could. Here, away from the bustle of the city's center, the wealthiest families of Rome kept little garden estates, called horti, along the waterfront. Clodia's horti had been in her family for generations. It was there I had first met her eight years ago when she summoned me to investigate the murder of the Egyptian philosopher Dio. Marcus Caelius had been her lover, but they had fallen out, and Clodia had been determined to exact her revenge by prosecuting him for Dio's murder.
Clodia's horti were also the last place I had seen her, when I came to her after her beloved brother's murder on the Appian Way. Fulvia had been Clodius's wife, but there were those who said Clodia was the true widow, no matter that she was the dead man's sister.
As Davus and I walked along the road, I caught only occasional glimpses of the river to our right. More often, high walls blocked our view. Once, access to the horti along the Tiber had been relatively open, but in recent years many owners had built high fences and walls to keep out strangers. When we did pass by an unwalled estate, I saw patches of woodland and tall grass interspersed with meticulously cultivated gardens. Through the foliage I caught glimpses of rustic sheds and charming little guest houses, shade-dappled fishponds and splashing fountains, stone- paved walkways adorned with statuary, and boat ramps projecting into the glimmering Tiber.
Clodia's horti were far enough from the city's center to feel secluded, yet close enough to reach by foot-an enviable location for a piece of riverfront property in the capital of the world. Cicero, who had done a thorough job of destroying Clodia's reputation in the process of defending Caelius, had had the gall to try to buy her horti from Clodia only only a few years later. Clodia had refused even to speak to his agent.
Unlike many of her neighbors, Clodia had resisted the trend of encircling her horti with high walls. Coming upon the narrow lane that led off the main road into her grounds, I had the feeling of being somewhere far away from the city with all its crimes and riots. The lane was bordered by sprawling berry bushes that met overhead, shading the way. This tunnel-like path opened onto a broad swath of high grass. Once, I remembered, that grass had been kept closely mown by a pair of goats. The goats were gone. What had once been a lawn had become a wild meadow.
Facing the meadow and perpendicular to the river, which was almost entirely obscured by an intervening stand of dense trees, was a long, narrow house with a portico running along the front. The house was not as I remembered. Tiles were missing from the roof. Some of the shutters were askew, hanging from broken hinges. The shrubbery along the portico, perfectly trimmed in my memory, was overgrown and choked with weeds.
I remembered Clodia's horti echoing with music and the laughter of naked bathers on the riverbank. All I heard on this day was the buzzing of cicadas in the high grass. The place seemed utterly deserted, with not even a groundskeeper to look after it.
'Doesn't look like anyone's here,' said Davus.
'Perhaps not. On such a beautiful day, it's hard to imagine she wouldn't be here. She used to love this place so much! But times change. People change. The world grows older.' I sighed. 'Still, let's take a look down by the river.'
Avoiding the high grass, we walked along the portico that fronted the house. Where the shutters hung off their hinges, I peeked inside the windows. The rooms were dark, but I could see that some had been stripped entirely of their furnishings. The place smelled of dust and mildew.
We came to the end of the portico. Here a little path wound among magnificent yew trees and cypresses, leading down to the water's edge. I had given up on finding Clodia, but for nostalgia's sake I wanted to stand for a moment at the place where I had first met her. She had been lounging on a high couch in her red-and-white-striped pavilion wearing a gown of sheerest gossamer, while she watched a band of young men, including her brother, Clodius, frolic naked in the water for her amusement.
We made our way through the trees. To my surprise, a lone figure sat in a folding chair on the riverbank facing the water. It was a woman wearing a stola better suited for winter days; the wool was dark gray and the sleeves covered her arms. Her dark hair was streaked with gray and pulled back in a bun. What was she doing here? She hardly looked like the sort of woman to be a friend of Clodia's.
She must have heard us, for she turned about in the chair and peered up at us, shading her brow against the sun so that her face was obscured.
'Does Clodia know you're here?' I asked.
The woman laughed. It was her laugh I recognized-sly, indulgent, intimating unspoken secrets. 'Have I really changed that much, Gordianus? You haven't changed a bit.'
'Clodia!' I whispered.
She lowered her hand. I saw her face. Her eyes were the same-emerald green, as bright as sunlight on the green Tiber-but time had caught up with the rest of her. It had been only four years since I had last seen her. How could she have aged so much in that time?
To be sure, she had taken no pains to look her best. That in itself marked a change; Clodia had always been vain about her appearance. But on this day she wore no makeup to accentuate her eyes and lips, no jewelry to adorn her ears and throat, and a drab stola that did nothing to flatter her. Her hair, usually elaborately dressed and colored with henna, was pulled back in a simple bun and showed an abundance of gray. The most subtle difference, and yet the most telling, was the fact that she seemed to be wearing no scent. Clodia's perfume, a heady blend of spikenard and crocus oil, had haunted me for years. It was impossible to think of her without recalling that scent. Yet on this day, standing near her, I smelled only the rank green smell of the riverbank on a summer day.
She smiled. 'Whom did you expect to find here?'
'No one. The house appears deserted.'
'So it is.'
'There's no one else here?' I said. 'No one at all?' Clodia had always surrounded herself with admiring sycophants who spouted poetry, beautiful slaves of both genders, and a veritable army of lovers-cast-off lovers, current lovers, would-be lovers awaiting their turn.
'No one but me,' she said. 'I came by litter early this morning, then sent the bearers back to my house on the Palatine. I come here very seldom nowadays, but when I do, I prefer to be alone. Slaves can be so tiresome, standing about waiting for instructions. And there's no one left in Rome worth inviting to a bathing party. All the beautiful young men are off getting themselves killed somewhere. Or they're dead already…' She looked past me, at Davus. 'Except for this one. Who is he, Gordianus?'
I smiled, despite a twinge of jealously. 'Davus is my son-in-law.'
'Can your little girl really be old enough to be married? And to such a mountain of muscles! Lucky little Diana. Maybe he'd like to take a swim in the river.' She stared at Davus like a hungry tigress. Perhaps she had not changed so very much after all.
I raised an eyebrow. 'I think not.'
Davus gazed at the sparkling water. 'Actually, Father-in-Law, it's such a hot day…'
'By all means, go jump in the water,' said Clodia. 'I insist! Slip out of that silly toga… and whatever you're wearing underneath. You can hang your things on that tree branch there. Just as all the young men used to do; I remember that branch piled high with cast-off garments…'
Davus looked at me. His brow glistened with sweat. 'Oh, very well,' I said.
Clodia laughed softly. 'Stop glowering, Gordianus. Unless you'd like to take a swim as well, you'll find another folding chair in that little lean-to over there. There's also a box with a bit of food and some wine.'
When I returned with the chair and the box, Davus was striding toward the river's edge, barefoot and wearing only his loincloth.
'Young man!' called Clodia.
Davus looked over his shoulder.
'Come back here, young man.'
Davus headed back, a questioning look on his face. As soon as he was within range, Clodia reached out, gripped his loincloth, and deftly pulled it off. She sat back in her chair and spun the loincloth on her forefinger for a moment before tossing it with perfect aim atop the toga draped over the tree branch. 'There, that's better. A fellow as handsome as you should go into the river just as the gods made you.'
I expected Davus to blush and stammer, but instead he grinned stupidly, let out a whoop, and ran splashing into the water.
I sighed. 'You still have the power to make grown men into little boys, I see.'
'Every man except you, Gordianus. By Hercules, look at the thighs on that fellow-and what's between them.
