stray from Bethesda. Until now…
No matter how circuitous the route, no matter how distracting or amusing or arousing or appalling the memories summoned up by each turning of a corner, my feet knew where they were leading me.
When I arrived at the doorstep of her tenement, guarded by the dog who did not bark at my approach, was I surprised? A little. The part of me that desired her-totally, without question, beyond reason-had outfoxed the part of me that knew such a thing was impossible, improper, absurd. Absurdity, more than anything else, might have stayed me. A much older man hankering after a beautiful young woman inevitably presents a preposterous scene. I thought of every lecherous old fool I had ever seen on the stage and cringed at the idea of making a comic spectacle of myself. Even assuming that my advances were welcomed and mutually desired, there were complications-not least the fact that the object of my desire might be as mad as everyone said, in which case, was I not equally mad to be pursuing her?
As to the greatest complication of all-my companion and wife of many years, ailing and alone in her bed at home-I could not even bear to think of that. In the end, I was hardly thinking at all as I found myself propelled forward by some mechanism of the body far removed from conscious thought.
If she had not been in her room, or if Rupa had been there, perhaps things might have turned out very differently. But she was there, and she was alone. I pulled back the curtain, unannounced and without warning, expecting to give her a start. Instead, she slowly turned her face in my direction, sat up on the pallet, and rose to her feet. As she slowly walked toward me, her eyes never left mine. She parted her lips and opened her arms. I let the curtain drop behind me. I think I let out a little cry, like a child overwhelmed by an unfamiliar emotion, as her lips met mine and covered them.
XII
The morning after my visits to Antonia and Cytheris, I again rose early. Bethesda stirred and spoke a little, but remained in bed. She had almost entirely stopped eating, and this, even more than her lethargy, was beginning to worry me. Her face had become gaunt, her eyes vacant. The powerful will that had ruled my household for so many years seemed to be seeping out of her little by little, leaving only a shell behind.
The day was already warm, but a chill passed through me. For the very first time-always before I had managed to avoid the thought-I had an inkling of what the world would be like without her. I had experienced life before Bethesda, but so long ago I could hardly remember such a thing. To imagine a life after Bethesda was almost impossible. I reminded myself that in such matters we mortals seldom have a choice, physicians and radish soup and prayers to the gods notwithstanding.
I ate a little. I summoned Androcles and Mopsus to help put on my toga, then sent them to do the same for Davus. Thus my day began as had the previous two, and I realized, with a twinge of mingled pleasure and guilt, that I had begun to enjoy this routine. It gave me something to take my mind off Bethesda, and my debts, and the discord in my household. In a curious way, even though it was all about her, it even took my mind off Cassandra, or at least gave me something to think about besides the obsessive longing she had stirred in me-and the consequent guilt-and the grief I had felt when she died in my arms.
I realized, as I made plans and preparations for the day, that I was working again-not for another, and not for money (alas), but working nonetheless at the curious trade that had sustained me throughout my life. In recent years I had gradually retired from that trade, leaving it to Eco. I had become Gordianus the husband, Gordianus the father, Gordianus the chin-wagger in the Forum, and even, against all expectations, Gordianus the illicit lover-but no longer Gordianus the Finder. Now I once again found myself doing what I had always done best, looking for the truth of a matter that no one else cared, or dared, to pursue. I had found my bearings and settled like a wagon wheel into a familiar groove. In spite of all my reasons to feel miserable, at least I could say with certainty who and what I was. I was Gordianus the Finder again, pursuing the course the gods had laid down for me.
Davus stepped into the garden. From the satisfied, slightly stupid look on his face, I suspected that he and my daughter had found their own release from the strains of life at some point during the night. And why not? I tried to suppress a twinge of envy.
'How is-?' Davus's question was cut off with a yawn as he stretched his arms above his head, disarranging the folds of his toga.
'Bethesda is no better… but no worse,' I said, hoping I spoke the truth.
'And where are we off to this morning, Father-in-Law?'
At the height of Milo's power, when he ruled a veritable army of street gangs in competition with Clodius, he and his wife, Fausta, had lived in one of the city's more imposing houses, a worthy habitation for the daughter of the dictator Sulla and the husband from whom she expected great things.
That house and its contents had been confiscated by the state and sold at auction not long after Milo's exile from Rome. Fausta, though she remained married to Milo, refused to accompany him to Massilia. Without a house, where was she to live and by what means? As it turned out, the law included a provision for an abandoned wife to reclaim her dowry from the first proceeds of confiscated property. Fausta's dowry had been considerable, and after the auction she managed to get much of it back. With that money she had moved into a smaller, more humble dwelling on the far side of the Palatine Hill from my own. She was not exactly poor, but she had fallen a great distance in the world.
'What will this one be like?' asked Davus, as we headed out.
'What do you mean?'
'So far, I haven't known quite what to make of all these women.'
I laughed. 'What can I tell you about Fausta? On the one occasion when I met her, which was shortly before Milo went into exile, she was taking a bath with two of his gladiators-and she invited me to join them. That sort of behavior was what ended her first marriage, before Milo. She was seeing two lovers on the side-so goes the story- and being rather blatant about it. One was a fuller who owned a wool-washing operation. The other was a fellow called Macula, on account of a birthmark on his cheek that looked like a stain. Her twin brother, Faustus, made a crack about it: 'Seeing that she has the personal services of a fuller, I don't see why she doesn't get rid of that 'Stain'! My sister's behavior is less than immaculate.' '
'Immaculate,' Davus repeated slowly, grasping the pun.
'Exactly. But Fausta's husband didn't find the situation quite so amusing. He divorced her for adultery. Then she married Milo. Several steps up socially, for him. For her, he must have seemed a good prospect. Perhaps Milo's ruthlessness appealed to her; maybe it reminded her of her father. Who knew his career would end in murder and exile just a few years later?
'The scandals started the very day after their wedding, when Milo came home and caught her in the act with a fellow named Sallust. Milo gave Sallust a sound thrashing, which was of course his legal right-indeed, Milo could have killed him, and it wouldn't have been murder-and confiscated his moneybag for a fine.
'But Fausta was incorrigible. Not long after the incident with Sallust, she invited not one but two lovers to come over one afternoon. Then Milo showed up. One of the fellows managed to hide in a wardrobe, but Milo caught the other, dragged him out of the bedroom, and proceeded to beat him to a pulp. Meanwhile, the first fellow slipped back into Fausta's bed, and the two of them made mad, passionate love to the sound of the other fellow screaming and begging Milo for mercy. Before you point out the obvious, Davus, I will: Fausta enjoys being caught.'
He frowned. 'And perhaps Milo enjoyed catching her. Otherwise, why didn't he divorce her?'
'Because Fausta's connections were too valuable to him, politically and socially. Her dowry was valuable, too. Not all marriages are like yours with my daughter, Davus, based on'-I almost said blind lust, but that would have been unfair-'based on mutual love, desire, and respect. Some marriages are based on other considerations-power, money, prestige. Especially marriages among the Best People or those aspiring to join their ranks. Which isn't to say that Milo and Fausta didn't find one another attractive. I think there was a definite spark between them-her, all ginger hair and voluptuous curves; him, all hot tempered and hairy chested.
'Eventually things settled down between the two of them. Maybe Milo finally scared off all her lovers! He tended to his political career. She appeared beside him as his dutiful wife. Who could doubt that one day he would be elected consul, and she would be a consul's wife? Then came the murder of Clodius, and Milo's career went up in
