The Cherries of Lucullus 
by Steven Saylor
a Gordianus story

"All the pertinent historical details in this story are straight from the historical record," according to Steven Saylor, including the fact that cherries were first brought to Rome from the Black Sea region by the general Lucullus. Other real historical figures appear in the tale, including the philosopher Antiochus. Next month this story, along with others in the Gordianus series, will appear in a new Saylor short story collection from St. Martin's Press.

"Once a thing is done, it's done. The accomplished fact takes on an air of inevitability, no matter how uncertain it might have seemed beforehand. Do you not agree, Gordianus?" Cicero flashed a quizzical smile.

"I'm not sure what you mean," I said.

We were strolling across the Forum on a fine spring morning. Ahead of us, fluffy white clouds were heaped on the horizon beyond the Capitoline Hill, like a vast nimbus crowning the Temple of Jupiter, but in every other direction the sky was an immaculate blue. The mild, warm air carried strains of birdsong from yew trees that grew along the slope of the Palatine Hill that rose steeply to our left. We continued to stroll at a slow pace, but paused when a group of Vestals emerged from the round temple of their goddess and crossed our path, holding their chins high and wearing haughty expressions. One of them deigned to cast a glance at Cicero, and I saw him give her a faint nod of recognition. I recognized his sister-in-law Fabia; once, years ago, I had rescued her from the terrible fate that awaits any Vestal who dares to break her vow of chastity. Fabia did not appear to notice me, or else deliberately avoided meeting my gaze. So it sometimes goes with those who call on Gordianus the Finder in their time of trouble; when the trouble is over, and they no longer need me, I vanish to their eyes, as the smoke from a censer can be dispersed by a puff of air, leaving no trace to the senses.

Cicero, tired of walking, indicated that he wished to sit for a while on the stone bench beside the steps of the Temple of Castor and Pollux. He gestured to the space beside him, but I told him I preferred to remain standing for a while.

"What's this you were saying, about inevitability?" I asked.

Cicero hummed thoughtfully. "How did the playwright Ennius put it? 'It is done now. The workings of the Fates I surmise; how could the outcome ever have been otherwise?'"

"Ennius was talking about the murder of Remus by Romulus, as I recall. But what in Hades are you talking about, Cicero?"

He shrugged and narrowed his eyes, as if searching his mind for an example, but I suspected the point he wished to make was already fully formed in his mind and he was simply taking his time to get around to it, wanting his words to seem spontaneous rather than rehearsed. Cicero was a lawyer, after all, and this is how lawyers speak; they never go straight to the point when they can practice circumlocution. There was no sense in pressing him. I sighed and decided to sit down after all.

"Well, Gordianus, consider: A mere ten years ago—say, during the consulship of my good friend Lucullus—who could have foreseen with any certainty the future course of the Roman Republic? To the west, the rebel general Sertorius was luring malcontents in the Senate to Spain, with the aim of setting up a rival republic; Sertorius and his followers claimed that they represented the true Rome, and showed every intention of returning someday to claim the city as their own. Meanwhile, to the east, the war against King Mithridates had taken a turn for the worse; it was beginning to look as if Rome had bitten off more than she could chew when she invaded Mithridates' holdings in Asia Minor, and we were likely to choke on our mistake.

"And then, to compound the situation, our enemies decided to join forces against us! Sertorius sent his right-hand man, Marcus Varius, to lead Mithridates' army, and so Rome found herself embattled against Roman generals on both sides. The development was all the more unnerving because Sertorius had only one eye—as did Varius! One had lost his right eye in battle, the other his left; I can never remember which had lost which. Notwithstanding Aristotle and his disdain for coincidence, any historian will tell you that Fortune loves odd synchronisms and curious parallels—and what a curious turn of events, if Rome had been bested by two of her own generals, a pair of men who between them possessed a pair of eyes such as most men take for granted. I must confess, Gordianus, in my darker moods it seemed to me that Sertorius and Mithridates together would triumph and split the world between them; history would have taken a very different course, and Rome would be a different place today."

"But that's not what happened," I said.

"No. Sertorius, with his overbearing personality, at last became so insufferable to his own followers that they murdered him. Sertorius's one-eyed henchman Varius proved to be not such a capable general after all; in a sea battle off the island of Lemnos, Lucullus took him captive and destroyed his army. King Mithridates was bested on every front, and stripped of his most prized territories, who now pay their tribute to Rome. What's done is done, and the outcome seems to have been inevitable all along; Rome's triumph was assured from the beginning, by the grace of the gods, and it could never have been otherwise."

"You believe in destiny, then?"

"Rome believes in destiny, Gordianus, for at every stage of her history, her destiny has been manifest."

"Perhaps," I said, but doubtfully. It was in the nature of my work to poke and prod and peer beneath the surface of things, to turn back rugs, so to speak, and examine the detritus swept underneath; and from my experience, no man (and by extension, no nation) possessed such a thing as a manifest destiny. Every man and nation proceeded through life in fits and starts, frequently heading off in the wrong direction and then doubling back, usually making a host of catastrophic mistakes and desperately trying to cover them over before moving on to make the next mistake. If the gods took any part in the process, it was generally to have a bit of sport at the expense of hapless mortals, not to light the way to some predetermined path of greatness. Only historians and politicians, blessed by keen self-interest and blurry hindsight, could look at the course of events and see the workings of divine intention.

If Cicero entertained another view, I was hardly surprised. At that moment, he was swiftly and surely approaching the apogee of his political career. His work as an advocate in the courts had gained him the friendship of Rome's most powerful families. His advancement through the magistracies had been marked by one successful election campaign after another. In the coming run for the consulship, he was considered a clear front-runner. When I first met him, many years before, he had been young, untested, and much more cynical about the ways of the world; since then, success had tamed him and given him the rosy, self-satisfied aura of those who begin to think their success was inevitable, along with the success of the city and the empire they served.

"And yet," I observed, "if things had gone only a little differently, Sertorius might have become king of the West, with his capitol in Spain, and Mithridates might still be king of the East, and Rome might have been reduced to a mere backwater over which the two of them would be squabbling."

Cicero shuddered at the thought. "A good thing, then, that Sertorius was killed, and Mithridates soundly defeated by Lucullus."

I cleared my throat. It was one thing for Cicero to engage in philosophical speculation about destiny, but another to contradict the facts of recent history. "I believe it's been left for Pompey to finally end the war with Mithridates, once and for all."

"Pompey is charged with ending the war, yes; but Lucullus fought Mithridates for years, all over Asia Minor, before he was recalled to Rome and forced to cede his command to Pompey. If Pompey appears to be making quick work of Mithridates, it's only because Lucullus softened the ground for him." Cicero snorted. "Ever since Lucullus came back to Rome, he's been owed a Triumph for his many victories in the East, but his political enemies have successfully conspired to deprive him of it. Well, their obstructionism is about to be ended, and within a year, Lucullus will finally celebrate his Triumph; perhaps—and I should be only too honored—during the year of my consulship, should the gods favor my election. So please, Gordianus, don't subject me to this line of argument about Pompey being the sole conqueror of the East. Lucullus broke the enemy's back, and Pompey merely moved in for the kill."

I shrugged. It was a controversy about which I had no firm opinion.

Cicero cleared his throat. "Anyway ... how would you like to join him for a leisurely meal this afternoon?"

"Join whom?"

"Why, Lucullus, of course."

"Ah..." I nodded. So that was the true purpose of Cicero's desire to see me that morning, and the point of his digressions. The subject all along had been Lucullus.

"Has Lucullus invited me?"

"He has. And, let me assure you, Gordianus, no man in his right mind would refuse an invitation to sup with Lucullus. His conquests in the East made him very, very wealthy, and I've never known anyone who more greatly enjoys spending his wealth. His dinners are legendary—even those he consumes by himself !"

I nodded. Lucullus was a well-known Epicurean, devoted to enjoying the good life and indulging every sensory pleasure. Even during military campaigns he had been noted for the extravagance of his table. The multitudes in Rome were eagerly looking forward to his Triumph, which along with a fabulous procession would feature public entertainments, banquets, and a distribution of gifts to all who attended.

