him in two, but he kept his distance, afraid to lay his hands on a holy eunuch. Trygonion had slipped into my study without missing a step, while a man three times his size blustered for him to stay back.
Belbo gave the gallus a disgruntled look and withdrew. Behind me I heard the clearing of a throat and turned to see the soldier slipping my letter into a leather pouch. 'I'm off, then,' he said, nodding to me and then looking at the eunuch with a mixture of curiosity and distaste.
'May Mercury guide you,' I said.
'And may the purifying blood of the Great Goddess spring from between her legs and wash over you!' added Trygonion. He pressed his palms together, making his bracelets jingle, and bowed his head. The soldier wrinkled his brow and hastily moved to depart, uncertain whether he had just been blessed or cursed. As he moved to slip out the narrow doorway, he turned sideways to avoid touching the eunuch, but Trygonion deliberately shifted his stance so that their shoulders brushed, and I saw the soldier shudder. The contrast was striking, between the stern, virile young Roman in his military garb and the diminutive, grinning, foreign-born gallus in his priestly gown. How odd, I thought, that the larger, stronger one, trained to kill and defend himself, should be the one to shiver in fear.
Trygonion seemed to be thinking the same thing, for as the soldier stomped down the hallway the eunuch looked after him and made a trilling laugh. But as he turned back to me his smile quickly faded.
'Gordianus,' he said softly, bowing his head in greeting. 'I am again honored to be admitted into your home.'
'It would seem I had little choice over whether to admit you or not, considering how giants give way before you and soldiers flee in panic.'
He laughed, but not in the trilling way he had used to mock the soldier. It was a throaty chuckle, such as men exchange over a witticism in the Forum. The gallus seemed able to change his persona at will, from feminine to masculine, never seeming wholly one or the other but something which was neither.
'I've been sent to fetch you.'
'Oh?'
'Yes, imagine that — a priest of Cybele, dispatched like a messenger boy.' He cocked an eyebrow. 'Dispatched by whom?' 'By a certain lady.' 'Does she have a name?'
'Of course she does-many names, though I'd advise you to avoid the more scandalous ones and call her by the name her father gave her, unless you wish to have your face slapped. That is, until you get to know her better.'
'What name is that?'
'She lives here on the Palatine, only a few steps away.' He gestured toward the door with an ingratiating smile.
'Still, before I go off to see her, I think I should like to know her name and what business she might have with me.'
'Her business involves a certain mutual acquaintance. Two mutual acquaintances, actually. One living; one… dead.' He looked coy, then somber. Neither expression seemed quite genuine, as if he had exchanged one mask for another. 'Two mutual acquaintances,' he repeated. 'One, a murderer-the other, the murderer's victim. One who even now moves through the Forum, laughing with his friends and flinging obscenities at his enemies, while the other moves through Hades, a shadow among shadows. Perhaps he will meet Aristotle there and debate him face to face, and the dead can decide which of them knew more about living.' 'Dio,' I whispered.
'Yes, I speak of Dio-and Dio's killer. That's the business I've come about.'
'Whose business?'
'The business of my lady. She has made it her business.' 'Who is she?' I said, growing impatient.
'Come and see. She longs to meet you.' He raised an eyebrow and leered like a pimp procuring for a whore.
'Tell me her name,' I said slowly, trying to keep my temper.
Trygonion sighed and rolled his eyes. 'Oh, very well. Her name is Clodia.' He paused, saw the expression on my face, and laughed. 'Ah, I see that you've already heard of her!'
Chapter Nine
Onour way out, we passed Bethesda and Diana in the hallway.
'Where are you going?' Bethesda cast a chilly glance of recognition at Trygonion, crossed her arms and gave me the Medusa look. How could such a woman ever have been anyone's slave, least of all mine? Diana stood alongside and slightly behind her mother. She too drew back her shoulders and crossed her arms, affecting the same imperious gaze.
'Out,' I said. Bethesda's arms remained crossed; the answer did not suffice.
'The gallus may have some work for me,' I added.
She stared at the little priest so intently that I would hardly have been surprised to see him turn to stone. Instead, he smiled at her. The two of them seemed impervious to each other. Trygonion was not intimidated; Bethesda was not charmed. 'You'd better take Belbo with you' was all she had to say before uncrossing her arms and proceeding down the hallway. Diana followed, mimicking her mother's movements with uncanny precision-until I swung around and tickled her under her arms. She let out a scream of laughter and ran forward, stumbling into Bethesda. They both turned and looked back at me, Diana laughing, Bethesda with one eyebrow raised and the merest hint of a smile on her lips.
'Take Belbo!' she repeated before turning her back and walking on. Now I understand, I thought: she remembers Trygonion from his visit with Dio, she knows about Dio's murder, and now, seeing me leave with Trygonion, she fears for me. How touching!
The three of us-the gallus, Belbo and myself-stepped out into the bright afternoon sunshine. The warmth in my study had seemed mild and the air sweet, like early springtime; here in the street, the sun had heated the paving stones and the air was hot. Trygonion produced a tiny yellow parasol from the folds of his robe, opened it up and held it aloft.
'Perhaps I should have brought my broad-brimmed hat,' I said, squinting up at the cloudless sky.
'It's only a short walk,' said the gallus. 'Straight ahead for a block or two, then off to the right.'
We walked up the street and passed the apartment building where Marcus Caelius lived. The shutters of all the upper-story windows were closed, despite the heat. Could he be sleeping, at this time of day? What a life!
The building was owned by the rabble-rouser Publius Clodius; now I was on the way to see his sister. What a small town Rome is, I thought, and growing smaller with each passing year. I had never met either of the notorious Clodii. They were distant cousins of my old patron Lucius Claudius, but our paths had never crossed. That had suited me. In recent years I've grown increasingly selective both of those I choose to help and of those I choose to offend. From what one heard about them, Clodia and Clodius were the sort it was best simply to avoid.
An obscure citizen lamenting the theft of his family's silver; an old acquaintance threatened by anonymous letters; a young wife unfairly accused of adultery by her vindictive mother-in-law-in my semiretirement, these struck me as the sort of people to whom I should lend my expertise. Men who deal in raw power, who control vast networks of secret operatives, who dispatch strong-armers to crush their opponents- the Pompeys and King Ptolemies of this world-these struck me as men I should take extreme care to avoid offending, even if it meant passing up the chance to help an old friend; even though it had meant turning my back on Dio of Alexandria.
Now I found myself on the way to the house of Clodia, supposedly to discuss some matter relating to the murder of Dio, following a priest of Cybele carrying a bright yellow parasol through the sunny streets of the Palatine. The gods delight in surprising men with the unexpected- and are notorious for the cruelty of their mirth.
Clodia's house was situated at the end of a little cul-de-sac off a quiet lane. Like the houses belonging to most patrician families, it looked old and showed an unassuming face to the street.
The windowless front was stained with a muted yellow wash. The doorstep was paved with glazed red and black tiles. Twin cypress trees framed the rustic oak door. The trees soared to a great height; I had often noticed them from the balcony at the back of my house, but had never known exactly where they were located. Like the house, the cypresses had obviously been there for many years.
The slave who answered the door was a burly young man with a neatly trimmed black beard and bushy
