Roman Blood: A Novel of Ancient Rome

by Steven Saylor

Overview

In the unseasonable heat of a spring morning in 80 B.C., Gordianus the Finder is summoned to the house of Cicero, a young advocate staking his reputation on a case involving the savage murder of the wealthy, sybaritic Sextus Roscius. Charged with the murder is Sextus's son, greed being the apparent motive. The punishment, rooted deep in Roman tradition, is horrific beyond imagining.

The case becomes a political nightmare when Gordianus's investigation takes him through the city's raucous, pungent streets and deep into rural Umbria. Now, one man's fate may threaten the very leaders of Rome itself.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781429908580
Publisher:	St. Martin's Publishing Group
Publication date:	04/01/2007
Series:	Novels of Ancient Rome , #1
Sold by:	Macmillan
Format:	eBook
Pages:	384
Sales rank:	281,585
File size:	1 MB

About the Author

Steven Saylor is the author of the long running Roma Sub Rosa series featuring Gordianus the Finder, as well as the New York Times bestselling novel, Roma and its follow-up, Empire. He has appeared as an on-air expert on Roman history and life on The History Channel. Saylor was born in Texas and graduated with high honors from The University of Texas at Austin, where he studied history and classics. He divides his time between Berkeley, California, and Austin, Texas.

Steven Saylor is the author of the long running Roma Sub Rosa series featuring Gordianus the Finder, as well as the New York Times bestselling novel, Roma and its follow-up, Empire. He has appeared as an on-air expert on Roman history and life on The History Channel. Saylor was born in Texas and graduated with high honors from The University of Texas at Austin, where he studied history and classics. He divides his time between Berkeley, California, and Austin, Texas.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

The slave who came to fetch me on that unseasonably warm spring morning was a young man, hardly more than twenty.

Usually, when a client sends for me, the messenger is a slave from the very lowest rung of the household — a grub, a cripple, a half-wit boy from the stables stinking of dung and sneezing from the bits of straw in his hair. It's a kind of formality; when one seeks out the services of Gordianus the Finder, one keeps a certain distance and restraint. It's as if I were a leper, or the priest of some unclean Oriental cult. I'm used to it. I take no offense — so long as my accounts are paid on time and in full.

The slave who stood at my door on this particular morning, however, was very clean and meticulously groomed. He had a quiet manner that was respectful but far from groveling — the politeness one expects from any young man addressing another man ten years his elder. His Latin was impeccable (better than mine), and the voice that delivered it was as beautifully modulated as a flute. No grub from the stables, then, but clearly the educated and pampered servant of a fond master. The slave's name was Tiro.

"Of the household of the most esteemed Marcus Tullius Cicero," he added, pausing with a slight inclination of his head to see if I recognized the name. I did not. "Come to seek your services," he added, "on the recommendation of —"

I took his arm, placed my forefinger over his lips, and led him into the house. Brutal winter had been followed by sweltering spring; despite the early hour, it was already far too hot to be standing in an open doorway. It was also far too early to be listening to this young slave's chatter, no matter how melodious his voice. My temples rolled with thunder. Spidery traces of lightning flashed and vanished just beyond the corners of my eyes.

"Tell me," I said, "do you know the cure for a hangover?" Young Tiro looked at me sidelong, puzzled by the change of subject, suspicious of my sudden familiarity. "No, sir."

I nodded. "Perhaps you've never experienced a hangover?" He blushed slightly. "No, sir."

"Your master allows you no wine?"

"Of course he does. But as my master says, moderation in all things —"

I nodded. I winced. The slightest movement set off an excruciating pain. "Moderation in all things, I suppose, except the hour at which he sends a slave to call at my door."

"Oh. Forgive me, sir. Perhaps I should return at a later hour?"

"That would be a waste of your time and mine. Not to mention your master's. No, you'll stay, but you'll speak no business until I tell you to, and you'll join me for breakfast in the garden, where the air is sweeter."