"If Lucullus desires my company, why does he not contact me directly? And to what do I owe the honor of this invitation?" In other words: What sort of trouble had Lucullus gotten himself into, and what would he expect me to do about it? I could leave the question of payment to another time; Lucullus was not miserly and could afford to be generous.

Cicero looked at me askance. "Gordianus, Gordianus! Always so suspicious! First of all, Lucius Licinius Lucullus is not the sort of fellow to dispatch a slave to deliver an invitation to a fellow citizen he hasn't yet met. Not his style at all! He obtains new friends through those who are already his friends. He's very strict about that sort of thing; decorum matters greatly to him. Which is not to say he's stuffy; quite the opposite. Do you follow me?"

I raised a dubious eyebrow.

Cicero snorted. "Very well, then, it was I who mentioned your name to him and suggested he might wish to make your acquaintance. And not for any nefarious purpose; the context was entirely innocent. What do you know about Lucullus's circle of friends?"

"Nothing, really."

"Yet if I were to mention their names, you'd no doubt recognize them. Famous men, well regarded in their fields, the best of the best. Men like Antiochus of Ascalon, the Greek philosopher; Arcesislaus, the sculptor; and of course Aulus Archias, the poet. Those three are Lucullus's constant companions."

"I've heard of them, of course. Is it Lucullus's habit to collect friends whose names all begin with the same letter?"

Cicero smiled. "You're not the first to notice that; 'the three A's,' Lucullus sometimes calls them. A mere coincidence, signifying nothing—as I'm sure Aristotle would agree, notwithstanding his own initial. Anyway, as you can imagine, the conversation at Lucullus's table can be rather elevated, with discussions of philosophy and art and poetry and so on; even I sometimes find it a bit challenging to carry my weight—if you can imagine that!" He laughed aloud at this self-deprecation; to be polite, I managed a chuckle.

"Of late," he continued, "Lucullus has been most interested in discourse on the subjects of truth and perception—how we know what we know, and how we distinguish truth from falsehood."

"Epistemology, I think the philosophers call it."

"Exactly! You see, Gordianus, you are not entirely without refinement."

"I don't recall saying that I was."

Cicero laughed, but I did not join him. "Anyway, Lucullus was saying that he's grown weary of hearing the same points of view expounded over and over. He already knows what Antiochus and Arcesislaus and Archias will say, given their points of view—the philosopher, the artist, the poet. And he knows what I will say—the politician! Apparently some particular problem is bothering him, though he won't come out and say what it is, and our tired ideas are of no use to him. So, when I dined with him a few days ago, I told him I knew a fellow who might very well have something new to offer: Gordianus the Finder."

"Me?"

"Are you not as obsessed with truth as any philosopher? Do you not see the true shape of things as keenly as any sculptor and cut through falsehood as cleverly as any playwright? And are you not as sharp a judge of character as any politician? More importantly, would you not enjoy an unforgettably lavish meal as much as any other man? All your host shall ask in return is your company and your conversation."

Put that way, I could see no reason to refuse. Still, it seemed to me there must be more to the matter than Cicero was willing to admit.
* * * *

To reach the villa of Lucullus, one passed outside the city walls at the Fontinalis Gate, traveled a short distance up the Flaminian Way, and then ascended the Pincian Hill. A stone wall surrounded the property; entry could be obtained only through a guarded iron gate. Even after passing through the gate, the villa could not be seen, for it was surrounded by extensive gardens.

The gardens had excited much comment, for Lucullus had collected hundreds of trees, flowers, vines, and shrubberies from all over Asia Minor and had transported them at great expense back to Rome, along with a veritable army of gardeners. Some of the plants had taken root in the soil of Italy, while others had not, and so the garden was still a work in progress, with here and there a bare spot or a plant that appeared less than content. Nonetheless, the consummate artistry of Lucullus's landscapers was evident at every turn. To follow the stone-paved path that wound up the hillside toward the villa, decorated here and again with a rustic bench, or a statue, or a splashing fountain, was to encounter one delightfully framed vista after another. Unfamiliar flowers bloomed in profusion. The leaves of exotic trees shivered in the warm breeze. Trellises were overgrown with vines that bore strange fruit. Occasionally, through the lush greenery, I caught a glimpse of the temples atop the Capitoline Hill in the distance, or the glimmer of the sinuous, faraway Tiber, and the sight compelled me to pause and take it in.

Cicero accompanied me. He had been up this winding path many times before, but seemed happy to take his time and indulge my wide-eyed wonderment.

At last we reached the villa. A slave greeted us, told us that his master awaited us in the Apollo Room, and asked us to follow him.

I heard Cicero release a gasp, and then a groan. "The Apollo Room!" he muttered under his breath.

"You know the place?" I asked, my wonderment increasing as we traversed terraces, porticoes, and galleries. Everywhere I looked, I saw bits and pieces of Asia Minor that Lucullus had brought back to adorn his Roman home. Greek statues, ornamental plaques, sculptural reliefs, carved balustrades, dazzling tiles, magnificent rugs, shimmering draperies, colorful paintings in encaustic wax, superbly crafted tables and chairs, even entire marble columns had been shipped over the sea and up the Tiber to confront Lucullus's engineers, architects, and decorators with the formidable task of creating from their disparate elements a harmonious whole. By some miracle they had succeeded. Opulence and abundance greeted the eye at every turn; gaudiness and ostentation were nowhere to be seen.

"Lucullus entertains guests in various rooms, depending on his mood," Cicero explained. "To each room is accorded a specific budget for the meal. The simplest meals—and they could be called simple only by the standards of Lucullus—are served in the Hercules Room; the plates are of simple silver, the food is traditional Roman fare, and the wines are of a vintage only slightly beyond the means of most of us mere senators. Lucullus finds the Hercules Room suitable for a simple afternoon repast when entertaining a few intimate friends—and that's where I presumed we would be eating. But the Apollo Room! The couches are sumptuous, the silver plate is stunning, and the food is fit for the gods! The wine will be Falernian, you may be sure. No delicacy which Lucullus's cook can imagine will be denied to us. If only Lucullus had warned me, I should have avoided eating altogether for the last few days, in preparation. My poor stomach is already grumbling in dread!"

For as long as I had known him, Cicero had suffered from irritable bowels. He suffered least when he maintained a simple diet, but like most successful politicians his life had become a whirlwind of meals and parties, and to refuse a host's offerings would seem churlish. "My stomach is no longer my own," he had complained to me once, groaning and clutching his belly after a particularly rich banquet.

At last we passed through a doorway into a magnificent hall. Along one wall, doors opened onto a terrace overlooking the gardens, with a view of the Capitoline Hill in the distance. The opposite wall was covered with a glorious painting celebrating the god Apollo and his gifts to mankind—sunlight, art, and music—with the Graces and the Muses in his retinue. At one end of the room, set in a niche, was a towering statue of the god, scantily clad and resplendent in his beauty, carved from marble but painted in such lifelike colors that for the barest instant I was fooled into thinking I saw a being of flesh and blood.

The room might comfortably have accommodated scores of guests, but the gathering that day was much smaller. A group of dining couches had been pulled into a semicircle near the terrace, where the guests could enjoy the warm, jasmine-scented breeze.

We were apparently the last to arrive, for only two of the couches remained empty, those situated at either side of our host. Lucullus, reclining at the center of the semicircle, looked up at our arrival, but did not stand. He was dressed in a saffron tunic with elaborate red embroidery and a belt of silver chain; his hair, gray at the temples but still plentiful for a man of forty-six, was combed back to show his prominent forehead. Despite his reputation for high living, his complexion was clear and his waist no larger than that of most men of his age.

"Cicero!" he exclaimed. "How good to see you—and just in time for the mullet course. I had them delivered from Cumae this morning, from Orata's fish farm. Cook's trying a new recipe, something about grilling them on a stick with an olive stuffing; he tells me I shall wish to die after one taste, resolved that life's pleasures can achieve no higher pinnacle."

