But the proscriptions finally ended. Pompey went off to Africa to annihilate the last of his master's enemies. Crassus threw himself into real estate speculation. Young populists like Caesar fled to the ends of the earth. Sulla divorced his beloved Metella (whose breasts had been slandered by the Athenians) on the religious grounds that her fatal illness threatened to pollute his home, and the dictator found himself pursued by the beautiful young divorcee Valeria (yes, Rufus's sister); at a gladiator show she snatched a loose thread from the great man's toga to claim a bit of his good fortune, caught his eye, and became his bride. The doddering prestige of the nobility was shored up with cracked plaster and straw, and rumours began to circulate that at any moment the newlywed Sulla would lay down his dictatorship and call for unfettered consular elections.
Down in Chrysogonus's banquet hall, surrounded by spoils of the Social War, the civil war, and the proscriptions, Metrobius stood with his head held high and his hands clasped, drawing a deep breath. His song was nearing its end, having reviewed in witheringly satirical detail the highlights of its subject's career.
Even the humiliated poet, having emptied his belly of whatever ailed him and slunk back to his couch, had finally joined in the raucous laughter.
Tiro turned towards me, shaking his head. 'I don't understand these people at all,' he whispered. 'What sort of party is this?'
I had been wondering the same thing myself. 'I think the rumours may be true. I think our esteemed Dictator and Saviour of the Republic may be contemplating his imminent retirement. That will mean solemn occasions and ceremonies, hymns of praise, retrospective orations, the official publication of his Memoirs. All very stiff and formal, respectable, Roman. But here among his own, Sulla would rather drink and make a joke of it. What a strange man he is! But wait, the song isn't over.'
Metrobius was batting his eyes, shaping his hands in a demure, maidenly gesture, satirizing a shy virgin. He opened his painted mouth to sing:
The laughter was deafening. Sulla himself leaned forward, pounded his open palm against the table, and almost fell from his couch. Chrysogonus smiled and looked smug, leaving no doubt about the line's authorship. Hortensius playfully threw an asparagus spear in Metrobius's direction; it flew over his head and struck the poet square on the forehead. Rufus drew away from Sorex, who was smiling and trying to whisper something in his ear. He did not look amused.
The song was interrupted by the clattering crash of an overturned table. Rufus was on his feet, his face quite red. Hortensius laid a restraining hand on his leg, but Rufus jerked away. 'Valeria may be only your half sister, Hortensius, but she's my flesh and blood,' he snapped, 'and I won't listen to this filth. And she's your wife!' he said, coming to a sudden halt before the couch of honour and openly glaring at Sulla. 'How can you stand for such insults?'
The room fell silent. For a long moment Sulla didn't move but remained as he was, leaning on one elbow with his legs outstretched. He stared into space and worked his jaw back and forth, as if a tooth bothered him. Finally he swung his legs to the floor and slowly sat upright, staring up at Rufus with a look on his face that was at once sardonic, rueful, and amused.
'You are a very proud young man,' he said. 'Very proud and very beautiful, like your sister.' He reached for his wine and took a sip. "But unlike Valeria, you seem to lack a sense of humour. And if Hortensius is your half brother, perhaps that explains why you have only half his good sense, not to mention good manners.' He sipped more wine and sighed. 'When I was your age, many things about the world displeased me. Instead of complaining, I set about changing the world, and I did. If a song offends you, don't throw a tantrum. Write a better one.'
Rufus stared back at him, holding his arms stiffly at his sides, clenching his fists. I imagined all the insults running through his head and whispered a silent prayer to the gods that he would keep his mouth shut. He opened his mouth and seemed about to speak, then looked angrily about the room and stalked out.
Sulla settled back on his couch, looking rather disappointed to have had the last word. There was an awkward silence, broken by a quip from the would-be poet:
'There's a young man who's stunted his career!'
It was an abysmally stupid remark, coming from a nobody and aimed at a young Messalla and brother-in-law of the dictator. The silence became even more awkward, broken only by scattered groans and a suppressed cough from Hortensius.
The host was undismayed. Chrysogonus smiled his golden smile and looked warmly at Metrobius. 'I believe there's at least one more verse — no doubt the best saved for last.'
'Indeed!' Sulla rose to his feet, his eyes twinkling, staggering just a bit from the wine. He walked to the centre of the room. 'What a gift you've all given me tonight! Even sweet little Rufus, acting so foolish and cocky — such a fiery head of hair, such a fiery temperament, as contrary as his sister. What a night! You've made me remember everything, whether I wanted to or not — good days and bad days alike. But the old days, those were the best, when I was a young man with nothing but hope, and faith in the gods, and the love of my friends. I was a sentimental fool even then!' With that he took Metrobius's face between his hands and kissed him full on the mouth, at which the audience spontaneously applauded. When Sulla broke the kiss, I saw tears on his cheeks. He smiled and staggered back, gesturing for the lyre player to resume as he fell back onto his couch. The song began again:
but Tiro and I never heard the ending. Instead we turned our heads as one, distracted by the same unmistakable noise — the rasping slither of a steel blade drawn from its scabbard.
Chrysogonus had sent someone to check the upstairs after all, or else we had simply lingered too long in one place. A hulking figure emerged from the shadow of the doorway, limping slightly as he stepped into the pool of moonlight from the balcony. His wild hair was like a halo of blue flame and the look in his eyes turned my blood to ice. In his left hand he held a knife with a blade as long as a man's forearm — perhaps the same blade he had used to stab Sextus Roscius over and over again.
A heartbeat later Magnus was joined by his henchman, the blond giant, Mallius Glaucia. The scar rent across his face by Bast looked raised and ugly in the pale light. He held his blade at the same angle as his master, tilted up and forwards as if poised to gut an animal's belly.
'What are you doing here?' Magnus said, twisting the knife in his fingers so that the blade glimmered in the moonlight. His voice was higher than I had expected. His rural Latin was overlaid with the grating nasal accent of the street gangs.
I looked into both men's eyes; they had no idea who I was. ' Glaucia had been sent to my house to intimidate or murder me, no doubt at Magnus's order, but neither of them had actually seen me, except as a passing stranger on the road in front of Capito's house. I slowly withdrew my hand from my tunic. I had meant to reach for my knife; instead I slipped the iron ring from my finger. I threw my hands in the air.