I took his arm again, led him through the atrium, down a darkened hallway, and into the peristyle at the center of the house. I watched his eyebrows rise in surprise, whether at the extent of the place or its condition I couldn't be sure. I was used to the garden, of course, but to a stranger it must have appeared quite a shambles — the willow trees madly overgrown, their hanging tendrils touching tall weeds that sprouted from dusty ground; the fountain at the center long ago run dry, its little marble statue of Pan pocked with age; the narrow pond that meandered through the garden opaque and stagnant, clogged with Egyptian rushes growing out of control. The garden had gone wild long before I inherited the house from my father, and I had done nothing to repair it. I preferred it as it was — an uncontrolled place of wild greenness hidden away in the midst of orderly Rome, a silent vote for chaos against mortared bricks and obedient shrubbery. Besides, I could never have afforded the labor and materials to have the garden put back into formal condition.

"I suppose this must be rather different from your master's house." I sat in one chair, gingerly so as not to disturb my head, and indicated that Tiro should take the other. I clapped my hands and instantly regretted the noise. I bit back the pain and shouted, "Bethesda! Where is that girl? She'll bring us food in a moment. That's why I answered the door myself — she's busy in the pantry. Bethesda!"

Tiro cleared his throat. "Actually, sir, it's rather larger than my master's."

I looked at him blankly, my stomach rumbling now in competition with my temples. "What's that?"

"The house, sir. Bigger than my master's."

"That surprises you?"

He looked down, fearing he had offended me.

"Do you know what I do for a living, young man?"

"Not exactly, sir."

"But you know it's something not quite respectable — at least insofar as anything is worthy of respect in Rome these days. But not illegal — at least insofar as legality has any meaning in a city ruled by a dictator. So you're surprised to find me living in such spacious quarters, as ramshackle as they may be. That's perfectly all right. I'm sometimes surprised myself. And there you are, Bethesda. Set the tray here, between me and my unexpected but perfectly welcome young guest."

Bethesda obeyed, but not without a sidelong glance and a quiet snort of disdain. A slave herself, Bethesda did not approve of my keeping informal company with slaves, much less feeding them from my own pantry. When she had finished unloading the tray, she stood before us as if awaiting further instructions. This was merely a pose. It was obvious to me, if not to Tiro, that what she chiefly wanted was a closer look at my guest.

Bethesda stared at Tiro, who seemed unable to meet her gaze. The corners of her mouth drew back. Her upper lip compressed and curled itself into a subtle arc. She sneered.

On most women, a sneer implies an unattractive gesture of disgust. With Bethesda one can never be so certain. A sneer does nothing to spoil her dark and voluptuous allure. In fact, it may increase it. And in Bethesda's limited but imaginative physical vocabulary, a sneer may mean anything from a threat to a brazen invitation. In this case, I suspect it was a response to Tiro's genteel lowering of the eyes, a reaction to his shy modesty — the sneer of the wily fox for the comely rabbit. I would have thought that all her appetites had been quenched the night before. Certainly mine had been.

"Does my master require anything more?" She stood with her hands at her sides, her breasts upraised, shoulders back. Her eyelids drooped, still heavy with paint from the night before. Her voice carried the sultry, slightly lisping accent of the East. More posing. Bethesda had made up her mind. Young Tiro, slave or not, was worth impressing.

"Nothing more, Bethesda. Run along."

She bowed her head, turned, and made her way out of the garden and into the house, weaving sinuously between the hanging branches of willow. Once her back was turned, Tiro's shyness receded. I followed his gaze, from its origin at his wide-open eyes to its focal point, somewhere just above Bethesda's gently swaying buttocks. I envied him his modesty and shyness, his hunger, his handsomeness, his youth.

"Your master won't allow you to drink, at least not to excess," I said. "Does he allow you to enjoy a woman now and again?"

I was unprepared for the full depth and ruddy richness of his blush, as blood-red as a sunset over the open sea. Only the young with their smooth, soft cheeks and foreheads can blush that way. Even Bethesda was too old ever to blush like that again, assuming she was still capable of blushing at all.

"Never mind," I said. "I have no right to ask you such a question. Here, have some bread. Bethesda makes it herself, and it's better than you might expect. A recipe passed down from her mother in Alexandria. Or so she says — I have my suspicions that Bethesda never had a mother. And though I bought her in Alexandria, her name is neither Greek nor Egyptian. The milk and the plums should be fresh, though I can't vouch for the cheese."