"No matter what the pleasure, there's always another to top it," responded one of the guests. The man's features were so like those of our host that I realized he had to be Lucullus's younger brother, Marcus Licinius. They were said to be very close; indeed, Lucullus had held off running for his first office until his brother Marcus was also old enough to run, so that they could both be elected to the curule aedileship as partners; the games they had put on for the populace that year, the first to ever feature elephants in combat with bears, had become legendary. To judge by his comment, and by his clothes—a Greek chiton with an elegantly stitched border of golden thread—Marcus was as much an Epicurean as his older brother.

"Wanting to die after eating a mullet! Have you ever heard anything so absurd?" This comment, followed by a laugh to soften its harshness, came from the guest seated opposite Marcus, whom I recognized at once: Cato, one of the most powerful senators in Rome. Cato was anything but an Epicurean; he was a Stoic, known for expounding old-fashioned virtues of frugality, restraint, and service to the state. His hair was closely cropped and he wore a simple white tunic. Despite their philosophical differences, he and Lucullus had become staunch political allies, firm friends, and—with Lucullus's marriage the previous year to Cato's half-sister, Servilia—brothers-in-law.

Reclining next to Cato was Servilia herself. To judge by the ostentation of her red gown, silver jewelry, and elaborately coiffed hair, she shared her husband's Epicurean tastes rather than her brother's Stoical values. Her tinted cheeks and painted lips were not to my taste, but she projected a kind of ripe sensuality that many men would have found attractive. Her generous figure made it hard to be certain, but it looked to me that she was just beginning to show signs of carrying a child. Servilia was Lucullus's second wife; he had divorced the first, one of the Clodia sisters, for flagrant infidelity.

The three other guests were the Greek companions of Lucullus whom Cicero had previously mentioned to me. The poet Archias was perhaps ten years older than his patron, a small man with a neatly trimmed white beard. Antiochus the philosopher was the most corpulent person in the room, with several chins obscuring his neck. The sculptor Arcesislaus was the youngest of us, a strikingly handsome and exceedingly muscular fellow; he looked quite capable of wielding a hammer and chisel and moving heavy blocks of marble. I realized that it must be his Apollo in the niche at the end of the room, for the face of the god was uncannily like a self-portrait; it was likely that he had painted the wall as well, which gave the same face to Apollo. Clearly, Arcesislaus was an artist of immense talent.

I felt an unaccustomed quiver of discomfort. After years of dealing with Rome's elite, often seeing them at their weakest or worst, I seldom felt self-conscious in any company, no matter how exalted. But here, in the company of Lucullus's brilliant inner circle, in a setting so overwhelmingly opulent yet so impeccably refined, I felt decidedly out of my depth.

Cicero introduced me. Most of the guests had some knowledge of me; their not-unfriendly nods at the mention of my name reassured me, if only a little. Lucullus indicated that Cicero should take the couch to his right and that I should recline to his left.

The meal was spectacular—grilled eel, succulent venison, roasted fowl, and a wide variety of spring vegetables with delicate sauces, all washed down with the finest Falernian. As more wine flowed, the conversation grew more relaxed, punctuated by peals of laughter. The members of Lucullus's circle were completely at ease with one another, so much so that they seemed to speak a sort of secret language, full of veiled references and coded innuendoes. I felt very much an outsider, with little to contribute; mostly I listened and observed.

Servilia showed off a new piece of jewelry, a necklace of pearls linked by a finely wrought gold chain, and boasted of the bargain she had negotiated; the cost was roughly the value of my house on the Esquiline Hill. This prompted a discussion about money and investments which led to a general consensus, myself abstaining, that land around Rome had become more expensive than it was worth, but a country house in Etruria or Umbria, complete with slaves to run it, could still be obtained at a bargain.

Marcus Licinius asked Cicero if the rumor he had heard was true, that Cicero's chief rival in the coming race for consul was likely to be the radical patrician, Catilina. Cicero replied by quoting a Greek epigram; the point was obscure to me, but the others were moved to laughter. There was more talk of politics. Cato complained about a fellow senator who had employed an obscure but ancient point of procedure to outmaneuver his opponents; declining to name the man, Cato instead referred to him using a vaguely indecent nickname—presumably a pun, but it meant nothing to me. I think he was talking about Julius Caesar.

It seemed that Archias was in the midst of composing an epic poem about Lucullus's campaigns in the East, hoping to complete it in time for his patron's eventual Triumph. At the urging of Cicero, Archias quoted a new passage. The scene was one the poet had witnessed himself: the sinking of the fleet of the one-eyed Roman rebel Marcus Varius off the island of Lemnos. His words were spellbinding, conjuring images full of terror, gore, and glory. At one point he quoted Lucullus's order to his men regarding the fate of the Roman rebel:

    "Take Varius alive, not dead;

    Put no one-eyed man to the sword.

    Disobey, and I'll pluck the eyes from your head

    And throw you overboard!"

It seemed to me that a shadow crossed Lucullus's face as he listened to these words, but afterwards he applauded as heartily as the rest of us, and promised Archias a place of honor at his Triumph.

Over pheasant with pine-nut sauce, the conversation took a philosophical turn. Antiochus was a proponent of the so-called New Academy, a school of thought which argues that mankind possesses an innate faculty for distinguishing truth from falsehood and reality from fantasy. "The existence of such a faculty may be inferred if we consider the opposite case, that no such faculty exists," said the corpulent philosopher, dabbing a bit of sauce from his chin. "Perception comes from sensation, not from reason. I see the cup before me; I reach for it and I pick it up. I know the cup exists because my eyes and my hand tell me so. Ah, but how do I know I can trust my eyes and my hand in this instance? Sometimes, after all, we see a thing that turns out not to be there after all, or at least not what we thought it was; or we touch a thing in the dark and think we know what it is, then discover it to be otherwise when we see it in the light. Thus, sensation alone is not entirely reliable; indeed, it can be quite the opposite. So how do I know, in this instance, that this is a cup I hold before me, and not some other thing, or an illusion of a cup?"

"Because the rest of us can see it, too!" said Marcus, laughing. "Reality is a matter of consensus."

"Nonsense! Reality is reality," said Cato. "The cup would exist whether Antiochus or the rest of us saw it or not."

"I agree with you there, Cato," said the philosopher. "But the point remains: how do I know the cup exists? Or rather, let me change the emphasis of that question: How do I know the cup exists? Not by my eyes and hand alone, for those two are not always trustworthy, and not because we all agree it exists, despite what Marcus may say."

"By logic and reason," offered Cicero, "and the accumulated lessons of experience. True, our senses sometimes deceive us; but when they do, we take note of it, and learn to recognize that particular experience, and to differentiate it from instances where we can trust our senses, based also on past experience."

Antiochus shook his head. "No, Cicero. Quite apart from logic and reason and the lessons of experience, there exists in every man an innate faculty, for which we as yet have no name and governed by we know not which organ; yet that faculty determines, for each man, what is real and what is not. If we could but explore and cultivate that faculty, who knows to what greater degree of awareness we could elevate mankind?"

"What do you mean by a 'greater degree of awareness'?" said Marcus.

"A realm of perception beyond that which we presently possess."

Marcus scoffed. "Why do you assume such a state exists, if no mortal has yet attained it? It's a presumption with no basis in experience or logic; it's an idea plucked out of thin air."

"I agree," said Cato. "Antiochus is espousing mysticism, not philosophy, or at least not any brand of philosophy suitable for a hard-headed Roman. It's all very well for Greeks to spend their time pondering imponderables, but we Romans have a world to run."

Antiochus smiled to show that he took no offense at Cato's words. He opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by our host, who abruptly turned his gaze to me.

"What do you think, Gordianus?" said Lucullus.

I felt the eyes of the others converge on me. "I think..."

