‘Which house was it, master?’ he asks quietly, not wanting to startle the master, since he seems to be lost in thought.
‘Gorgo’s,’ says Catullus, ‘ask for her by name, and if they don’t know her, say that she practises medicine.’
Does she indeed, thinks Antonius, funny sort of doctor to set herself up down here. She won’t get many patients knocking at her door. He goes into one of the workshops, where a slave is sprinkling water on the floor to settle the dust before he sweeps.
‘All right, mate? I’m looking for a lady, name of Gorgo, lives in this street.’
The lad takes a step backward and makes the sign of the evil eye.
‘You know her, then?’ Antonius continues blandly. It’s only what he expected. No decent woman would set herself up down here. The strength of the slave’s reaction is a bit of a surprise, though. Probably reckons she’s a witch.
‘Six doors down, opposite the sign of the money-changer,’ mumbles the sweeper, ducking his head so he won’t have to look at Antonius any more, and kicking up a storm of dust with his broom.
Oho, thinks Antonius as he goes to rejoin the others, got a bit of a reputation all right, our Gorgo. That lad was scared shitless.
They reach the sixth door down, opposite the money-changer’s. Its shutters are closed. The street is empty, which is natural enough, since everyone’s in the tanning yards, workshops and offices, but Antonius is sure that they are being watched.
Catullus thinks so, too. He remembers Cynthia’s words about Gorgo’s ‘protection’.
‘Knock on the door, Antonius,’ he says.
The house is as closed-up as the lid over a sleeping eye. Maybe Gorgo sleeps late. Ladies of her kind generally do.
‘Knock again.’
The door opens suddenly, as if all its locks, bolts and hinges are oiled to soundlessness. A man stands there: a Numidian, tall, heavily muscled, feet planted apart. He wears a fine cream tunic with a border of gold thread. There’s a chain of plaited gold around his neck. His earrings and nose stud are set with rubies.
And you can walk round here, dressed like that, thinks Antonius. That’s worrying enough in itself. Antonius has met a few such men in his time. Not met, strictly speaking – you don’t ever want to meet them, as such. But seen and known of. Such men can walk from one end of Rome to the other with a bag of gold in their hands, and no one will touch them. Their reputations are stronger than armour.
The Numidian folds his arms, regards them all, and laughs a deep, liquid laugh. ‘You’re early,’ he says, as if he’s been expecting them.
The man is a head taller than Catullus. What strength could he release, should he choose to stir himself. He’s no stock bodyguard, all muscle and attitude. He is poised like a prince, and for some strange reason he reminds Catullus of Lucius. For a moment he’s nine years old again, gazing up in trustful admiration at a Lucius whom he believes capable of separating a pair of fighting mountain lions with his bare hands.
‘Greetings,’ says Catullus, ‘to you and all the household. We are here to see Gorgo.’
‘You’ve an appointment?’
‘No. Her name was given to me.’
‘I see.’ The man sucks his teeth reflectively, and then says, ‘You’d better come in.’
He shows them into a dark downstairs room, and goes upstairs.
‘It’s the right house, anyway,’ says Antonius. No one answers. Even Niko is twitchy, and the younger two slaves glance nervously around the room and at each other, before deciding that it’s safest to stare at the floor.
Not that there’s anything unusual in the room. There’s no furniture apart from a shabby couch pushed back against the wall. The plaster is plain. It’s a room where nothing happens except waiting.
But a lot has gone on here. You can sense it. The atmosphere is thick, enclosed. Antonius catches himself checking the door, to make sure no key has turned in it. They’ve got the trick of silent locks in this house. You wouldn’t want to be trapped in here. There’s a smell which is all right in itself, except that it reminds him of funerals. He wonders what it is. You wouldn’t want to carry a cat in here either. It would bristle and spit in your arms, and claw at you to get away.
Antonius’ hands are sweating. Maybe it’s because it all feels so closed in. The window’s too small and too high up, and it’s barred. You’d need to be half the size Antonius is to have a hope in hell of squeezing through there. And now the master’s found the house, he doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing here, any more than Antonius does. So who is this Gorgo?
