Maximus. None of those inscrutable rites that Cybele's followers practice in the East-ecstatic riots by worshipers in the streets, all-night vigils of men and women together in the temple, the chosen faithful crawling through tunnels that drip blood. We Romans don't care much for that sort of thing, whatever the religious pretext. And no mention, ever, of Attis! We'd rather not think about the castrated lover. So the official celebration of Cybele became another chance for state priests and politicians to put on plays and circuses for the people. Of course, what the galli and their inner circle of worshipers do behind closed doors is another matter… Oh, I don't believe it!'
With a shiver of tambourines, the music had recommenced.
'They must have finished their dinner and now they're at it again,' said Clodius glumly. 'Do you suppose they eat like normal men?'
'Trygonion showed a hearty appetite the night he ate at my house.'
'When was that?'
'When he came with Dio, asking for my help. The night of the murder.'
'Ah, yes. When he talked the poor old man into playing dress-up with him. Clodia told me about it. Dio, going out in a stola-it's too painful for me to imagine. That's Trygonion, longing to be something he's not and pulling others into his fantasy world.'
'The gallus seems to have a curious relationship with your sister.'
Clodius smirked. 'Another example of Clodia's questionable judgment. Like Catullus, like Marcus Caelius.'
'You're not saying that she and Trygonion…?'
'Don't be stupid. But in some ways he's no different from the men who've come and gone in this house with their balls intact: they all let Clodia treat them like slaves-for a while, anyway. We haven't seen much of Trygonion lately. He's busy preparing for the festival with the other galli. That might be him we hear now, blowing on his flute.' He frowned. 'You don't suppose Clodia could be over at the House of Galli, concocting some sort of entertainment for her party?'
'Her party?'
'Clodia always throws a party on the eve of the Great Mother festival. It's the first social event of the spring. Three nights from now.' 'But that's the opening day of the trial.'
'Purely by coincidence. One more reason to celebrate, if all goes well. This garden will be full of people, and up on the stage-well, every year Clodia has to outdo herself. Maybe this year Trygonion will play his instrument for us.' He laughed crudely.
'I won't be able to come. I got myself elected aedile this year, so I'm in charge of overseeing the official events of the festival-too busy for pleasure. I'll probably have to miss the trial as well. Too bad. I should like to watch Caelius squirm. I love a good trial.' His green eyes glittered. In the lamplight he looked uncannily like his sister. 'I even enjoyed my own trial. You remember that, don't you, Gordianus?'
'I wasn't there,' I said cautiously. 'But I think that everyone re-members the Good Goddess affair.'
He drank deeply of the honeyed wine. 'From that ordeal I learned three things. First, never trust Cicero to back you up. Stab you in the back, more likely! Second, when bribing a jury, account for a comfortable margin of victory. You'll sleep better the night before. I did.'
'And third?'
'Think twice before putting on women's clothing, for whatever reason. It did me no good at all.'
'It did Dio no good either,' I said.
Clodius made a dry little laugh. 'Perhaps you have a sense of humor after all.'
The older I get, the more easily I fall asleep without meaning to.
At the end of our meal Clodius got up, saying he had to relieve himself. I relaxed and closed my eyes, listening to the chanting of the galli. The pleasing phrase I had heard before recurred, and I followed it along until it seemed that I was floating on the strange music, rising above Clodia's garden, levitating face to face with the monstrous Venus, then flying even higher. Rome was a toy city beneath me, moonlit, her temples made of little blocks. The music rose and fell, and I was carried along like a bubble on a wave, like a feather in a mist, until someone whispered in my ear: 'If Marcus Caelius didn't murder Dio, who did?'
I woke with a start. The voice had been so clear, so close, that I was puzzled to find myself alone. The lamps had died. The sky above was spangled with stars. The garden was dark and quiet, except for the soft splashing of the fountain. Someone had put a blanket over me.
The blanket smelled of Clodia's perfume.
Too much honeyed wine, I thought. Too much rich food. Yet I felt clear-headed and refreshed. How long had I slept?
I pushed away the blanket. The night was too warm for it. I stood, stretched my arms and looked around, still not quite certain I was alone. But there was no one in the garden, except for the suppliant Adonis and the towering Venus, huge and black in silhouette. Her eyes glittered dully in the starlight. Again I had the unnerving feeling that the statue was about to come to life. I shivered and was suddenly eager to leave the garden.
At the top of the steps 1 paused to quietly call out-'Clodius? Clodia? Chrysis?' — but no one answered. The house was absolutely still. I might have been in an empty temple, shut up for the night. I walked through the hallway and the atrium, into the foyer. Surely there would be a slave at the door, perhaps the same old man who had let us in that afternoon.
But the slave at the door was Barnabas, fast asleep. He sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, his head tilted back so that by the faint starlight which seeped in from the atrium I could see his face with its joined eyebrows. There was something gathered about him on the floor, a puzzling shape which I slowly realized was the body of Chrysis, asleep with her head nestled on his lap. In the utter stillness I could hear their quiet breathing.
Clodius had promised to see me safely home, which I took to mean an escort. It was only reasonable that I should wake Chrysis or Barnabas and tell them what I needed. But their repose was so perfect that I feared to move, not wanting to disturb them.
A hand touched my shoulder. I turned and stared into the darkness. The Ethiop was so dark that for a moment I couldn't see him at all.
'My master said I was to take care of you if you woke up,' he said, with an accent I could barely understand.
'Clodius is still here?'
The giant nodded.
'And Clodia?'
'She came, while you slept.'
'Perhaps I should see her before I leave.'
'They've gone to bed.'
'Are they asleep?'
'What difference does that make?' By the faint light, I couldn't tell whether the giant was grinning down at me or gritting his teeth. The garlic on his breath was overpowering. Gladiators and strong-armers eat it raw to give themselves strength.
He unbolted the door and swung it open, letting it bang against the sleeping figures on the floor with a smirk of disdain. Chrysis let out a sleepy whimper. Barnabas grunted. 'Poor excuse for a door slave,' the Ethiop sneered. 'She's too soft on her slaves. Well, go on. I'll be right behind you.'
'No,' I said. 'I'll go alone.' The man made me uneasy.
The Ethiop crossed his arms and looked at me grimly. 'The master gave me specific orders.'
'I'll see myself home,' I said. It was suddenly a battle of wills.
At last the Ethiop made a face of disgust and shrugged his brawny shoulders. 'Suit yourself,' he said and closed the door on me.
It was such a short way to my house, and the night was so silent and so deep, surely there was nothing to fear.
Chapter Seventeen