We ate in silence. The garden was still in shadow, but I could feel the sun, palpable, almost menacing, edging along the scalloped tile roof like a burglar planning his descent. By midday the whole garden would be suffused with light, insufferably hot and brilliant, but for now it was cooler than the house, which still retained yesterday's heat. The peacocks suddenly stirred in their corner; the largest of the males gave a shrill call and broke into a strut, displaying his plumage. Tiro glimpsed the bird and gave a start, unprepared for the spectacle. I chewed in silence, wincing at the occasional twinges of pain that flickered from my jaw to my temples. I glanced at Tiro, whose gaze had abandoned the peacock for the empty doorway where Bethesda had made her exit.

"Is that the cure for a hangover, sir?"

"What, Tiro?"

He turned to face me. The absolute innocence of his face was more blinding than the sun, which suddenly broke over the rooftop. His name might be Greek, but except for his eyes, all his features were classically Roman — the smooth molding of the forehead, cheeks, and chin; the slight exaggeration of the lips and nose. It was his eyes that startled me, a pale lavender shade I had never seen before, certainly not native to Rome — the contribution of an enslaved mother or father brought to the empire's heart from gods-knew-where. Those eyes were far too innocent and trusting to belong to any Roman.

"Is that the cure for a hangover?" Tiro was saying. "To take a woman in the morning?"

I laughed out loud. "Hardly. More often it's part of the disease. Or the incentive to recover, for the next time."

He looked at the food before him, picking at a bit of cheese politely but without enthusiasm. Clearly he was used to better, even as a slave. "Bread and cheese, then?"

"Food helps, if one can keep it down. But the true cure for a hangover was taught to me by a wise physician in Alexandria almost ten years ago — when I was about your age, I suspect, and no stranger to wine. It has served me well ever since. It was his theory, you see, that when one drank in excess, certain humors in the wine, instead of dissolving in the stomach, rose like foul vapors into the head, hardening the phlegm secreted by the brain, causing it to swell and become inflamed. These humors eventually disperse and the phlegm softens. This is why no one dies of a hangover, no matter how excruciating the pain."

"Then time is the only cure, sir?"

"Except for a faster one: thought. The concentrated exercise of the mind. You see, thinking, according to my physician friend, takes place in the brain, lubricated by the secretion of phlegm. When the phlegm becomes polluted or hardened, the result is a headache. But the actual activity of thought produces fresh phlegm to soften and disperse the old; the more intently one thinks, the greater the production of phlegm. Therefore, intense concentration will speed along the natural recovery from a hangover by flushing the humors from the inflamed tissue and restoring the lubrication of the membranes."

"I see." Tiro looked dubious but impressed. "The logic flows very naturally. Of course, one has to accept the starting premises, which cannot be proved."

I sat back and crossed my arms, nibbling at a piece of crust. "The proof is in the cure itself. Already I'm feeling better, you see, having been called upon to explain the mechanics of this cure. And I suspect I shall be entirely cured in a few minutes, after I've explained what you've come for."

Tiro smiled cautiously. "I fear the cure is failing, sir."

"Oh?"

"You've mistaken your pronouns, sir. It's I who am to explain my coming to you."

"On the contrary. It's true, as you could tell from the look on my face, that I've never heard of your master — what was the name, Marcus something-or-other Cicero? A total stranger. Nonetheless, I can tell you a few things about him." I paused, long enough to make sure I had the boy's full attention. "He comes from a very proud family, a trait of which he himself has a full share. He lives here in Rome, but his family originally comes from somewhere else, perhaps to the south; they've been in the city for no more than a generation. They are something more than comfortably wealthy, though not fabulously so. Am I right so far?"

Tiro looked at me suspiciously. "So far."

"This Cicero is a young man, like yourself; I suppose a little older. He's an avid student of oratory and rhetoric, and a follower to some extent of the Greek philosophers. Not an Epicurean, I imagine; perhaps he's a Stoic, though not devoutly so. Correct?" "Yes." Tiro was beginning to look uncomfortable.

"As for your reason for coming, you are seeking out my services for a legal case which this Cicero will be bringing before the Rostra. Cicero is an advocate, just starting out in his career. Nevertheless, this is an important case, and a complicated one. As for who recommended my services, that would be the greatest of Roman lawyers. Hortensius, of course."

