I was gratified to note that my recent harrowing experiences had not affected my appetite. Come to think of it, nothing ever affected my appetite. I was finishing up the final crumbs when the last person in the world I expected to see hailed me.
“Decius Caecilius! How good to see another man in Rome whom Clodius hates almost as much as he hates me.”
“Marcus Tullius!” I cried, standing up to take his hand. We knew each other well enough to use this familiar form of address. Cicero had aged since I had seen him last, but few of us grow younger. It was odd to see him entirely alone, for he was usually attended by a crowd of friends and clients. No one was paying him any attention, and it is entirely possible that no one recognized the great and dignified orator dressed as he was in a dingy old tunic and cracked sandals, his bony knees and skinny legs exposed, his face unshaven, and with his hair untrimmed. He looked as mournful as I felt. Cicero’s military record was as undistinguished as my own, and in seeing him thus the reason was plain. He could never look like anything but a lawyer and a scholar.
“Surely all your friends have not forsaken you?” I asked.
“No, I just wanted to be able to wander around alone for a change, so I dismissed all my followers. This is the one day of the year when I am probably safe from attack. Not that Clodius is likely to try violence now. He wants the glory of driving me into exile as tribune. He’ll have it, too. Next year is his year, and even I am not inclined to fight it.”
“Go somewhere peaceful and get some studying and writing done,” I advised. “You’ll be recalled as soon as he’s out of power. For what it’s worth, I know that you had no choice in ordering those executions. Even Cato is on your side, and Jupiter knows he’s a stickler for the legalities.”
“I appreciate your support, Decius,” he said kindly, as if I were important enough for my support to mean something.
I waved up toward the forbidding crag of the Tarpeian Rock. “There are men walking free and safe today who deserved the rock for their part in that incident.”
“I know whom you mean,” he said ruefully. “Calpurnius Bestia and a dozen others. Most of them escaped through Pompey’s protection and the rest were cronies of Caesar and Crassus. No chance of calling them to account now. Never mind, we’ll get them for something else another time.”
It struck me that Cicero was a man I should consult. “Marcus Tullius, I wonder if I might beg a favor. I find myself in the midst of the strangest investigation of my career, and I am in need of your advice.”
“I am at your service, Decius. I need something to take my mind off my own woes.” He looked around in annoyance. “But it is too noisy here. However, there is one place in Rome that is sure to be quiet this day, and it is only a few steps away. Come along.” He began to climb the broad stairway and I followed.
The interior of the Curia was a scene of ghostly quiet. Not even a slave remained to sweep up. Even the state slaves had holiday. From these tiers of seats had come the decisions that had declared and directed our wars, settled treaties with foreign powers, determined the rights and obligations of the citizens, and proclaimed our laws to the world. Here had also been concocted most of our worst follies, as well as corruption and knavery beyond measure. But even our basest transactions had at least taken place in a setting of great dignity. The old Curia had the austere simplicity that had once characterized most of our public edifices. We descended the central stair and took our seats on the marble chairs reserved for the praetors, next to the long-vacant chair of the Flamen Dialis.
“Now, my young friend, how may I help you?”
I could see from the sharpness of his expression that he was indeed hoping for a brain-cracking puzzle to distract him from his formidable array of sorrows, and I wondered how I could broach the matter at hand without sounding demented.
“Marcus Tullius, you are one of the most learned men of our age. Am I correct in believing that your knowledge of the gods is as deep as your scholarship in the law, in history, and in philosophy?”
“First, let me say that no man can truly know the gods. I have studied extensively in what has been written and spoken of the gods.”
“That is what I need. If I may dare so personal a question, may I ask what your own beliefs in the matter may be?”
He paused for a moment. “Twenty years ago, I took an extended trip to Greece. I did this to study, to regain my failing health, and, incidentally, to escape Sulla’s notice. He was still dictator and had cause to dislike me. I studied with Antiochus, a most distinguished and learned man. At that time I also became an initiate in the Eleusinian mysteries. I had been a profound sceptic, but the mysteries provided a most illuminating and moving experience. It is of course forbidden to discuss them with one who is not an initiate, but suffice it to say that I have remained since convinced, not only of the possibility of a good life, but of the immortality, or at least the continuity, of the soul.”