A shiver passes over him. He’d thought the room was airless, but it’s cold. Damp as well, he shouldn’t wonder. And there’s that smell again, spicy and strong, and somehow cold, too.
Now he’s got it. It’s like the whiff you get when the corpse of a high-up is carried past in a funeral procession. Must be something to do with the embalming. It’s the kind of smell that goes straight to your stomach.
Sweat breaks out on Antonius’ forehead. His chin has started to itch. Ever since he was a little kid, that’s been a sure sign that he’s about to throw up. Got to get out in the fresh air for a minute. But he daren’t leave, not after what Lucius drummed into him about sticking to the master as tight as a leech, come what may.
Get a grip. The smell’s nothing. It’ll be coming from one of the workshops near by. They use all sorts in the tanning process.
The door opens. It’s a woman this time, a big redhead who looks like a Gaul. You can smell her, too. That foxy Gaulishness.
‘You come upstair,’ she says to Catullus. ‘No you,’ she adds, nodding at the others, ‘he only.’
That bit of air coming in with her makes Antonius feel better. It’s only a room and she’s only a Gaul bint. The room’s got a door and they can be out of it, back in the street, free, any time they like. But the master’s going off with the Gaul, on his own –
‘We’ve to stay with you, master, Lucius told me we weren’t to leave you –’ begins Antonius, but the woman shakes her head contemptuously and makes a swatting gesture at him and the other three.
‘Slave not go upstair,’ she repeats.
Gaulish bitch – who does she think she is? She’s a slave herself. Probably been living in Rome half her life and she still hasn’t learned proper Latin. The master won’t stand for her telling him what to do.
But he does. He says, ‘Wait down here, all of you,’ and looks so set and frowning that Antonius doesn’t say another word. You never know when someone will turn on you, even a good master like his. It’s like trying to make a pet out of a guard-dog, then one day there’s a slash of teeth and the side of your face ripped half open. You’ve got to make sure they never have cause or chance to do it. However easy-tempered – or stupid – a master is, he’ll catch on the instant you forget that you’re a slave. It’s not what you do, it’s the way that you do it. ‘Cheek’ – ‘getting above yourself’ – ‘insubordination’ – he’s seen lads with their backs in ribbons: not in this house, fair enough, but you have to believe it could happen anywhere.
Antonius hopes the lads are looking and learning as he bows his head obediently, and prepares to wait. At least it’ll give him time to think what to say to Lucius if anything goes wrong.
Catullus turns to the woman. ‘Can you bring them something to drink? They’ve had a long walk.’
Oh, very nice. Don’t bother to remember that we’ll be flogged near to death if anything happens to you. A master dies in a dirty hole like this and it’s the slaves that get the blame every time. It’ll be no use us legging it, cos we’re dead meat anyway. Conspiracy, they’ll call it, and have us tortured to find out who we’ve been plotting with, and then we’ll be crucified, me and Niko as well as the lads. You ever seen a crucifixion? I have. Stop us doing our duty and looking after you, get that red-haired bitch to bring us a cup of poison instead, why don’t you? Poor old Niko, just look at his face.
‘I’m all right, me,’ s
ays Niko.
‘We got no thirst on us,’ chorus the lads.
‘It’s not worth troubling you, thank you all the same,’ says Antonius hastily, ‘given we won’t be long here. So we’ll listen out for you then, master, should you need anything,’ he adds, loud and clear, for the sake of the Gaul and anyone else who might be out there, listening.
The upstairs room is so large that it must run across two houses. The shutters are closed, and the room lamplit.
He steps forward. The place appears to be empty, but the Gaul places her hands together, bows low and announces loudly, ‘I bring him, mistress,’ before she backs out, bowing once more in the doorway.
His eyes adjust. The room is sumptuous, decorated with a luxury that belongs to the East rather than to Greece or Rome. He has never been to Egypt, but this is the Egypt of his imagination, all silk and flowing colour. The room smells of roses, and a spice which he knows but can’t immediately identify. And of lamp-oil, and jasmine.
He spots the clawed silver feet of a couch, almost hidden by curtains, which quiver in the draught from the door. That’s where she must be.
