Roman blood

'What hour?' I said.

'Noon, or thereabouts.'

I stretched. My arms were stiff and sore. I noticed a large purple bruise on my right shoulder.

I stood. My legs were as sore as my arms. From the atrium I heard the buzzing of bees and the sound of Cicero declaiming.

'All done,' Bethesda announced. She held up the tunic, looking pleased with herself. 'I washed it this morning. Cicero's laundress showed me a new way. Even the grass stains came out. The air is so parched, it's already dry.' She stood behind me and lifted the tunic over my head to dress me. I raised my arms, groaning from the stiffness.

'Food, Master?'

I nodded. 'I'll take it in the peristyle at the back of the house,' I said. 'As far as possible from the sound of our host orating.'

The day was perfect for idleness. In the square of blue sky above the courtyard, puffy white clouds floated by one at a time, no more, no less, as if the gods had decreed a procession. The air was warm, but not as hot as on previous days. A cool, dry breeze rustled over the roof and wafted through the shaded porticoes. Cicero's slaves moved quietly about the household, wearing expressions of suppressed excitement and determination, infected by the gravity of the events transpiring in their master's study. Today and one day more, and then the trial.

Bethesda stayed close beside me, offering to fetch this or that, attending to whatever I desired — a scroll, a drink, a broad-brimmed hat. Her demeanour was uncharacteristically subdued. Though she said nothing about it, I could tell that the lingering signs of the night's danger — the torn tunic, the bruise on my shoulder — weighed on her spirit, and she was glad to have me safe and close at hand. When she brought me a cup of cool water, I set down the scroll I was reading, looked her in the eye, and let my fingers brush against hers. Instead of returning my smile she seemed to shudder, and I thought I saw her lips tremble, as slightly as the leaves of the willow trembled in the faint wind. Then she withdrew her hand and stepped away as Old Tiro the doorkeeper came walking diagonally across the courtyard directly in front of me, oblivious of die rules of decorum that confined the slaves to pass quietly beneath the porticoes. He passed by and disappeared again into the house, all the while shaking his head and muttering to himself.

The old freedman was followed soon after by his grandson. Tiro came careening across the courtyard, leaning on a crude wooden crutch and holding his tightly wrapped ankle aloft, going faster than his skill allowed. He was smiling stupidly, as proud of his lameness as a soldier might be of his very first wound. Bethesda fetched a chair and helped him into it.

'The first scars and injuries of manhood are like a badge of initiation,' I said. 'But with repetition they become tedious and then depressing. Youth proudly gives up its suppleness, strength, and beauty, like sacrifices on the altar of manhood, and only later regrets.'

The sentiment left him unmoved. Tiro.wrinkled his brow, still smiling, and glanced at the scroll I'd laid aside, thinking I was quoting epigrams. 'Who said that?'

'Someone who was once young. Yes, as young as you are now, and just as resilient You seem to be in good.spirits.'

'I suppose.' 'No pain?'

'Some, but why bother with it? Everything's too exciting.' 'Yes?'

'With Cicero, I mean. All the papers that have to be got ready, all the people dropping by — friends of the defence, good men like Marcus Metellus and Publius Scipio. Not to mention finishing his speech, trying to anticipate the prosecution's arguments — there's not enough time for everything, really. It's all a mad rush. Rufus says it's always like that, even with an advocate as experienced as Hortensius.'

'So you've seen Rufus today?'

'Earlier, while you slept. Cicero chided him for storming out on Sulla at the party, said Rufus was too rash and thin-skinned — the same way he chided you last night.'

'Except that I'm sure Cicero is secretly proud of what Rufus did, and they both know it Whereas Cicero is genuinely disgusted with me. Where is Rufus now?'

'Down at the Forum. Cicero sent him to arrange for some sort of writ to be served on Chrysogonus, requesting that he bring forwards the two slaves, Felix and Chrestus, to make depositions. Of course Chrysogonus won't allow it but that will look suspicious, you see, and Cicero can work that into his oration. That's the part we've been going over all morning. He's actually going to call Chrysogonus by name. It's what they least expect, because they think everyone is too frightened to speak the truth. He's even going to call Sulla to task. You should hear some of the things he wrote last night while we were out, about the free hand Sulla's given to criminals, the way he's encouraged corruption and outright murder. Of course Cicero can't use all of it; that would be suicide. He'll have to soften it into something milder, but even so, who else has the courage to stand up for truth in the Forum?'

He was smiling again, a different smile, not of boyish pride but in a kind of adoring rapture, giddy at the prospect of following Cicero into the Forum, flushed with excitement like a soldier in the train of a beloved general. Injury and danger only served to heighten the excitement and to make their cause more splendid. But just how far would Cicero really go to invoke Sulla's wrath? I snorted to myself and was on the verge of taunting Tiro with doubts. But I checked my tongue. After all, the danger he might face with Cicero was no less real than the danger he had faced with me. He had leaped into space beside me. He had raced across the moonlit Palatine in pain and fear without a word of complaint.

Now he was racing back to his master. He pulled himself up by his crutch and steadied himself on one leg. Bethesda moved to help him, and he blushingly allowed her. 'I have to go now. I can't stay. Cicero will be needing me again. He never stops, you know, not when he's in the thick of it. He'll send Rufus on a dozen errands to the Forum, and the three of us will be up all night.'

'While I catch up on my sleep. But why don't you stay longer? Rest; you'll need your strength tonight. Besides, who else is there forme to talk to?'

Tiro wobbled against his crutch. 'No, I really have to go back now.'

'I see. I suppose Cicero merely sent you to check up on me.'

Tiro shrugged as best he could, leaning against his crutch. He turned shifty-eyed, and his face coloured. 'Actually, Cicero sent me with a message.'

'A message? Why you, with a twisted ankle?'

'I suppose he thought the other slaves… that is, I'm sure he could have come himself, only — he told me to remind you of what he said last night. You do remember?'

'Remember what?' I was suddenly in a taunting mood again.

'He says you're to stay in the house and not to leave. Whatever comforts Cicero can offer, please feel free to take advantage of them. Or if you need anything from outside, feel free to send one of the household slaves.'

'I'm not accustomed to staying inside all day and night. Perhaps I’ll make a trip down to the Forum with Rufus.'

Tiro reddened. 'Actually, Cicero gave certain instructions to the watchmen he hired to protect the house.'

'Instructions?'

'He told them not to allow you to leave. To keep you inside.'

I stared at him in quiet disbelief until Tiro lowered his eyes. 'To keep me inside? The way the guards at Caecilia's keep Sextus Roscius inside?'

'Well, I suppose.'

'I'm a Roman citizen, Tiro. How can Cicero dare to imprison another citizen in his house? What will these guards do if I leave?'

'Actually, Cicero told them to use force if they have to. I don't think they'd actually beat you….'

I felt my face and ears turn as red as Tiro's. I glanced at Bethesda and saw that she was smiling very slightly, looking relieved. Tiro took a deep breath and backed away from me, as if he had drawn a line with his crutch and stepped behind it.