The King's Gambit(23)

"A point most excellently taken,” Caesar said. “Now we must hear from Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, who has recently begun his public career, is the son of our esteemed Urban Praetor and the scion of a distinguished line.”

I had drunk little, yet I felt light-headed. Perhaps it was my preoccupation with Claudia. I had promised myself not to speak injudiciously, but something about Caesar’s fulsome introduction caused me to depart from the bland address I had planned. Also, there was something in the air, something that had been nagging at my mind all evening. It was the way that everything that had happened since the murders of Sinistrus and Paramedes, everything said or hinted by nearly everyone I had spoken to, and especially everything said at this dinner, had circled around two names: Lucullus and Mithridates, Mithridates and Lucullus. I knew that if I pried hard enough, I could wrench this tangled heap of lies and secrecy open, exposing everyone’s guilty interest in those two powerful men. I had the level to pry with: the power of the Senate and People of Rome. But as yet I had no fulcrum upon which to rest my lever.

“As the most junior member of the government,” I began, “I scarcely dare speak in such distinguished company.” They all looked at me, smiled and nodded, except for Curius, who snored softly. Servers padded about on bare feet, keeping the cups brimming.

“But in the course of this fascinating discussion a few things have occurred to me, and I will share them with you.” Still, they smiled. “It seems to me that what is more important than birth or origin, more important even than experience or ability, is loyalty to Rome, to the Senate and People. As my patron Hortalus and my friend Sergius Catilina have pointed out, a victorious general who fights only to enrich or glorify himself is no servant of Rome. Neither is a magistrate who sells his decisions or a governor who robs his province.” At this, Cicero nodded vigorously. He had prosecuted Verres for exactly that. “And no one,” I went on, “is a loyal Roman who deals secretly with foreign kings for his own gain, or who conspires against a Roman commander in the field for envy of his glory.”

Cicero nodded again, mouthing silently the word “True.” Catilina looked sour as ever, but it was a look of boredom. The face of Hortalus retained its joviality, but his smile had gone stiff. Publius glared at me angrily, and Ti-granes looked into his winecup as if afraid of what his face might reveal.

“Excellent,” Caesar said, with a look of approval. It meant nothing. Caius Julius was the most controlled man I ever knew. He could smile at a man he was about to kill, and he could smile at a man he knew was about to assassinate him.

The talk continued, and the wine was drunk for a while longer, but nothing of consequence was touched upon for the balance of the evening. In time Hortalus called for his sandals, as did Cicero and Caesar. Catilina, Curius and Publius were carried off by their slaves. Tigranes spoke animatedly and drunkenly for a space; then he, too, nodded off. The household slaves bore him off and I found myself alone amid unsettling thoughts.

I had not brought a slave, so I found my own sandals and prepared to let myself out. Just outside the dining room, I found Claudia waiting for me. She was dressed in a gown so sheer that the lamplight behind her shone through it, displaying her form perfectly. This was the crowning blow to my already disordered sense. In my father’s country house near Fidenae there had stood an ancient sculpture of the Greek Artemis, said to be the work of Praxiteles. She was dressed in the brief chiton of a hunter, poised on the toes of one foot as she pursued her quarry. When I was a boy, she represented my ideal of female beauty with her slim, supple limbs and lithe hips, her small, high breasts and long-necked grace. I never acquired a taste for the wide-beamed female form personified by the Junos and Venuses favored by most Roman men. Claudia was the image of my marble Aphrodite.

“Decius,” she whispered, “I am happy to find you still on your feet and not swaying.”

“I wasn’t the best of company tonight,” I said. “I couldn’t get into the spirit of the evening.”

“I know. I was listening.”

“Why would you want to listen to a pack of power-addled drunks? You must have been terribly bored.” I tried to will the lamps brighter, so that I could see her better, then gave it up. I was going to see no more of her than she wished me to see.

“It is always good to know what men of power are saying in Rome these days. And while Hortalus was the only man present tonight who wields real power, the rest show great promise for the future.”

“Even Curius and Catilina?” I asked.