Read Online Roman Blood by Steven Saylor - Free Book Online
Authors: Steven Saylor
Tags: Fiction, Historical, 265-30 B.C., Mystery & Detective, Marcus Tullius Rome—History Republic, ISBN 0-312-06454-3 Cicero, Roma Sub Rosa Series 01 - Roman Blood
Ads: Link
isn't it?
To take you into that world, or to enter it myself and bring back to you whatever it is you're seeking. That's what I can offer you, if you're seeking the truth."
At that moment Tiro returned, bearing a silver tray set with three cups, a round loaf of bread, dried apples, and white cheese. His presence instantly sobered me. We were no longer two men alone in a room discussing politics, but two citizens and a slave, or two men and a boy, considering Tiro's innocence. I would never have spoken so recklessly had he never left the room. I feared I had said too much already.
42
FIVE
T I R O set the tray on a low table between us. Cicero glanced at it without interest. " S o much food, T i r o ? "
"It's almost midday, Master. Gordianus will be hungry."
"Very well, then. We must show him our hospitality." He stared at the tray, hardly seeming to see it. He gently rubbed his temples, as if I had stuffed his head too full of seditious ideas.
The walk had made me hungry. The talk had left my mouth thick and dry. The heat had given me a deep thirst. Even so, I patiently waited for Cicero to initiate the meal—my politics may be radical but my manners have never been questioned—when Tiro gave me a start by leaning forward eagerly in his chair, tearing a piece from a loaf, and reaching for a cup.
At just such moments one learns how deeply convention is bred into the soul. For all that life had taught me about the arbitrary nature of fate and the absurdities of slavery, for all that I had endeavored from the moment I met him to treat Tiro as a man, I still let out a quiet gasp at seeing a slave take the first food from a table while his master sat back, not yet ready to begin.
They both heard it. Tiro looked up, puzzled. Cicero laughed softly.
"Gordianus is shocked. He's not used to our ways, Tiro, or to your manners. It's all right, Gordianus. Tiro knows that I never eat at midday.
43
He's used to beginning without me. Please, eat something yourself. The cheese is quite good, all the way from the dairy at Arpinum, sent with my grandmother's love.
" A s for me, I'll have a bit of the wine. Only a bit; in this heat it's likely to turn sour in the stomach. Is it only me who suffers from that particular malady? I can't eat at all in midsummer; I fast for days at a time.
Meantime, while your mouth is busy with food instead of treason, perhaps I'll have a chance to say a bit more about my reasons for asking you here."
Cicero swallowed and gave a slight wince, as if the wine had begun to sour the moment it passed his lips. " W e strayed from the subject some while ago, didn't we? What would Diodotus say to that, 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—"
" M u c h 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 M a y —
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 defense I should think there'd be no need for a prosecutor."
"What do you mean?"
"From all you've
To take you into that world, or to enter it myself and bring back to you whatever it is you're seeking. That's what I can offer you, if you're seeking the truth."
At that moment Tiro returned, bearing a silver tray set with three cups, a round loaf of bread, dried apples, and white cheese. His presence instantly sobered me. We were no longer two men alone in a room discussing politics, but two citizens and a slave, or two men and a boy, considering Tiro's innocence. I would never have spoken so recklessly had he never left the room. I feared I had said too much already.
42
FIVE
T I R O set the tray on a low table between us. Cicero glanced at it without interest. " S o much food, T i r o ? "
"It's almost midday, Master. Gordianus will be hungry."
"Very well, then. We must show him our hospitality." He stared at the tray, hardly seeming to see it. He gently rubbed his temples, as if I had stuffed his head too full of seditious ideas.
The walk had made me hungry. The talk had left my mouth thick and dry. The heat had given me a deep thirst. Even so, I patiently waited for Cicero to initiate the meal—my politics may be radical but my manners have never been questioned—when Tiro gave me a start by leaning forward eagerly in his chair, tearing a piece from a loaf, and reaching for a cup.
At just such moments one learns how deeply convention is bred into the soul. For all that life had taught me about the arbitrary nature of fate and the absurdities of slavery, for all that I had endeavored from the moment I met him to treat Tiro as a man, I still let out a quiet gasp at seeing a slave take the first food from a table while his master sat back, not yet ready to begin.
They both heard it. Tiro looked up, puzzled. Cicero laughed softly.
"Gordianus is shocked. He's not used to our ways, Tiro, or to your manners. It's all right, Gordianus. Tiro knows that I never eat at midday.
43
He's used to beginning without me. Please, eat something yourself. The cheese is quite good, all the way from the dairy at Arpinum, sent with my grandmother's love.
" A s for me, I'll have a bit of the wine. Only a bit; in this heat it's likely to turn sour in the stomach. Is it only me who suffers from that particular malady? I can't eat at all in midsummer; I fast for days at a time.
Meantime, while your mouth is busy with food instead of treason, perhaps I'll have a chance to say a bit more about my reasons for asking you here."
Cicero swallowed and gave a slight wince, as if the wine had begun to sour the moment it passed his lips. " W e strayed from the subject some while ago, didn't we? What would Diodotus say to that, 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—"
" M u c h 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 M a y —
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 defense I should think there'd be no need for a prosecutor."
"What do you mean?"
"From all you've
Similar Books
The Bitter Road to Freedom: The Human Cost of Allied Victory in World War II Europe
William I. Hitchcock