I looked to Cicero, who smiled, amused at my hesitation. I felt slightly flushed, and cleared my throat. "I think that most men are like myself, and don't give much thought to such questions. If I see a cup, and if I want what's in the cup, I pick it up and drink it, and that's the end of that. Now, if I were to reach for the cup and pick up a hedgehog instead, that would give me pause. But as long as a cup is a cup—and up is up, and down is down, and the sun comes up in the morning—I don't think most people ever think about epistemology."

Antiochus raised a condescending eyebrow. It was one thing for the others to challenge his ideas with other ideas, but quite another to dismiss the importance of the topic he had raised. In his eyes, I had shown myself to be hardly better than a barbarian.

My host was more indulgent. "Your point is well taken, Gordianus, but I think you're being just a bit disingenuous, aren't you?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Well, in your line of work—insofar as Cicero has explained it to me—I should think you rely a great deal on reason or instinct, or some faculty such as that which Antiochus speaks of, in order to determine the truth. A murder is committed; a relative comes to you, asking you to discover the killer. If a man's stopped breathing, it doesn't take an Aristotle to determine that he's dead; but how do you go about the rest of it—finding out who did it, and how, and when, and why? I suppose some evidence is concrete and indisputable, of the sort you can hold in the palm of your hand—a bloody dagger, say, or an earring separated from its match. But there must be a vast gray area where the indicators are not so certain. Witnesses to a crime sometimes tell different versions of events—"

"They inevitably do!" asserted Cicero with a laugh.

"Or a clue may point in the wrong direction," continued Lucullus, "or an innocent man may deliberately incriminate himself, so as to protect another. Lies must be sorted from truth, important facts must be placed above trivialities. The warp and woof of reality must be minutely examined for meaningful patterns and inconsistencies that might elude the scrutiny of a less conscientious ... 'finder,' as I believe Cicero calls you. Indeed, Gordianus, I should think that you must have frequent occasion to apply the tenets of epistemology, and more rigorously than anyone else in this room. I suspect it's become second nature to you; you swim in a sea of practical philosophy and never think about it, as the dolphin never thinks of being wet."

"Perhaps," I acknowledged, dubious of his point but thankful that he had rescued me from looking like a cretin.

"So how do you go about it?" said Lucullus. "Ascertaining the truth, I mean? Do you apply a particular system? Or do you rely on intuition? Can you tell if a man is lying simply by looking in his eyes? And if so, would that not be an indication that some innate faculty such as that suggested by Antiochus must indeed exist, perhaps more developed in some men—men like yourself—than in others?"

The guests looked at me intently now, seriously interested to see what I would say. I took a deep breath. "In fact, Lucullus, I have given some thought to such questions over the years. If we accept that a thing must be either true or false—either one thing or the other—then even the most complex questions can be approached by breaking them into smaller and smaller questions, and determining in each case which proposition is true and which is false. Smaller units of truth combine into greater units, until eventually a greater truth emerges. Sometimes, investigating the circumstances of a crime, I imagine I'm building a wall of bricks. Each brick must be solid, or else the whole wall will come down. So it's simply a matter of testing each brick before it's put into place. Is this brick true or false? True, and it goes into the wall; false, and it's discarded. Of course, sometimes one makes a mistake, and realizes it only after several courses of bricks have been laid, and it can be a messy business going back and making the repair."

"Ah, but how does such a mistake occur in the first place?" asked Antiochus, in a tone that showed he had warmed to me somewhat.

"Carelessness, confusion, a lapse of concentration."

"And how do you recognize the mistake?"

I shrugged. "Sooner or later, you step back and look at the wall, and you can see there's something wrong. Something's off-kilter; one of the bricks doesn't quite match the others."

"Ah, but there you have yet another indication of the existence of the faculty I speak of !" said Antiochus. "'One knows it when one sees it,' goes the commonplace. But how? Because of an innate ability to distinguish truth from falsehood."

"An innate sense that doesn't always work, apparently," said Marcus, with a laugh.

"That this faculty isn't infallible is hardly evidence against it," asserted Antiochus. "On the contrary, it's yet another sign of its existence. No other human faculty is infallible, so why should this one be? Perfection exists only in that ideal world that Plato postulated..."

Here the talk drifted to other matters philosophical, about which Lucullus did not question me; gratefully, I withdrew from the conversation. But it seemed to me that my brief foray into the debate had been deliberately engineered by Lucullus, so that he might observe and form a judgment of me. For what purpose, I did not know. Had I satisfied his expectations? That, too, I did not know.

I spent the rest of the meal observing the others. The corpulent Antiochus was the most vocal and self-assertive, and in such a company, that was saying a great deal. Cato tended to enter the debate only in reaction to the others, usually to chide or taunt them. His sister Servilia spoke only when the conversation involved gossip or money, and was silent about politics and philosophy. The poet Archias every so often contributed an epigram, some more appropriate to the conversation than others. Marcus Licinius seemed a contented sort who enjoyed every course of the meal and every turn of the conversation. Cicero was talkative and high-spirited, but occasionally I saw him touch his belly and wince. As he had feared, the meal was too rich for his dyspeptic constitution.

The one who spoke least—hardly at all, in fact—was the sculptor Arcesislaus. Like me, he seemed content merely to enjoy the food and wine and to observe the others. But he wore a vaguely scornful expression; even when Archias came out with an epigram that made the rest of us hoot with laughter, he hardly smiled. Was he shy and retiring, as are many artists, or was he haughty, as might be the case with a handsome young man of great talent? Or was he brooding about something? I could not make him out.

The generally buoyant mood dimmed only once, when the conversation turned to the father of Lucullus, and his sad end. Cicero had been talking—boasting, in fact—of his first important appearance as an advocate before the rostra, defending a citizen accused of parricide. Cicero had retained my services to investigate the matter, and that was how we first met. The outcome of the trial had made Cicero a famous man in Rome and set him on the path to his present pinnacle of success. He never tired of telling the tale, even to those who already knew it, and would have gone on telling it had not Cato interrupted.

"It was the same with you, was it not, Lucullus?" said Cato. "Your first appearance in the courts made your reputation—even though you lost the case."

"I suppose," said Lucullus, suddenly reticent.

"Indeed, I remember it well, though it seems a lifetime ago," said Cato. "Your father was sent at the head of the legions to put down the great slave revolt in Sicily. Things went well for him at first, then badly, and he was recalled. No sooner did he arrive back in Rome than one of his enemies accused him of official misconduct and prosecuted him in the courts. He was found guilty and sent into exile, poor fellow. But his sons didn't forget him! As soon as he was old enough to argue before the rostra, our Lucullus dug up some dirt on his father's accuser and brought the man to trial. Everyone in Rome took sides; there was rioting and bloodshed in the Forum. When it was all over, Lucullus lost the case and the fellow got off—but the real winner was our Lucullus, whose name was on everyone's lips. Friends and foes alike acknowledged him as the very model of a loyal Roman son."

"And a fellow not to be tangled with," added Marcus, looking at his brother with admiration.

I was only vaguely aware of this tale regarding Lucullus's father and Lucullus's own younger days, and would like to have heard more, but our host was clearly not in a mood to discuss it. He lowered his eyes and raised a hand dismissively. An abrupt silence filled the room, and stretched awkwardly until Archias, clearing his throat, delivered one of his epigrams:

    "Right are the Thracians, when they mourn

    The infant on the very morning of its birth.

    Right, also, when they rejoice that death has snatched

    Some aged mortal from the earth.

    Why not? This cup of life is full of sadness;

    Death is the healing draught for all its madness."

He raised his cup. The rest of us, including Lucullus, did likewise, and the wine we shared dispelled the chill that had fallen on the room.
* * * *

The meal lasted at least three hours, but had begun so early that the sun was still well above the horizon when Lucullus announced that it was time for the final course.

"Something sweet, I hope," said Antiochus.

"Sweet, indeed," said Lucullus. "In fact, the final course is the principal reason for asking you all here today, so that you can share in my bounty." He rose from his couch and gestured that we should do likewise. "Up, everyone! Up, on your feet, and follow me! The first of the cherries are ripe, and today we shall devour them!"

