Herennius sighed with exasperation. "Caelius's attempt to poison Dio failed. So did his first attempt on the lady. But still Caelius did not give up! Only hours ago, the lady came very close to death, thanks to Caelius's relentless, insidious efforts to do her in. Look at her now, at her pale face and languid eyes, at her helpless trembling! One need only see her to know that something truly terrible has transpired. 'What awful thing was done to her?' you ask. But no, I shall refrain from relating the sordid details of this latest, almost successful attempt to murder her. Since the gods have seen fit to spare her from Caelius's murderous plots, let her tell the story. Let the tale of her hairbreadth escape emerge from her own shocking testimony. I only pray to the gods that she will continue to recover and be strong enough to testify!"
Regarding this latest outrage, the judges would also hear the written confession of the wretched slave girl Caelius had seduced into betraying her mistress. Her testimony was even now being extracted under torture, as the law required.
There would also be a third, surprise witness to corroborate. Her-ennius cast a chilly smile at the bench opposite. "That man's testimony should be of special interest to the defense, I imagine. The esteemed Marcus Cicero himself has declared this witness to be 'the most honest man in Rome.' Wait until you hear what that fellow has to tell us about the attempts to poison this lady, Cicero! I wonder what you'll have to say then about the depraved murderer sitting beside you!"
This struck me as a clever but dangerous ploy on the part of Her-ennius, to leave a damaging revelation to his witnesses so that it could emerge as a surprise at the very end of the trial, rather than to include it in his oration, where he could shape and deliver the accusation himself The advantage was the sympathy to be stirred by a poison survivor telling her own story; the defense would be hard-pressed to anticipate and neutralize ahead of time any surprises that might emerge from such testimony. Who, I wondered, was this alleged "most honest man in Rome"? I looked at Cicero to catch his reaction and found him, oddly enough, staring straight at me.
Chapter Twenty One
I don't believe for a moment that he poisoned her," said Bethesda,
"any more than I believe that he killed the Egyptian." After three long orations, the court had adjourned early so that the defense advocates could present their responses in succession on the following day. Bethesda and I immediately headed home, where she proceeded to get ready for Clodia's party, even though nightfall was still hours away.
"But Clodia insists that he did."
"She's mistaken," Bethesda frowned at the burnished mirror she held in her hand. "This necklace will never do. Hand me the silver one."
"It can't be both ways," I said. "One of them is lying. What a pity that you have to choose between Clodia and Caelius. What a choice for anyone to have to make!"
"Right now, I am trying to choose a necklace," she said. "The silver one, please."
I searched her dresser for a silver necklace and found myself lost amid the clay jars of unguents and little glass vials of perfume. My eye caught a flash of bright red.
"What's this?"
"What?"
I picked up the little clay figure of Attis, identical to the ones I had seen in the room of Lucceius's wife and on Clodia's dresser. The smiling eunuch stood with his hands on his fat belly, with a bright red Phrygian cap on his head. Bethesda glimpsed its reflection and put down her mirror.
"You shouldn't touch that."
"Where did it come from?" "It came while we were at the trial today."
"I asked where it came from, not when." "It's a gift."
"Who sent it?"
"Who do you think?" Bethesda took the statue from me. She put it back on the dresser, then scooped up a long silver necklace and reached for her mirror. "You're hopeless. Go away and tell Diana to come help me dress."
We arrived at Clodia's door at the last moment of twilight, when the hard edges of the world begin to soften and grow hazy like the mind of a man ready for sleep. But while the world might be drowsy, the party-goers at Clodia's house were wide awake. The brightly lit dining room off her garden was alive with music and conversation. Slaves were jus beginning to show the guests to their places at the dining couches when we arrived. It was an odd mixture of impeccably dressed patricians and scruffy-looking young poets, of radical politicians and aging courtesans, of exotic-looking foreigners and even a few galli. The air was heavy with the world-weary sophistication that passes for style in Rome these days.
Bethesda clutched my arm. On her face was a look so unlike her that it took me a moment to figure out what it was: panic. "What are we doing here?" she whispered.
"Attending what appears to be a very fashionable party, with very fashionable people."
"Why?"
"I think it was you who insisted that we come," I said dryly.
"I must have been out of my mind. Take me home at once."
"But we haven't eaten yet." The smells wafting from the kitchen made my mouth water.
"We haven't even said hello to our hostess."
"That is exactly why we should go this instant. It will be as if we never came."
"Bethesda-"
"This is absurd. Look at me."
I stepped back and did just that.
"Yes? I see a beautiful woman, immaculately dressed and made up. She looks like no one else here."
"Exactly! Anyone can tell I don't belong."
"Why not?"
"I'm not even Roman."
"Of course you are. You're my wife."
"We're not rich."
"No one could tell from the jewelry you're wearing."
"My accent!"
"It gives you an air of mystery." "I'm the oldest woman here." "You're the most beautiful woman here."
"He's absolutely right, you know." I turned to see Catullus at my elbow, holding a cup of wine and wearing a slack grin. "Gratidianus, I didn't expect to see you here."
"Clodia invited us," said Bethesda, a little too insistently.
"She invited me, too, do you believe it?" said Catullus. "Against her better judgment, I'm sure, or against her brother's judgment, anyway. But he's not here-busy with tomorrow's festivities-and I am, so to Hades with him! Let nothing spoil my triumphant return to Palatine society! What a bunch of leeches, lechers and losers." Catullus surveyed the crowd, his grin dripping with acid. "What a bizarre menagerie Clodia's put together: the worst poets and the crookedest politicians in Rome; bankrupt nobles and obscenely wealthy ex-slaves; beautiful boys and homely prostitutes. Did I say homely? Ugly enough to turn a man to stone-no obscene pun intended. And here before me, the most honest man in Rome, accompanied by-" He paused and his expression sobered a bit. "Just as you put it, Gordianus: the most beautiful woman here."
"My wife," I said. "And this, Bethesda, is Gaius Valerius Catullus, just back from a year of government service in Bithynia."
Bethesda nodded knowingly.
"The poet," she said.
He raised an eyebrow. "Am I that famous? Or have you been talking about me behind my back, Gordianus?"
"Not me," I said, trying to make something of the cryptic smile on Bethesda's face and wondering what else Clodia confided to her about Catullus at their first and only meeting. At least Bethesda seemed to be getting her bearings, for which I was glad.
A serving slave arrived to show us to our places. Couches were gathered in U-shaped groups around serving tables. The seating was two to a couch, allowing plenty of room to sit up or recline. As it turned out, Catullus was put at the couch next to ours, at my right. For the moment there was no one else to share his couch. Had Clodia placed us together on purpose, or simply because we were the last guests to be invited? Our group of couches was situated in a corner of the room, the farthest away from the hostess's. That suited me; it would allow Bethesda to feel less conspicuous. But Catullus was not pleased. "Banished back to Bithynia," I heard him grumble.