Catilina's riddle

'Please, Cicero!' Now it was I who felt dyspeptic.

'What I want from you, Gordianus, is a transcript of Catilina's speech, for posterity. Taken down at your convenience, however you like. You could make notes at your leisure, or I could send over Tiro to take your dictation.'

'In his famous shorthand?'

'If you speak that fast.'

I wrinkled my nose at the idea of putting Catilina's last public words into the hands of his destroyer. And yet, why should I let those words be lost forever? What other legacy of him would survive? No statues of Catilina would ever be erected in Rome; no histories would ever be written to glorify him; he had left no son to carry on his name or his cause. In a few years all that would remain of Catilina would be a series of speeches vilifying him before all the worid.

There was also, of course, the water mill. It was Lucius Claudius who had inspired it and Catilina who had solved the riddle of its design. The mill was my private memorial to them both. Before I handed the farm over to Claudia I had seriously considered burning the mill, thinking she was unworthy to possess it, I even went so far as to equip the slaves with torches and hammers one day, intending to demolish it. But the sight of its wheel elegantly turning in the water caused me to desist. I chose to leave it standing as a memorial to all of us who had a hand in creating it.

The sound of Cicero clearing his throat called me back to the present. 'Even if I was present at Pistoria,' I said, 'and even if I wanted to help you, Cicero, what makes you think I could remember Catilina's speech?'

'I'm certain that you could, Gordianus. Your memory for such things is very keen. It's your nature and your vocation to remember fine details, especially words. I've often heard you quote word for word from arguments and statements made years before.'

'True enough, Cicero. A man can't escape his memory. Do you know what I happened to remember a moment ago, when I saw you on my doorstep? Words spoken years ago by a man long dead. Yes, it was a little over eighteen years ago, in your old house over by the Capitoline Hill, on the night after the trial of Sextus Roscius. Do you remember? We arrived at your house, you and I and Tiro, and found Sulla's bodyguards and lackeys outside, and the dictator himself was waiting for us in your library.'

Cicero drew in a breath, as if the encounter still u

'So did I. But for a monster who had just stubbed his toe, Sulla was surprisingly gracious, though not particularly flattering. He said that I was a dog that went digging up bones, and asked if I never got tired of getting worms and mud in my snout.'

'Did he say such a thing? I vaguely remember.'

'When poor Tiro spoke out of turn, Sulla said he was hardly good-looking enough to be allowed such liberties and suggested that you beat him'

'That sounds like Sulla.'

'And do you remember what he said about you?'

Cicero's face stiffened. 'I'm not sure I know what you mean.'

' "Stupidly daring or madly ambitious, or maybe both," he said. A clever young man and a splendid orator, just the sort of fellow he'd like to recruit to his ranks, but he knew you'd never accept such an offer, because your head was still too full of republican virtue and scorn for tyra

Cicero fixed me with a gelid gaze. 'I recall no such words.'

'No? Then perhaps you shouldn't trust my recollection of Catilina's speech.'

His gaze thawed a bit, 'What were you doing in Catilina's camp, anyway?'

'Retrieving a lost lamb who turned out to be a lion cub. But don't you know the details already, from your spies?'

'Some things my spies can't tell me, such as what resides unspoken in a man's heart. Oh, Gordianus, had I known you would be so susceptible to Catilina's corruption, I would never have sent Caelius to ask for your help. I thought that you would see through him in an instant. Instead, I think he must have seduced you, after all. Though not literally, I hope,' he added, laughing.

I gazed across the garden at the statue of Minerva. Her bland silence had a way of calming me; detachment from anger is one part of wisdom. 'Do you have no regrets about your year as consul, Cicero?'

'None at all.'

'No nagging doubts about the precedents you set for the future of this frayed and fragile republic? No secret wish that you could have broken free of the Optimates and struck a blow for change?'

He shook his head and smiled condescendingly. 'Change is the enemy of civilization, Gordianus. What is the point of i

'But, Cicero, you're a New Man! You rose from an unknown family to become consul. You stand for change.'

'To be sure, a newcomer of outstanding gifts may sometimes rise to join the Best, just as a high-bom patrician like Catilina may fall into ruin and disgrace. Such is the balance of the gods—'

"The gods! How can you be an atheist one day and declare yourself the vessel of Jupiter the next?'

'I was speaking metaphorically, Gordianus,' said Cicero patiently, as if my literal-mindedness were an eccentricity to be indulged.

I took a deep breath and gazed at Minerva, but my equanimity was at an end. ‘I think I must be alone now, Cicero.'

'Of course. I'm sure I can find my way to the door.' He stood up but did not turn away. Instead he looked down at me expectantly.

'Very well,' I finally said. 'Send Tiro around tomorrow morning, if you like, with his writing materials. I shall duplicate Catilina's speech from memory as best I can.' Cicero nodded and turned to go with a smile on his lips. 'And perhaps Tiro will recall Sulla's words more clearly than you do,' I added, and saw Cicero's shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly.

EPILOGUE

Four years have now passed since Cicero's visit to my new house on the Palatine.

I thought then that the story was finished, as much as such matters can ever be finished. But it seems to me now that recent events have transpired to give a more fitting ending. Like the statue of Jupiter that took years to put in place, it was simply a matter of time.

The intervening years have seen the continued ascendancy of Caesar, who two years ago formed a coalition (or triumvirate, as they call it in the Forum) with Crassus and Pompey, and who last year was elected consul, at the age of forty-one. Now Caesar is off to Gaul, putting down a troublesome tribe called the Helvetii. I wish him well in his military endeavours, if only because my son is with him.

Shortly after our return to Rome, Meto enlisted under the charge of Marcus Mummius, but he didn't care for Pompey, and now serves under Caesar. His choice of a military career baffles me, but I long ago accepted it. (He has always been inordinately proud of the battle scar he received at Pistoria.) In his latest letter, posted from the town of Bibracte in the land of the Aedui, Meto writes of going into battle against the Helvetii with an account that makes my hair stand on end. How did the winsome little boy I adopted ever grow so inured to the sight of blood and gore? Before the engagement began, Meto writes, Caesar had all the horses sent out of sight, begi