From the others, as they stirred, I heard a murmur of pleasant anticipation. I stepped beside Cicero and spoke in his ear. "What are these 'cherries' that Lucullus speaks of?"

"A most exquisite fruit which he brought back from the realm of Pontus on the Euxine Sea. They grow on small trees and come in many varieties, all with shiny skins in various shades of red. All sweet, all splendidly delicious! I was privileged to taste some of Lucullus's cherries last year at this time. What a delight that he should invite me back again to taste this year's crop!" Cicero smiled. "His brother Marcus hardly exaggerates when he says that if Lucullus's wars against Mithridates had yielded nothing else, they would still have been worth the effort for bringing cherries back to Rome!"

Lucullus led the way onto the terrace and then down a flagstone path that meandered through a small orchard of low, leafy trees. The branches were heavy with a fruit the likes of which I had never seen before. The cherries, as they were called, hung in great clusters. The type varied from tree to tree; some were blood-red, some were pink, and others were almost black. Lucullus demonstrated the ease with which they could be picked by reaching out and plucking off a whole handful at once.

"Be warned: The juice might stain your garments. And be careful of the pit." To demonstrate, he popped a cherry into his mouth, then spat the seed into his hand. His features assumed a sublime expression. He swallowed and smiled. "All this talk of philosophy and politics—how irrelevant it all seems when one can know the simple, unadulterated joy of devouring a cherry. And then another, and another!"

With much laughter, the rest of us joined him in plucking cherries from the branches and popping them into our mouths. Some of the most sophisticated individuals in Rome were reduced to a childlike euphoria by the unbridled joy of eating cherries.

"Sensational!" said Archias, with cherry juice running down his chin. "I must compose a poem to celebrate this crop of cherries."

Cicero sighed. "More wonderful than I remembered."

Even the dour Arcesislaus smiled as he shared the joy of eating cherries.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to see that it belonged to my host. "Come, Gordianus," he said in a low voice. "There's something I want you to see."

Leaving the others behind, Lucullus led me to a tree at the farthest corner of the cherry orchard. Its branches were more gnarled and its leaves more lustrous than those of the other trees, and its cherries were the largest and plumpest I had yet seen, of a hue that was almost purple.

"Of all the cherry trees I brought back from Pontus, this variety is the most extraordinary. The Greek-speakers of Pontus have preserved the ancient name the aboriginal barbarians gave to this cherry. I find the word impossible to pronounce, but they tell me it translates as 'Most Precious of All'—which these cherries are. Their flavor is sweet and very complex—at first subtle, then almost overwhelming. And their skins are very, very delicate. Most other cherries travel well; you could pack them in a basket and carry them across Italy to share with a friend. But these are so tender that they can scarcely survive a fall from the tree. To appreciate them, you literally must eat them from the tree—and even then, they may burst if you pluck them too carelessly."

Lucullus reached for one of the dark, plump cherries. He seemed not to tug at all; rather, the heavy fruit seemed to tumble into his palm of its own volition.

"Here is something evanescent," he murmured, "a sensation too unique to be described, capable only of being experienced: the cherry that can be eaten only beneath the tree, so fragile is it. As such it has another, practical advantage: It can't have been poisoned."

I raised an eyebrow. "Is that a concern?"

Lucullus smiled without mirth. "A man like myself is never without enemies."

"Yet I saw no tasters at the meal."

"That is because you were meant to see no tasters."

He extended his arm and offered the cherry to me. "For you, Gordianus, the season's very first Most Precious of All."

"You do me a great honor, Lucullus." For which he would doubtless ask something in return, I thought. Nevertheless, I accepted the cherry and slipped it between my lips.

The skin was sleek and warm, and so thin that it seemed to dissolve at the merest contact with my teeth. The meat of the cherry pressed sensuously against my tongue. The sweet juice flooded my mouth. At first I was disappointed, for the flavor seemed less intense than the cherries I had just tasted. Then, as I located the pit with my tongue and worked it towards my lips, the full flavor of the cherry suffused my senses with an intensity that was intoxicating. Lucullus saw my reaction and smiled.

I swallowed. Gradually the precedence claimed by my sense of taste receded and my other senses returned to the fore. I became aware of a change in the light as the lowering sun shot rays of dark gold through the leafy orchard. I heard the distant laughter of the others, who had not yet followed us.

"Why did you ask me here today, Lucullus?" I said quietly. "What is it you want from me?"

He sighed. He picked another of the cherries, but did not eat it; instead he held it in the cup of his palm, gazing at it. "How fleeting and elusive are the pleasures of life; how lasting the pain and bitterness, the disappointments and the losses. When I became a general, I was determined to be the best general possible, and never to repeat my father's failure; but I was determined also never to wreak destruction when destruction was not called for. So many generations of men have labored so hard to build up the few great storehouses of beauty and knowledge in this world, yet by fire and sword their accomplishments can be destroyed in minutes, their memory reduced to ashes. The power of the Roman legions is a great responsibility; I swore that Sulla would be my model, as he had been my mentor in other matters. When he had the chance to sack Athens and level it to the ground, instead Sulla saved it, and so passed on a great gift to future generations. What I least wanted was to ever gain a reputation such as that of Mummius of our grandfathers' time—the Mummius who ruthlessly destroyed the city of Corinth and never passed a Greek temple without plundering it. And yet..."

Lucullus pondered the cherry in his hand, as if it contained some mystery. "This tree came from an orchard near a town called Amisus, in Pontus. Did you ever hear of Amisus?"

I shook my head.

"It was not a particularly beautiful or wealthy city, but it did have the distinction of having been founded long ago as a colony of Athens; Amisus was an outpost of civilization at the farthest reaches of the world. Of all the horrors and atrocities that occurred during my war with Mithridates, the siege of Amisus caused me the greatest despair. The enemy commander who held the city saw that my forces must ultimately overwhelm him, so he engineered an escape by setting part of the city on fire. The fire distracted my men, held them back for a while, and concealed the movement of the enemy troops toward the sea, where they boarded ships and sailed away, leaving the city defenseless. When I realized the situation, I was determined to maintain the discipline of my troops. I gave orders that the fires should be extinguished and the city occupied in orderly fashion. But that was not what happened.

"The men were restless after the long siege; they were full of pent-up fury, frustrated that the city had been taken without bloodshed, and eager for plunder. My officers were unable to restrain them. They surged into the defenseless city, raping boys and women, killing old men to slake their bloodlust, toppling statues, smashing furniture, breaking anything that was breakable for the sheer joy of destruction. They were heedless of the fire; they even helped to spread it, for night had fallen and they wanted light to continue their rampage, so they lit torches and carelessly threw them aside, or even deliberately set houses and even people aflame. The destruction of Amisus was a long, bloody night of fire and chaos. I stood by and watched, unable to stop them."

He gazed at the cherry a moment longer, then dropped it. It struck a paving stone and burst open with a spray of blood-red pulp. "Do you see, Gordianus? I meant to be Sulla; instead, I was Mummius."

"Even with the best intentions, each of us is helpless before the Fates," I said.

He nodded. "And something good did come of the siege of Amisus. I brought back to Rome this tree that bears the cherry they call Most Precious of All."

I heard a burst of laughter from the others. Eating their way from tree to tree, they had drawn nearer. "Your other guests will join us soon," I said. "If there was something else you wished to say to me..."

He nodded, drawn back to the moment. "Yes—yes, there is a matter I wish to discuss. Look there, Gordianus. Do you see that gardener at work across the way, tending to a rosebush?"

I peered past leaves and branches. The man was bent over, pruning the cane of a rosebush. The last rays of daylight glittered on his sharp blade.

"I see him," I said, though because of the broad-brimmed hat he wore, I could see little of the man's face except his grizzled jaw.

"Do you remember earlier, Gordianus, when Archias quoted from the poem he's composing for my Triumph—that bit about the rebel general Varius?"

