Read Online Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) by Steven Saylor - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steven Saylor
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Tiro? What have I been paying that old Greek for all these years if I’m not even able to hold an orderly conversation in my own home? Disorderly speech is not only unseemly; in the wrong time and the wrong place it can be deadly.’
‘I was never quite certain what the subject was, esteemed Cicero. I seem to recall that we were plotting to murder someone’s father. My father, or was it Tiro’s? No, they’re both already dead. Perhaps it was yours?’
Cicero was not amused. ‘I introduced a hypothetical model, Gordianus, simply to sound you out about some factors – methodology, practicality, plausibility – regarding a very real and very deadly crime. A crime already accomplished. The tragic fact is that a certain farmer from the hamlet of Ameria—’
‘Much like the hypothetical old farmer you described?’
‘ Exactly like him. As I was saying, a certain farmer from Ameria was murdered in the streets of Rome on the Ides of September, the night of the full moon – almost eight months ago. His name you already seem to know: Sextus Roscius. Now, in exactly eight days – on the Ides of May – the son of Sextus Roscius will go on trial, accused of arranging the murder of his father. I’ll be defending him.’
‘With such a defence I should think there’d be no need for a prosecutor.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘From all you’ve said, it seems obvious that you think the son is guilty.’
‘Nonsense! Was I that convincing? I suppose I should be pleased. I was only trying to paint the case as his accusers might describe it.’
‘You’re saying that you believe this Sextus Roscius is innocent?’
‘Of course! Why else should I be defending him against these outrageous charges?’
‘Cicero, I know enough about advocates and orators to know that they don’t necessarily have to believe in a point to argue for it. Nor do they have to believe in a man’s innocence to defend him.’
Tiro suddenly glowered at me across the table. ‘You have no right,’ he said, with a desperate little break in his voice. ‘Marcus Tullius Cicero is a man of the highest principles, of unquestionable integrity, a man who speaks what he believes and believes every word he speaks, rare enough in Rome these days perhaps, but even so—’
‘Enough!’ Cicero’s voice carried tremendous force, but little anger. He raised his hand in an orator’s gesture of desist , and seemed unable to keep from smiling.
‘You’ll forgive young Tiro,’ he said, leaning towards me with an air of confidentiality. ‘He’s a loyal servant, and for that I’m grateful. There are few enough to be found nowadays.’ He gazed at Tiro with a look of pure affection, open, genuine, and unabashed. Tiro suddenly found it convenient to gaze elsewhere – at the table, the tray of food, the softly billowing curtain.
‘But perhaps he is sometimes too loyal. What do you think, Gordianus? What do you think, Tiro – perhaps we should pose such a proposition to Diodotus the next time he calls and see what the master of rhetoric can make of it. A fit subject for debate: is it possible that a slave can be too loyal to his master? That is to say, too enthusiastic in his devotion, too ready to spring to his master’s defence?’
Cicero glanced at the tray and reached for a bit of dried apple. He held it between his thumb and forefinger and studied it as if considering whether his delicate constitution could tolerate even such a tiny morsel in the full heat of the day. There was a pause and a silence, broken only by the trilling of a bird in the atrium outside. In the stillness the room around us seemed to breathe again, or rather to attempt to breathe, vainly struggling to catch a shallow breath and coming up short; the curtain billowed tentatively inward, then out, then in again, never quite enough to release a gust of air in either direction, as if the breeze were a warm and palpable thing trapped beneath its brocaded hem. Cicero frowned and
‘I was never quite certain what the subject was, esteemed Cicero. I seem to recall that we were plotting to murder someone’s father. My father, or was it Tiro’s? No, they’re both already dead. Perhaps it was yours?’
Cicero was not amused. ‘I introduced a hypothetical model, Gordianus, simply to sound you out about some factors – methodology, practicality, plausibility – regarding a very real and very deadly crime. A crime already accomplished. The tragic fact is that a certain farmer from the hamlet of Ameria—’
‘Much like the hypothetical old farmer you described?’
‘ Exactly like him. As I was saying, a certain farmer from Ameria was murdered in the streets of Rome on the Ides of September, the night of the full moon – almost eight months ago. His name you already seem to know: Sextus Roscius. Now, in exactly eight days – on the Ides of May – the son of Sextus Roscius will go on trial, accused of arranging the murder of his father. I’ll be defending him.’
‘With such a defence I should think there’d be no need for a prosecutor.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘From all you’ve said, it seems obvious that you think the son is guilty.’
‘Nonsense! Was I that convincing? I suppose I should be pleased. I was only trying to paint the case as his accusers might describe it.’
‘You’re saying that you believe this Sextus Roscius is innocent?’
‘Of course! Why else should I be defending him against these outrageous charges?’
‘Cicero, I know enough about advocates and orators to know that they don’t necessarily have to believe in a point to argue for it. Nor do they have to believe in a man’s innocence to defend him.’
Tiro suddenly glowered at me across the table. ‘You have no right,’ he said, with a desperate little break in his voice. ‘Marcus Tullius Cicero is a man of the highest principles, of unquestionable integrity, a man who speaks what he believes and believes every word he speaks, rare enough in Rome these days perhaps, but even so—’
‘Enough!’ Cicero’s voice carried tremendous force, but little anger. He raised his hand in an orator’s gesture of desist , and seemed unable to keep from smiling.
‘You’ll forgive young Tiro,’ he said, leaning towards me with an air of confidentiality. ‘He’s a loyal servant, and for that I’m grateful. There are few enough to be found nowadays.’ He gazed at Tiro with a look of pure affection, open, genuine, and unabashed. Tiro suddenly found it convenient to gaze elsewhere – at the table, the tray of food, the softly billowing curtain.
‘But perhaps he is sometimes too loyal. What do you think, Gordianus? What do you think, Tiro – perhaps we should pose such a proposition to Diodotus the next time he calls and see what the master of rhetoric can make of it. A fit subject for debate: is it possible that a slave can be too loyal to his master? That is to say, too enthusiastic in his devotion, too ready to spring to his master’s defence?’
Cicero glanced at the tray and reached for a bit of dried apple. He held it between his thumb and forefinger and studied it as if considering whether his delicate constitution could tolerate even such a tiny morsel in the full heat of the day. There was a pause and a silence, broken only by the trilling of a bird in the atrium outside. In the stillness the room around us seemed to breathe again, or rather to attempt to breathe, vainly struggling to catch a shallow breath and coming up short; the curtain billowed tentatively inward, then out, then in again, never quite enough to release a gust of air in either direction, as if the breeze were a warm and palpable thing trapped beneath its brocaded hem. Cicero frowned and
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