‘Come forward,’ says a woman’s voice, very calm and sure of itself. He walks across the floor. The embroidered carpet has a border of ibis, and inside that, a border of flamingos all facing the same way, against the background of a lapis lazuli lake – or perhaps sky. More silk hangings cover the walls. He would like to stop, and look at the detail in the carpet, but the voice says, ‘Come here, to me.’
He steps around the screen of curtain. She’s reclining on the couch, resting on one elbow. At her side there’s a small table, with a silver pot and two chased silver beakers on it. There is a second couch, which he hadn’t seen before because of the curtain.
‘Forgive me for not rising to greet you,’ she says, ‘but I am tired. I received too many visitors yesterday.’
He would never have imagined that an abortionist and poisoner could look like this. If he’d imagined anything, it was a den full of sinister medical instruments. He’d expected the reek of herbs simmering with toadskin. If he’d imagined Gorgo, it was as a crone; cunning and plausible, keeper of a thousand dirty secrets.
Her eyes are light blue. Her gaze seems to float over his face, resting nowhere and missing nothing. Her skin is pale, her hair dark. She doesn’t look like a Greek. She’s dressed like a barbarian in a loose blue silk tunic over silk trousers. A long string of amber beads hangs between her breasts, as heavy as hailstones. Her hair is uncovered.
‘And so here you are,’ she observes. ‘Please, make yourself comfortable.’
He settles himself on the second couch, facing her.
Sixteen
He has his story ready. He’s a visitor to the city from Cisalpine Gaul. (He can easily bring back the accent that he has flattened from his speech since coming to Rome.) He’s the adopted son of a wealthy knight who had no male heir. All seemed to be well. He loved his adoptive father, and cherished the good name of the family that had been entrusted to him and to his descendants.
(With a rush of creative satisfaction, he gets into character. Perhaps he really ought to write plays.)
But when his adoptive father was in his late fifties and already an old man, he married again. The woman was younger, twice widowed. She came of a good family in Ostia, and the omens were propitious. She was rich in her own right, having inherited from two estates.
At first things seemed to go well. But it happened, a few months after the wedding, that the son’s duties took him to Ostia, and while he was there he heard disturbing rumours. The woman’s reputation was bad. She was said to have been unfaithful to both her husbands, and it was even whispered that she’d had a hand in two very convenient deaths.
‘So I went home to my father,’ Catullus continues, looking straight into Gorgo’s eyes, ‘and my heart was torn in two, wondering if I should warn him. If it was just evil gossip, then I’d be ruining his happiness for nothing. My inclination was to wait until my stepmother gave me cause to act, but then I consulted a soothsayer. She listened to the whole story, divined in the blood of a fowl, and convinced me that I must open my heart to my father. If I did not, I risked blood guilt for whatever might happen to him. My stepmother had profited from death too much to be afraid of it any more.
‘With a heavy heart, I sought a private talk with my father. Instead of listening as I had hoped, he was enraged at the first mention of my suspicions. He would not hear me out. He accused me of jealousy, and of unfilial behaviour. He said to me that his wife had already warned him that I had shown an improper interest in her. He had tried not to believe it, because he loved me. But now I had shown my true colours and my desire to destroy his happiness.
‘I saw how clever my stepmother was. Nothing I said could convince my father that she had lied, or that he should trust me.’
He pauses, waiting for Gorgo’s reaction. It’s a good story. He can see the characters so clearly: the angry father with dangerous blood rising in his cheeks, the son outraged by the stepmother’s lies, but still desperate to protect his beloved father –
Cynthia would love this. She’d be leaning forward in her seat, soaking up every word.
Not like Gorgo. She looks calm and cool. Perhaps his story is a little too well made. Truth has a more ragged edge.
Perhaps it’s simply that nothing surprises her. Murder, death and desperation must be her daily bread. Perhaps she’s become immune. People who swallow tiny quantities of poison each day can make themselves poison-proof. Parricide, matricide and fratricide all rolled into one might not make Gorgo sit up.