"Of course: 'Put no one-eyed man to the sword.... '"

"Exactly. When Archias spoke those lines, a shadow crossed my face; you saw it."

"Perhaps."

"Don't be coy, Gordianus! I felt your eyes on me. You notice things that others do not."

"Yes, Lucullus, I saw your reaction, and I wondered at it."

"The poem is accurate, up to a point. I wanted Marcus Varius to be captured alive, and he was. My men brought him before me in chains."

"You showed mercy to him."

He flashed a joyless smile. "Not exactly. My intention was to keep him alive so that eventually he could be marched through the streets of Rome during my Triumph. You know what happens to a captured enemy in such a procession; the people spit at him, curse him, pelt him with offal. And afterwards, like the traitor he was, Marcus Varius would be thrown from the Tarpeian Rock to this death."

"You speak as if none of this will happen."

"No; because Varius escaped. On my voyage home, just in sight of Sicily, somehow he slipped from his shackles, fought his way to the deck, and jumped overboard. We turned about and sailed after him, but the sun was in our eyes and we lost sight of him. The current was strong. The coast was a long way off, not impossible, perhaps, for a strong swimmer to reach, but Varius would have been weak from confinement, and one of my men was sure that he had wounded him; it seemed almost certain that Varius was swallowed by the sea and drowned."

"Have you received information to the contrary?"

"Not even the slightest rumor. I know what you're thinking: Varius was a man of considerable importance, with a bounty on his head and a distinguishing characteristic—his lack of one eye. If he did survive, he's either fled beyond Rome's reach, or buried himself in such obscurity that he might as well be dead."

"It would seem that either way—alive or dead—Varius is of no use to you now. You'll have to do without him as an ornament for your Triumph."

Lucullus raised an eyebrow. "Cicero warned me of your penchant for sarcasm. But you strike to the heart of the matter. I spared the life of Varius for the specific purpose of bringing him back to Rome alive. He eluded me and thwarted my plans. I might as well have had the soldiers bring me his head on a pike, after all. And yet..." He turned his attention again to the slave who was pruning the rosebushes. "You, there! Gardener!"

The man stopped what he was doing and looked up. When he saw who spoke, he quickly lowered his head so that his eyes were hidden by the brim of his hat; I never quite saw his face. "Yes, master?" he called.

"Come here."

The gardener shuffled towards us, keeping his head bowed.

"There, that's close enough," said Lucullus. The man was still several paces distant. "How long have you been here, working in my gardens?"

"Only since the start of spring, master. I was purchased in Athens by one of your agents and brought here to tend to your roses. It's what I've done all my life, master—tend to roses." The man spoke passable Latin with a Greek accent. He continued to avert his gaze, as if awed by his master.

"What is your name?" said Lucullus. "Yes, yes, I know I've asked you before, but tell me again."

"Motho, master." The man fiddled nervously with the pruning knife in his hand.

"Let me see your face."

Motho lifted his chin. He blinked and squinted as the last ray of the sun struck his single eye; the other eye was missing. The injury had long ago healed over. Scarred flesh covered the place where the eye should have been.

"How did you lose that eye, Motho?" said Lucullus. His voice was oddly flat.

The man sighed. He had told this story before. "It happened a long time ago, master. Pricked it on a rose thorn. Seemed a small wound at first, but then it went bad. Had a fever for days; nearly died. In the end I got better—except for the eye."

Lucullus nodded. "Go back to your work, now ... Motho."

Looking relieved to be dismissed, the man shuffled back to the rosebush.

Lucullus seized my elbow in a grip far stronger than necessary and pulled me into the deep shadows beneath the cherry tree. "Did you see, Gordianus?"

"See what?"

"He has but one eye!"

"So I noticed. What of it?"

Lucullus lowered his voice to a whisper. "His face—it's no longer the same. Different somehow—leaner, more lined ... but a man can change his face if he has a will to. And his voice is different, I must admit—but anyone can pretend to speak with an accent..."

"What are you saying, Lucullus?"

"That slave, the gardener who calls himself Motho—I'm almost certain the man is actually ... Marcus Varius."

"What? Surely not! Can't you tell for certain, simply by looking at him?"

"Eyes are unreliable; eyes deceive a man. There is that other faculty, which Antiochus postulates, a sense of knowing—"

"It hardly seems likely that Varius would escape from your clutches only to turn up as a rose-tender in your garden, Lucullus." I almost laughed, but the look on his face stopped me. He was deadly serious. "Surely there must be men who knew Varius here in Rome, before he turned traitor and joined Sertorius, men who could identify him without any doubt. Round up a few such fellows and ask them to have a look at this Motho—"

"I've already done that, Gordianus."

"And the result?"

"To a man, they deny that this fellow is Marcus Varius."

"Well, then..."

"They're lying! Or else by some trickery Varius has deceived them."

I shook my head. "I don't understand. What makes you think he's Varius?"

"I don't think it. I know it. The knowledge came to me in a flash, the moment I laid eyes on the man. It must be as Antiochus says: We have a faculty for discerning truth from falsehood that comes from a source not limited to the five senses, or to what we call reason. That man is Marcus Varius. I simply know it!"

I looked at the gardener across the way. He was stooped over, still pruning the rosebush despite the failing light. I felt a prickle of dread, imagining the end to which Lucullus's wild notion might lead, if he was determined to pursue it. "Lucullus, is this why you invited me here today—to ask me about this man, and any ... uncertainty ... regarding his identity?"

"I know the circumstances are strange, Gordianus, very strange. But I haven't yet told you the strangest thing, which even I can't account for."

My sense of dread increased. Above the pounding of my heart I heard the laughter of the other guests, who were now quickly moving to join us; I saw them as shadows converging upon us in the twilight. "What is it, Lucullus?" I whispered.

"This fellow who calls himself Motho—do you remember which of his eyes is missing? Think carefully!"

"I don't need to think," I said. "I just saw him. It's his right eye that's missing."

"Are you certain of that, Gordianus?"

I narrowed my eyes. I conjured the man's face in memory. "Absolutely certain. He has no right eye."

The expression on Lucullus's face was ghastly. "And yet, always before, Varius was missing his left eye. Now here he is, pretending to be this slave Motho, and as you yourself can testify, he's missing his right eye. How can that be, Gordianus? How can such a thing be?"
* * * *

"How I should love to have been there, Gordianus! Tell me again about those cherries." My good friend Lucius Claudius smiled wanly and gestured to the slave behind him to recommence wafting a long pole surmounted by a fan of peacock feathers, so as to stir the sluggish air. We reclined on couches beneath the shade of a fig tree in Lucius Claudius's garden at his house on the Palatine Hill. The weather was much warmer than the previous day.

My dear friend, always portly, was heavier than I had ever seen him; his complexion, always ruddy, had become alarmingly florid. His orange curls hung limply over his forehead, and his breathing, even at rest, was slightly labored. It was now some fourteen years since I first met him; time had begun to take a toll on him. It struck me that a rich meal such as the one Lucullus had served the previous day was the last thing Lucius Claudius needed.

"You've not tasted Lucullus's cherries?" I said.

"Never! I've heard about them, of course, and about how fabulous the house and the gardens are; but I've not yet been invited. Imagine that! Gordianus the Finder has trumped me on the social front! I'm really quite envious. But then, I've never felt at home in the rarefied intellectual circle of the Lucullus brothers; all that arty-farty, philosophical blather rather puts me off my wine. And I seldom stray far from my own house anyway, these days. The litter-bearers complain that I've become too heavy for them to carry up and down the Seven Hills."

"They do not!"

"Not out loud, perhaps; but I hear them wheezing and grumbling. And now that the warm weather has begun, it's too hot to go out. I shall settle here under the shade of this fig tree and stay put until autumn."

"What about your Etruscan estate? You love it in the summer."

He sighed. "I should give it to you, Gordianus. Would you like a farm to retreat to?"

"Don't be ridiculous! What do I know about farming?"

"Yet you constantly complain of the indignities of city life. Perhaps I should leave the farm to you in my will."