"Of ... course." Tiro mouthed the words, barely whispering. His eyes were as narrow as his mouth was wide. "But how could you —"

"And the specific case? A case of murder, I think. ..."

Tiro looked at me sidelong, his astonishment frankly revealed.

"And not just murder. No, worse than that. Something much worse ..."

"A trick," Tiro whispered. He looked away, jerking his head, as if it took a great effort to tear his gaze from mine. "You do it somehow by looking into my eyes. Magic ..."

I pressed my fingertips to my temples, elbows akimbo — partly to soothe the pressure of my throbbing temples, but also to mimic a mystic's theatrical posing. "An unholy crime," I whispered. "Vile. Unspeakable. The murder of a father by his own son. Parricide!"

I released my temples and sat back in the chair. I looked my young guest straight in the eye. "You, Tiro of the household of Marcus Tullius Cicero, have come to seek my services to assist your master in his defense of one Sextus Roscius of Ameria, who stands accused of killing the father whose name he bears. And — my hangover is completely gone."

Tiro blinked. And blinked again. He sat back and ran his forefinger over his upper lip, his brows drawn pensively together. "It is a trick, isn't it?"

I gave him the thinnest smile I could manage. "Why? You don't believe I'm capable of reading your mind?"

"Cicero says there's no such thing as second sight or mind reading or foretelling the future. Cicero says that seers and portents and oracles are all charlatans at worst, actors at best, playing on the crowd's credulity."

"And do you believe everything master Cicero says?" Tiro blushed. Before he could speak I raised my hand. "Don't answer. I would never ask you to say anything against your master. But tell me this: Has Marcus Tullius Cicero ever visited the oracle at Delphi? Has he seen the shrine to Artemis at Ephesus and tasted the milk that flows from her marble breasts? Or climbed the great pyramids in the dead of night and listened to the voice of the wind rushing through the ancient stones?"

"No, I suppose not." Tiro lowered his eyes. "Cicero has never been outside of Italy."

"But I have, young man." For a moment, I was lost in thought, unable to pull free from a flood of images, sights, sounds, smells of the past. I looked around the garden and suddenly saw just how tawdry it was. I stared at the food before me and realized how dry and tasteless the bread was, how sour the cheese had gone. I looked at Tiro, and remembered who and what he was, and felt foolish for expending so much energy to impress a mere slave.

"I've done all those things, seen all those places. Even so, I suspect in many ways I'm an even greater doubter than your skeptical master. Yes, it's merely a trick. A game of logic."

"But how can simple logic yield new knowledge? You told me you had never heard of Cicero before I came here. I've told you nothing at all about him, and yet you're able to tell me exactly why I've come. It's like producing coins out of thin air. How can you create something out of nothing? Or discover a truth without evidence?"

"You miss the point, Tiro. It's not your fault. I'm sure you're able to think as well as the next man. It's the sort of logic that's taught by Roman rhetors that's the problem. Retrying ancient cases, refighting ancient battles, learning grammar and law by rote, and all with the point of learning how to twist the law to the client's advantage, with no regard for right or wrong, or up or down for that matter. Certainly with no regard for the simple truth. Cleverness replaces wisdom. Victory justifies all. Even the Greeks have forgotten how to think."

"If it's only a trick, tell me how it's done."

I laughed and took a bite of cheese. "If I explain, you'll have less respect for me than if I leave it a mystery."

Tiro frowned. "I think you should tell me, sir. Otherwise, how will I cure myself in the event that I'm ever lucky enough to be allowed to have a hangover?" A smile showed through the frown. Tiro was capable of striking poses no less than Bethesda. Or myself.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Roman Blood"
by .
Copyright © 1991 Steven W. Saylor.
Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

PART ONE High and Low,
PART TWO Portents,
PART THREE Justice,
Author's Note,
Preview,

What People are Saying About This

Leonard Tourney

"A truly remarkable novel, a perfect blend of history and mystery fiction with a twisted streak in public places of Ancient Rome that's convincingly put forth as modern New York or Los Angeles. Steven Saylor takes a superior mystery to new levels of achievement with a story as intriguing as any I have read in recent years. It is gratifying to find a novelist who is not only a brilliant storyteller but also a polished stylist."