Gorgo stretches out her arm, and her silk sleeve falls back. The skin of her inner arm is as pale as a peeled mushroom. She lifts the silver pot, and pours a stream of transparent pale green liquid into the beakers.
‘Jasmine tea,’ she says. ‘Will you have some?’
He takes the beaker. He doesn’t like jasmine tea, but he’s not going to refuse to eat or drink in her house, like the slaves. He takes a sip. Not pleasant. It reminds him of perfume on unwashed flesh. He takes another sip, forcing the liquid down his throat. Gorgo waits in silence. He hears himself swallow, and wonders if she hears it, too.
Her arms are at her sides again. Her fingers are elegantly languid, but they are not white, like the skin of her inner arms. They are stained. Maybe the juices of the herbs she works with have also worked on her and made their way deep into her skin.
He sips again. Now that the actors have left the stage of his mind, the story sounds hollow. Why not just cut to the truth, and ask the questions that crowd out sleep, night after night –
Did Clodia come to you? Did she ask you to help her? What do you know about Metellus Celer’s death?
He must get back behind the mask of the story. Make it hide those ugly, appalling questions. He steadies himself and takes a long slow breath, as a poet must do before a recitation.
‘I could not stay in my father’s house,’ he continues. ‘My stepmother set her own slaves to watch me, and carry tales to my father. I left on a voyage to Bithynia on family business; we are in the timber-export business there. I was away for almost a year, and when I returned I was greeted by two slaves of my father’s household. They were dressed in mourning, and they wore caps. I knew them well: they loved my father. I guessed immediately that he was dead, and that their loyalty to him had been rewarded with freedom in his will.
‘And so it was. My father had died suddenly, within two days of becoming ill. There was no time to send word to me. His funeral had already taken place.’
‘No one sent word to you?’ asks Gorgo.
‘My father had been dead for a month, but my voyage had taken more than six weeks.’
‘I see.’
‘They also told me that my stepmother was pregnant. Fortunately these two slaves had been at my father’s side throughout his brief illness, and they were able to give me a detailed account of his sufferings. They insisted that he had been pe
rfectly well until after dinner on the day he was taken ill. In fact he had ridden out to our largest estate to discuss business with the steward that morning. He went to bed after dinner, they told me. At around midnight he tried to get up, feeling unwell, and collapsed. The slaves were roused with the rest of the household, and Mironus rode for the family doctor.
‘Immediately I heard this, I suspected that some crime had taken place, and had been covered up. My stepmother has since given birth to a son, who bears the family name. And yet my father, in a long marriage, had only daughters. That was why he adopted me.’
‘A strange story,’ says Gorgo.
‘Yes.’
‘And you have come to me to tell it. Why?’
‘I’m told that you have great skill in herbal medicine. I’ve come here in the hope that you can identify the cause of my father’s death.’
‘I see.’ She drinks more tea. Her eyes are no longer fixed on him, but shrouded and inward. ‘You’ve been told a lot about me.’
‘Your skill and knowledge are well known.’
‘In certain circles. Go on with your story. Tell me exactly what occurred when your father was taken ill.’
He reaches into a pouch at his belt, brings out a small roll of papyrus, and spreads it out. On it he’s written down every detail of the symptoms he has gleaned from the Metelli slaves.
‘I wrote down the symptoms in order, exactly as Sextus and Mironus gave them. I questioned them closely, and they were eager to help me. They’d been freed by my father’s will, as I had guessed, and they had saved enough money in his service to go into a silphium-trading business. They loved my father, and were loyal to him. They had no motive for lying.’
They seem very real, his Mironus and Sextus, counting their gold and planning their future. He hopes that their silphium trading is a success. They’ll have to be careful. The stepmother has power.
‘They told me that my father was taken ill some hours after eating. First he suffered stomach and chest pains so severe that he fell to the floor when he tried to get out of bed. His breathing became laboured. He swallowed as if there were an obstruction in his throat. The doctor arrived, and immediately applied leeches and gave him cinnamon tea. By this time he could barely swallow at all. They had to wipe away the excess of saliva that streamed from his mouth. Mironus said that my father also wept until tears ran down his face. Yet he was a man who never wept.’