"I'm touched, Lucius, but you'll probably outlive me by a good ten years." I said this lightly, but felt a prick of anxiety that Lucius should speak of wills; did he feel unwell? "Besides, you're changing the subject. I was hoping you could tell me a bit more about Lucullus." Lucius Claudius was always a fountain of gossip, especially about the movers and shakers of the ruling class.

A mischievous glint lit his eyes. "Ah, let me think. Well, for one thing, it sounds as if Cato rather glossed over the matter of Lucullus's father and his scandalous end."

"Yes, I was wondering about that." Twice at the banquet I had seen a shadow cross Lucullus's face: first, when Archias recited his lines about the capture of one-eyed Varius, and then again, when Cato told the anecdote about Lucullus's father. "It seems rather extreme that the elder Lucullus should have been exiled simply because his campaign against the slave revolt in Sicily stalled."

"Oh, his offense was much more serious than merely losing a battle or two! When the Senate recalled the elder Lucullus from his command, it was his subsequent behavior that was so unforgivable—and quite inexplicable as well, at least to those who knew him, because the elder Lucullus had always been a model of probity and even temper. You see, instead of doing the honorable thing, the normal thing, when he was recalled—leaving his provisions and maps and dossiers of information for the use of his successor—the elder Lucullus destroyed the whole lot. Smashed weapons, dumped stores of food in the sea, even burned maps and records of troop movements. It was most strange, because he'd never been known as a spiteful man; his personality was more like that of his sons, and you've seen how pleasant and easygoing they both are. That's one reason his punishment was so controversial; many of his friends and allies here in Rome simply refused to believe that the elder Lucullus had done such a contemptible thing. But the proof was irrefutable, and the court unanimously condemned him of malversation and sent him into exile."

"How old were his sons at the time?"

"Mere boys. Our Lucullus was probably no more than ten years old."

"His father's trial must have been a terrible ordeal for him."

"I'm sure it was; yet eventually he turned it to his advantage. Instead of retreating from the world out of shame or bitterness, as soon as he was old enough Lucullus dug up some dirt on the man who'd prosecuted his father and brought the fellow to trial. Everyone knew it was a prosecution motivated by revenge, but many people still felt warmly towards the exiled Lucullus and they were proud to see his son so full of spirit. The prosecution failed—but Lucullus's reputation was made."

"So I gathered."

Lucius Claudius hummed and nodded. "Let's see, what else can I tell you about Lucullus?" He was lost in thought for a moment, then the mischievous glint returned to his eyes. "Well—since you don't care to discuss my will—there's the matter of Lucullus's. I don't suppose that subject came up during the conversation?"

"Lucullus's will? No."

"Naturally; the one thing on everyone's mind would be the one thing no one mentioned!"

"Tell me more."

"Apparently, for the longest time, Lucullus had no will; he's one of those fellows who thinks he'll live forever. But just last month he drew up a will and left a copy in the keeping of the Vestal Virgins. When a man as rich as Lucullus makes a will, that's news. Of course, the copy was sealed, and no one is supposed to know the details, but..."

"But you happen to have a tidbit or two, nonetheless?" I shook my head in wonder. How was it that Lucius Claudius, without ever leaving his garden, could know so much about the secret life of the city?

"Well, this is only secondhand, you understand, and there are no earth-shaking surprises. It's rather what you might expect: His beloved younger brother Marcus is his principal heir, and is also named as the guardian of Lucullus's son, if indeed the child Servilia is expecting turns out to be a male; if it's a daughter, the child is left to the care of her mother and her mother's family, which means her Uncle Cato, I suppose."

I nodded; my supposition that Servilia was pregnant was correct. "And Servilia? What sort of provision is made for her?"

"Ah! As you may remember, Lucullus's last marriage ended in an acrimonious divorce; they say he picked the wrong Clodia—as if there might be a right one!" Lucius Claudius laughed at this little jest; each of the three Clodia sisters had become notorious for carrying on behind her husband's back. "Right now, Lucullus is still very keen on Servilia, especially since she's to give him a child. But Lucullus is wary; once burned, and all that. They say there are all sorts of provisions in the will to keep Servilia from getting so much as a sesterce if there should be the least hint of infidelity on her part."

"Has there been?"

Lucius Claudius raised an eyebrow. "She was known to have a wild streak when she was younger."

"Motherhood takes that out of some women."

"Perhaps. But you've seen the lady with your own two eyes. If she did wish to go fishing, she possesses all the right bait."

"She's not to my taste, but I'll take your word for it. It's curious that Servilia seems so different from her brother. Cato is so prim, so proper."

Lucius Claudius laughed. "For one thing, they're only half-siblings; perhaps Servilia inherited her wild streak from her father. And you know what they say: One Stoic in the family is more than enough!"

I nodded. "Speaking of Cato, is he mentioned in the will—beyond his role as guardian to his prospective niece?"

"Oh yes, there's quite a generous provision for him. Cato has been instrumental in pushing through the proposal for Lucullus's Triumph, and for that, Lucullus is grateful. The two have become staunch allies in the Senate; the new Gemini, some call them."

"Despite their differing philosophies?"

"Opposites attract. Look at you and me, Gordianus; could two Romans be more different? Yet this very day I've decided to make you heir to my Etruscan farm."

"Stop jesting, Lucius! Your farm would be useless to me—except, perhaps, for the fine wine that comes from your vineyards, another cup of which I would gladly accept right now." Lucius clapped his hands and a slave came at once and refilled my cup. "What about Cicero?"

He nodded. "Also named in the will, and generously provided for. And Jupiter knows he could use the money, what with bankrolling his campaign for the consulship this year! Really, it's a scandal how expensive it's become to run for office. Cicero's already been forced to borrow; he's in debt not just to Lucullus but to several other of his wealthy friends."

I nodded. "And the three A's, Lucullus's little coterie of Greek companions?"

"All named in the will, in gratitude for their many years of loyalty and inspiration."

I thought for a moment. "Let me understand what you've just told me, Lucius: Lucullus only recently made a will, and everyone who supped with him yesterday—except me—stands to profit enormously from his demise?"

Lucius frowned. "Is Lucullus in danger? Has he been threatened? I thought he called you there to investigate one of his gardeners, that one-eyed slave whom Lucullus imagines is actually the fugitive traitor Varius."

"Yes, that was his ostensible reason for consulting me. Lucullus is utterly convinced of the man's identity."

"Is such a thing possible?"

"No. Motho can't be Varius. For one thing, his missing eye is on the wrong side!"

"You're sure of that?"

"I am. Only yesterday, Cicero reminded me that Sertorius had lost an eye on one side, his compatriot Varius an eye on the other; as Cicero put it, between them they possessed a full complement of eyes such as the rest of us take for granted. I know that Sertorius was missing his right eye—I once met the man myself—and so it follows that Varius was missing his left, as Lucullus himself asserts. Yet the gardener Motho is missing his right eye, and so cannot possibly be Varius. The most bizarre thing is that Lucullus knows this—and remains convinced that Motho is Varius, nonetheless!"

"Do you think that Lucullus could be the victim of some elaborate hoax?"

"Toward what end?"

"Perhaps someone is deliberately trying to confuse him, make him doubt his sanity, drive him to suicide. It may sound farfetched, but have we not seen even subtler and more outrageous plots, Gordianus, especially when an estate as large as that of Lucullus is involved?"

I shook my head. "No, this delusion arose from Lucullus's own mind; no one suggested it to him."

"I suppose you looked into Motho's background?"

"Of course. Away from Lucullus and the other guests, I questioned the slave at length; if he's not a native Greek speaker for whom Latin is a second language, than he's a better actor than the celebrated Roscius! I also questioned Lucullus's agent, the man who purchased Motho in Athens for the express purpose of bringing him to Rome to tend to Lucullus's roses. Motho was born a slave and has been a slave all his life. He started as a field hand for some wealthy Athenian, but with aptitude and hard work he eventually became a highly skilled gardener. There's no reason to think he's anyone other than he appears to be. Poor fellow!"

