The peephole opened, then the door. "Soscarides!" the eunuch practically shrieked, gripping Tiro's hands. He failed, as yet, to notice me. "My favorite customer, who also happens to be my favorite philosopher!"
"You've never read a word I've written, you dog. You told me so the first day I came here, two months ago," said Tiro.
"But I keep meaning to," insisted the eunuch. "I placed an order with a book dealer down in the Forum. Really, I did! Or I tried to. The fellow claimed he'd
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