'To complete the record of my year as consul. I have copies of all the speeches I made against Catilina, and Tiro and his staff made a complete transcript of the debate that took place in the Senate before the executions. I have copies of the incriminating letters that doomed the conspirators, and a copy of the speech that Antonius's lieutenant made to his troops before the battle.'
'Because Antonius was crippled by a hangnail.'
'By gout!' said Cicero in the sympathetic tones of a man who suffers from chronic dyspepsia. 'But what I don't have, what no one has, is a copy of the speech that Catilina delivered to his troops. Forget my talk of a favour; I should gladly reward with silver the man who could recall that speech for me.'
'Does this have something to do with your memoirs, Cicero?'
'Perhaps. Why not? Catilina's conspiracy against the state was one of the most crucial events in the whole history of the Republic. As for the part I played in suppressing it, there are those who go so far as to say that in the hours when I wielded absolute power I fulfilled Plato's vision of the philosopher-king. Perhaps they exaggerate, but still—'
'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 unnerved him. 'Of course I remember. I thought we were all going to have our heads cut off and mounted on stakes.'
'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 tyranny. And then he said — let me see if I can quote him word for word: "You have delusions of piety, delusions about your own nature. I'm a wiry fox and my nose is still keen, and in this room I smell another fox. I tell you this, Cicero: The path you've chosen in life leads to only one place in the end, and that is the place where I stand. Your path may not take you as far, but it will take you nowhere else. Look at Lucius Sulla and see your mirror.'''
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 innovation, when things are already in the hands of the Best People? What you might consider progress can only be decay and decadence.'
'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, beginning with his own, thus placing every Roman in equal danger — a gesture familiar to me from my one experience of battle under a less fortunate commander. Meto assures me that Caesar is a military genius, but this is hardly reassuring to a father who would prefer a son humble and alive to one covered with glory and dead.
I write to him often, never knowing if my letters will reach him. The battle at Pistoria made us closer in a way, even as it widened the gulf between us. It is easier to open my heart to him in a letter, addressing myself to the image of him I conjure up from memory, than to speak to him face to face. My greatest fear is that I may be writing words to a young man already dead, without my knowing it.
I append copies of two of my letters to him written some months apart, the first from the month of Aprilis:
To my beloved son Meto, serving under the command of Gaius Julius Caesar in Gaul, from his loving father in Rome, may Fortune be with you.
The night is warm, and made even warmer by the heat radiating from the flames which shoot up from a burning house nearby.
Let me explain.
A little while ago I was minding my own business, reading in the garden by the last of the daylight. I noticed that the darkening sky had an oddly reddish tinge, but this I attributed to a florid sunset. I was about to call for a lamp when a slave came to say that I had a caller, and our neighbour Marcus Caelius burst into the garden asking if I could see the fire from the terrace upstairs. Together we rushed to my bedroom, where Bethesda already stood transfixed on the terrace, watching Cicero's house go up in flames.