The King's Gambit(32)

Men, especially young men, do not think clearly when their passions come into play. Philosophers have always assured us of this. Many of Rome’s fortune-tellers offered as a sideline a potion guaranteed to rid one of this morbid fixation on a particular woman. I even considered consulting one of them. But then I had to admit to myself that I did not want to be free of my infatuation. Why young men actually enjoy this sort of suffering is a great mystery, but it is undeniable that they do.

Cato interrupted these musings. “Master, there is a woman to see you. She won’t state her business.”

I thought it might be one of the nuisance visits every public official dreads, but I needed some sort of distraction. “I will see her in my reading-room.”

I put on my toga and went to sit behind my desk, which was stacked with enough parchment to make me look very busy, indeed. In truth, these were mostly personal papers and letters, since I left all my official writings in the Archives, where there were public slaves to keep track of them. A few minutes later Cato showed in a young woman who looked vaguely familiar. Then I remembered. It was Claudia’s serving-maid, the wiry little Greek girl.

“Chrysis, isn’t it?” I said coolly. Ordinarily, slaves do not call upon public officials, save to deliver messages from the freeborn. Cato would never have let her in had he known her status. But then, when they don’t dress like slaves, how is one to tell?

“I am Chrysis.” Her face was widest at the cheekbones, tapering to a small, pointed chin. With her cool green eyes and russet hair, she resembled a malicious little vixen. She moved as if her limbs had multiple joints.

“Why did you not identify yourself as Claudia’s slave to my man?”

“Because I’m not a slave,” she said. Her name was Greek, but her accent was not. I couldn’t place it, but I had heard its like recently. My fixation with her mistress was doing terrible things to my memory.

“Then what are you to Claudia?”

“Her companion.” She used the Greek word, probably to avoid the Latin equivalent, which also means “prostitute” when applied to a woman.

“Well, Claudia is an unconventional woman. What did you wish to see me about?”

Her lips quirked up at the corners. “My Lady Claudia wishes to see you.” This was what I both hoped and feared she would say.

"When last we spoke, Claudia did not seem to want to see me again, ever.”

Still wearing her enigmatic smile, the strange little woman walked around my desk. Hands demurely behind her back, she made her hips move as fluidly as a python’s spine. Somehow she invested the simple act of walking with an indescribable lewdness. Standing now beside me, hands still behind her back, she bent until her face was inches from mine.

“But my lady often speaks from anger, rather than from her heart. She finds you a very pretty gentleman. She burns for you and cannot sleep.”

At least it was clear why she did not wish to commit such a message to writing. Why she should entrust it to this astonishing little slut was less so. Of course, I had doubts whether the message was sincere, but it so mirrored my own feelings that I tried to convince myself that it was.

“Well, we can’t very well let your mistress go sleepless, can we? How does she propose to resolve this dilemma?”

“She wishes you to come to her tonight, to a house she owns not far from here. She will go there after dark, and I will come here to guide you to her.”

“Very well,” I said, my mouth strangely dry, restraining myself from wiping sweaty palms on my toga. The combination of my unresolved feelings for Claudia and the aura of sensuality exuded by this rank little animal reduced me to feigning a dignified indifference. I doubt strongly that I fooled Chrysis.

“Until tonight, then,” she said. She swayed out of my reading-room as soundlessly as a ghost. So silently that I suspected that she was barefoot, although only a person of uncommon fortitude would brave the Roman streets without sandals.

I released a long-pent breath. There were still many hours before dark, and I needed something with which to occupy myself. For a change, I had no official business to transact, so I decided to draft some letters. I began one, but could not get past the salutation. Finishing that, I had forgotten to whom I was writing it. After the fourth try, I threw my stylus against the wall in disgust. It was a gesture of pique entirely uncharacteristic of me.

I think better walking than sitting, so I left my house and began to ramble aimlessly. It was folly to think of Claudia, so I dragged my thoughts back to the case at hand. I had so many facts, and so many hints, but nothing with which to tie them all together, as the rods of punishment are tied around the ax of execution in the Roman fasces.