smoke.'
'Why didn't Fausta divorce him? Especially if she didn't want to go into exile with him, and he was never coming back?'
'I don't know, Davus. Shall we ask her?'
The slave who opened the door had the overfed, oversexed look of a grizzled gladiator gone to seed. That made him a walking contradiction; how many gladiators live long enough to go to seed? Two smoldering eyes peered at us from beneath a single bristling eyebrow, but he was probably cleverer than he looked. How else had he survived long enough to acquire a few gray hairs, not to mention the plum job of waiting on a highborn lady with a special appreciation for gladiators? I wondered how many men he had killed in his life to arrive at this particular perch. He crossed his arms while I gave him my name and requested a few moments of his mistress's time. His forearms were the size of my thighs and covered with ugly scars.
With a jolt, I suddenly recognized him: Birria, one of Milo's most prized gladiators. He had been directly involved in the skirmish with Clodius that day on the Appian Way. He was also one of the gladiators who had been lounging with Fausta in her bath on the occasion when I met her. I was surprised Milo had not taken Birria with him, knowing the slave's reputation as a trained killer. Perhaps Birria had been part of Fausta's dowry settlement and so had remained with her. He had gained a great deal of weight since I last saw him, and not much of it was muscle.
Birria left us in the foyer while he went to announce us. The house was even gloomier and more bereft of ornaments than I had expected. One feature did catch my eye, however. It gave me quite a start.
It is the custom of Roman nobles to display busts of their illustrious ancestors in niches in the foyers of their homes. In Fausta's foyer, there were only one niche and one bust. Pacing the little room, turning on my heel, I abruptly found myself face-to-face with the image of Lucius Cornelius Sulla, the dictator.
I had met him once. Like so many others, I had been charmed-and a little terrified. An appetite for pleasure and for cruelty had radiated from him like the heat of the sun at midsummer; men averted their faces in Sulla's presence, fearful of being scorched. His example-winning a bloody civil war, attaining absolute power and using it to behead his enemies, reforming the state in his image and then turning his back on it-had haunted Rome for two generations. Depending on one's political point of view, his legacy had either broken the Constitution, or else failed to shore it up enough-and in either case had generated a series of disasters that led directly across the decades to the present moment, with the Republic paralyzed and Rome holding its breath for the arrival of a second Sulla. He had been dead now for over thirty years, but the eyes that peered from the marble image in Fausta's foyer still had the power to chill my blood.
From somewhere deeper in the house I heard the sound of a man shouting. The words were indistinct, but the tone was angry and demeaning. Who was shouting? Who was being shouted at?
A little later Birria returned. Was he more sullen than when he'd left? With such an ugly face, it was hard to tell. 'The mistress can't see you today,' he said.
'No? Perhaps-'
'I gave her your name. She knows who you are. She doesn't have time to see you.'
'Perhaps you could go back and mention another name.'
He scowled. 'What would that be?'
'Cassandra. Tell her that I want to talk about Cassandra.'
'Won't make a difference. You'd better go now.' He walked up to me, squaring his massive shoulders to block my way. He didn't stop, but strode right into me, forcing me to take tripping, back ward steps. Behind me, Davus emitted a threatening grunt. I looked over my shoulder and saw a scowl on his face to match the gladiator's. I felt like a man caught between two snorting bulls.
From behind Birria, I heard a woman's shrill voice. 'No! Birria, stop this! No fighting before Papa's image! I've decided to see the Finder after all. I… I want to see him.' Her voice had an oddly plaintive tone, as if she were asking for permission.
Birria stopped and stared down at me, then over my head at Davus. I smelled garlic on his breath-gladiators eat it for strength-and wrinkled my nose. At last he stepped back and out of the way.
'As you wish, mistress,' he said, glaring at me.
Davus and I stepped past him toward Fausta. Instead of waiting, she turned away while we were still several paces distant and began to lead us down a dim hallway. 'This way. Follow me. Where shall we…? Not the garden, I think. No, definitely not the garden. We'll talk… in the Baiae room. Yes, that will do.'
She kept several paces ahead of me. I found myself staring at the mass of ginger hair pinned atop her head and the jiggling of her ample back side beneath her orange stola. I noticed with a start-for until then she had managed to hide it-that one of her arms was in a sling, and that she was walking with a slight limp. Had she suffered an accident?
The chamber she called the Baiae room was a narrow alcove off a hall. The only light came from the doorway. Lamps were hung from the ceiling, but none were lit, and so the room was dim and shadowy. Even so, I could see how the room came to have its name. The floor was a mosaic in many shades of green and blue, touched with flashes of gold, depicting various creatures of the deep-octopi, whales, dolphins, fish-and bordered with images of seashells. The walls of the room were painted with scenes of villas perched above the sea cliffs of Baiae. I stepped closer, losing myself in the picture, until the voice of Fausta called me back.
'Why don't the two of you sit over there, in those chairs at the far end of the room?' she said. 'I'll sit here close by the doorway.'
'This must be a very beautiful room when it's well lit,' I said, taking a seat and gesturing to Davus to do the same.
'Oh, yes. My brother Faustus used to own this house. He didn't actually live here; he only kept it as a sort of guest house, a place to lend out to visitors and friends. Faustus was awfully flush with money at the time. He spent a great deal on fixtures and stonework and such. He doted on this little room more than any other. The mosaics and the wall paintings are meant to be viewed by lamplight at night. It's quite a magical place when you see it that way. By day it's rather dim in here, isn't it? And it could use a bit of restoration. I don't think the painters quite knew what they were doing. In places there's an awful lot of peeling and flaking. Of course I can't afford to have it properly redone, and neither could Faustus these days. But once the war is over, his fortunes will change for the better. Caesar's rich supporters will lose their heads along with their estates, and men like Faustus will get what's due to them. That's how my father rewarded his partisans, giving them the best of the booty seized from his enemies. Pompey will do the same, if he has any sense. What do you think, Gordianus? Is Pompey half the man my father was?'
Twice the man, but half the monster, I wanted to say, but bit my tongue. I had the feeling she was teasing me, but it was hard to read her expression. She sat with her back to the door, so the light came from behind her and cast her face in shadow.
'You think it will be Pompey who triumphs, then?' I said. 'I might have thought, in light of recent events…'
'You mean this business with my husband and Caelius?' I couldn't see her face, but I could hear the disgust in her voice. 'As soon as word reached Rome that Milo had slipped out of Massilia, Isauricus himself came here to question me. He assumed, since I'm still married to Milo, that I would be able to tell him exactly what my husband was up to, even though I hadn't seen Milo in years or exchanged a letter in months. 'Do you think I can read Milo's mind at a distance of several hundred miles?' I asked him. 'Do you think that I can predict what the fool will do next?' I ran Isauricus out of the house, and he hasn't come back.'
I nodded. Considering the state of Fausta's household, the consul had probably decided that she posed no threat and wasn't worth keeping an eye on. I shifted uneasily in my chair, frustrated at being unable to see her face clearly.
Fausta sighed. 'Fortune was cruel to Milo. Cruel to us both. To be perfectly candid-and I'll be more candid with you than I was with Isauricus-I wasn't the least bit surprised when I heard about Milo escaping from Massilia and coming back to Italy. Nor was I surprised to learn that he had taken up with Marcus Caelius. Each chose to follow a different leader. Both of those leaders cruelly let them down; Pompey abandoned Milo, and Caesar shunted Caelius aside. Milo and Caelius are like two orphans, taking up with each other so they won't be alone. There must be many more like them, big men and little men, all feeling abandoned by whichever leader they chose, all feeling
