isn't Sulla," I said. "I haven't seen the heads of his enemies on spikes down in the Forum."
"No, not yet . . . not yet . . ." His voice trailed off. "But can I offer refreshment to you and . . . your companion?"
"This is Rupa. I adopted him before I left for Egypt. He doesn't speak."
Cicero smiled. "You and your extended family! Isn't this your third adopted son? He's certainly the biggest of the lot. But silent, eh? Well, there's been an addition—and a subtraction—to my own household, as you may already know. But my new family member most certainly speaks—oh, how that girl can speak! Hopefully she'll return from her shopping before you leave, and you can meet her. But what can I offer you? Are you hungry?"
"We just had a bite, actually. Perhaps some liberally watered wine to wash it down?"
Cicero clapped his hands and sent a slave to fetch the refreshment. He cleared away some scrolls that were stacked on chairs and the three of us sat.
"Well, Gordianus, tell me your news, and then I'll tell you mine." From the look on his face, I saw he could hardly wait to talk about his new wife.
"My news is not happy, I'm afraid. While I was away, I think you made the acquaintance of a good friend of mine, Hieronymus of Massilia."
"Ah, yes! I heard the bad news. I sent a message of condolence to your house just this morning. I'd have come myself, but as I said, I don't go out much."
"You know about his death already?"
Cicero nodded. "I send a man every day to check the new entries in the death registry. These days, one must keep abreast, or else fall hopelessly behind. There's nothing more embarrassing than to meet an old friend, or someone I once defended in court, and not to know that the fellow's brother or son or father is dead. It makes one look uncaring, not to mention uninformed. Yes, I was sorry to learn of Hieronymus's death. How did it happen?"
"He was stabbed, here on the Palatine."
"Stabbed? In the street?"
"More or less."
"But this is terrible! Do we know who did it?"
"Not yet."
"Ha! Caesar claims to have made the city safe again, but there's more lawlessness than ever. Another reason I hardly budge from my house. So, Gordianus, are you on the trail of the killer? Slipping into your old role, playing the Finder to seek justice for poor Hieronymus? Venturing hither and yon, uncovering scandal and skullduggery and whatnot?"
"Something like that."
"Like the good old days, eh, when we were young, you and I, when there was a point to seeking out the truth and striving for justice. Will our grandchildren even know what a republic was? Or how the law courts operated? If we're to have a king, I suppose the king will mete out justice. No more juries, eh? There won't be much use for an old advocate like myself." His tone was more wistful than bitter.
I nodded sympathetically. "Speaking of Hieronymus, I was wondering how well you came to know him."
"Oh, I had him here to my house a few times. He greatly admired my library. He was a very scholarly fellow, you know. Awfully well-read. And what a memory! I had an old scroll of Homer that had suffered some water damage—needed to be patched where a few lines had been lost. Can you believe that Hieronymus was able to recite the missing lines by heart? He dictated them to Tiro, and we restored the missing text on the spot. Yes, he was the model of the well-versed Greek, proof that the Massilian academies are every bit as good as they're reputed to be."
I nodded. Would Cicero speak as glowingly if he could read the parts about himself in Hieronymus's journal? Those passages were especially full of pedantic wordplay, as if Hieronymus enjoyed making fun of Cicero by using overwrought rhetoric.
The old satyr seems completely unaware of how ridiculous he looks to everyone except the fellow he sees in the mirror; if he would pause to reflect, he would die of blushing. The little queen with bee-stung lips he calls "my honey" will sting him sooner or later. (Some say he
"No, not yet . . . not yet . . ." His voice trailed off. "But can I offer refreshment to you and . . . your companion?"
"This is Rupa. I adopted him before I left for Egypt. He doesn't speak."
Cicero smiled. "You and your extended family! Isn't this your third adopted son? He's certainly the biggest of the lot. But silent, eh? Well, there's been an addition—and a subtraction—to my own household, as you may already know. But my new family member most certainly speaks—oh, how that girl can speak! Hopefully she'll return from her shopping before you leave, and you can meet her. But what can I offer you? Are you hungry?"
"We just had a bite, actually. Perhaps some liberally watered wine to wash it down?"
Cicero clapped his hands and sent a slave to fetch the refreshment. He cleared away some scrolls that were stacked on chairs and the three of us sat.
"Well, Gordianus, tell me your news, and then I'll tell you mine." From the look on his face, I saw he could hardly wait to talk about his new wife.
"My news is not happy, I'm afraid. While I was away, I think you made the acquaintance of a good friend of mine, Hieronymus of Massilia."
"Ah, yes! I heard the bad news. I sent a message of condolence to your house just this morning. I'd have come myself, but as I said, I don't go out much."
"You know about his death already?"
Cicero nodded. "I send a man every day to check the new entries in the death registry. These days, one must keep abreast, or else fall hopelessly behind. There's nothing more embarrassing than to meet an old friend, or someone I once defended in court, and not to know that the fellow's brother or son or father is dead. It makes one look uncaring, not to mention uninformed. Yes, I was sorry to learn of Hieronymus's death. How did it happen?"
"He was stabbed, here on the Palatine."
"Stabbed? In the street?"
"More or less."
"But this is terrible! Do we know who did it?"
"Not yet."
"Ha! Caesar claims to have made the city safe again, but there's more lawlessness than ever. Another reason I hardly budge from my house. So, Gordianus, are you on the trail of the killer? Slipping into your old role, playing the Finder to seek justice for poor Hieronymus? Venturing hither and yon, uncovering scandal and skullduggery and whatnot?"
"Something like that."
"Like the good old days, eh, when we were young, you and I, when there was a point to seeking out the truth and striving for justice. Will our grandchildren even know what a republic was? Or how the law courts operated? If we're to have a king, I suppose the king will mete out justice. No more juries, eh? There won't be much use for an old advocate like myself." His tone was more wistful than bitter.
I nodded sympathetically. "Speaking of Hieronymus, I was wondering how well you came to know him."
"Oh, I had him here to my house a few times. He greatly admired my library. He was a very scholarly fellow, you know. Awfully well-read. And what a memory! I had an old scroll of Homer that had suffered some water damage—needed to be patched where a few lines had been lost. Can you believe that Hieronymus was able to recite the missing lines by heart? He dictated them to Tiro, and we restored the missing text on the spot. Yes, he was the model of the well-versed Greek, proof that the Massilian academies are every bit as good as they're reputed to be."
I nodded. Would Cicero speak as glowingly if he could read the parts about himself in Hieronymus's journal? Those passages were especially full of pedantic wordplay, as if Hieronymus enjoyed making fun of Cicero by using overwrought rhetoric.
The old satyr seems completely unaware of how ridiculous he looks to everyone except the fellow he sees in the mirror; if he would pause to reflect, he would die of blushing. The little queen with bee-stung lips he calls "my honey" will sting him sooner or later. (Some say he
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