"Why do you call him that?"

"Because, unless someone can convince him of his error, Lucullus almost certainly intends to proceed as if Motho is Varius. The wretched slave will be dressed up like a captured general, marched through the streets of Rome, jeered at and humiliated, mercilessly beaten by guards, and finally thrown to his death from the Tarpeian Rock."

"Surely not! Wasn't it the whole point of your visit, to verify the man's identity and put Lucullus's mind at rest?"

"Quite the opposite; Lucullus expects me to find proof that Motho is Varius, despite all evidence to the contrary. To Hades with logic or common sense; he wants me to validate what he already 'knows'—whether it's true or not!"

"Oh dear. But if Lucullus tries to pass this gardener off as Varius, word will surely get out about the mistake that's been made, if not before the Triumph, then afterward. Lucullus will become a laughingstock—"

"And Motho will suffer a horrible death."

"The situation is mad!" exclaimed Lucius.

"And yet," I said, "Lucullus is hardly a madman. Madmen don't conquer half of Asia, and build the most impressive gardens in Rome, and oversee vast financial empires—do they? Madmen don't speak of saving cities for the greater good of posterity; they don't love philosophy and art and culture."

"It's all very strange. Unless..."

"What are you thinking, Lucius?"

He looked at me shrewdly. "Exactly what you're thinking, old friend. After all these years, can we not read one another's thoughts? Sometimes sane men become mad—because of some horrible event, or because the gods chose to make them so, or simply as a side effect..."

I nodded. "Yes, exactly what I was thinking: a side effect. As we have observed over the years, there are many poisons, given in doses that stop short of killing the victim outright, that can cause a derangement of the mind. If someone named in Lucullus's will has grown impatient, and has been making an effort to hurry him along..."

"But all of Lucullus's food is tasted in advance; he himself told you of his need for caution in that regard."

"And yet," I said, "if a man—or woman—were clever enough, and determined enough, that person might find a way to administer a poison even to a man as cautious and well-guarded as Lucullus."

"Clever and determined—that would certainly describe any member of Lucullus's inner circle." Lucius gazed at me darkly, then grimaced and shook his head. "No, no, Gordianus, surely we're mistaken! These aren't cutthroats and vipers we're talking about. Men like Cicero and Cato do not resort to murder for personal advancement! Marcus most certainly loves his older brother; and so far as we know, Servilia loves her husband. As for the three A's, each one is a genius in his own right. It's absurd that we should sit here and ponder which of them might be a cold-blooded poisoner, especially when we can't even say how a poison might be administered to Lucullus."

His vehemence sobered me. "Perhaps you're right, Lucius. I don't wish to be reckless. Yet I can't stand by and see an innocent man subjected to such a horrible fate."

Lucius shrugged. "We don't know for a fact that Lucullus is actually in danger, do we?"

"I didn't mean Lucullus! I meant the slave, Motho."

"Ah!" He nodded dubiously. All in all, I loved Lucius Claudius dearly, but he was a creature of his patrician upbringing, trained from birth never to feel empathy for a slave, and he simply could not equate the fate of a man like Motho with that of a man like Lucullus. He looked at me shrewdly. "Perhaps there's a poison involved, but without anyone intending there to be."

"What do you mean?" I said.

"Well, I'm wondering—how much do we actually know about these so-called 'cherries'? Are they truly safe to eat?"

"Surely they must be."

"Must they? We both know of plants that can affect a man strangely. Some of them, when ingested, or burned and inhaled, can cause lightheadedness, or flights of fancy, or even hallucinations. Did you not discover that for yourself once, Gordianus, when my friend Cornelia retained your services because she was haunted by lemures?"

Even after so many years, I shivered, remembering that episode. "But all of us ate the cherries, not just Lucullus. And while the fruit may be new to Rome, it's been known for generations in its native region. If eating cherries could cause hallucinations or delusions, I think Lucullus would know."

"Yes, I suppose you're right." Lucius smiled wanly, and I could see that he was growing tired. "This is good, Gordianus—to sit and ponder with you like this. It reminds me of the affair that first brought us together; that, too, involved a will, and what appeared to be a resurrection from the dead. And here we are again, come full circle, and Alpha meets Omega."

I frowned. "Alpha is the beginning, and Omega is the end. What are you implying, Lucius Claudius?"

He sighed. "We are all getting older, Gordianus. I know I am." He looked at me plaintively.

"Nonsense! You'll live to be a hundred!" I invested the words with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, but even to my ears they rang false.
* * * *

A hoax? A poison? Or something else?

As I mused on the problem of Lucullus and his strange belief, my suspicions increasingly centered on the three A's.

It was the poet Archias who had first mentioned Varius at the supper, causing a shadow to cross Lucullus's face. Did Archias refer to Varius merely by chance, or did he know of his patron's belief regarding the gardener, and wish deliberately to disconcert him? Was it possible that Archias had suggested the idea to Lucullus in the first place? Poets could induce an idea in a listener by using words that carried meanings beyond the obvious.

It was Antiochus the philosopher who had convinced Lucullus of the existence of some organ of perception that could discern truth from falsehood without resorting to accepted methods of logic and deduction. Such a belief reinforced Lucullus's tenacious insistence that Motho was Varius, despite the evidence of his own eyes and his own memory. Did the philosopher have some other, more direct connection to Lucullus's delusion?

And what of the artist Arcesislaus? While the rest of the company had engaged in spirited conversation, he had kept quiet and watched, wearing an enigmatic expression. His smug silence and lack of sociability aroused my suspicion.

Lucullus had given me permission to wander his estate and to talk to any of his guests or slaves. The next day I took a stroll through his gardens, delighting in the scent of roses. I came upon Motho, who was on his hands and knees mulching one of the bushes. He lifted his head at the sound of my footsteps; because his empty, scarred eye socket was towards me, he had to turn his face to an awkward angle to get a glimpse of me. The posture was grotesque; he looked like a hunchback or some other malformed unfortunate. I felt a stab of pity, and yet, at the same time, I seemed to detect something almost sinister about the man. Had Lucullus experienced the same reaction—a natural shiver of distaste for another's misfortune—and allowed it to become an obsession, crowding out all reason? Or had Lucullus genuinely detected some menace in the presence of Motho? We seldom sense danger by means of reason; the realization comes to us more swiftly than that, and with indisputable conviction. What if Lucullus was right? What if Motho was, by whatever dark magic could make such a thing possible, the same man as Marcus Varius? To embrace such an idea was to relinquish the bonds of reason. That way lay madness, surely....

I gazed down into the one good eye of Motho and came to my senses. He was nothing more than he appeared: a clever, hard-working man who had suffered the misfortune of being born into slavery, and then the further misfortune of losing an eye, and who now faced the ultimate misfortune of dying a horrible death to satisfy another man's deluded whim. It was to Motho that I owed the truth, even more than I owed it to Lucullus in exchange for the fee he had agreed to pay me. Silently, I vowed that I would not fail him.

I turned away and strode toward the house. On another of the garden paths, glimpsed through leafy foliage, I saw Lucullus's brother, Marcus, strolling beside Archias. They passed a little statue of the rampant god Priapus. "Out of scale, isn't he?" said Marcus. "Too small to fit that space?"

"Godhead is known from deeds, not size or shape," the poet uttered in his usual declamatory singsong. Did he always speak in epigrams?

I drew near to the house. Through an open window I was able to see into the main room of Lucullus's library, which was almost as talked-about in Rome as the gardens or the Apollo Room. Lucullus had assembled the largest collection of scrolls this side of Alexandria; scholars and bibliophiles came from distant lands for the privilege of reading his books. Through the window I saw row upon row of upright bookcases, their pigeonholes stuffed with scrolls. Pacing back and forth before the window was Cicero, who moved his lips slightly as he pored over a tattered scroll; occasionally he lowered the scroll, gazed into the middle distance, and uttered disconnected phrases—"Sons of Romulus, I beseech you!" and "I come not to challenge a rival, but to save Rome from a scoundrel!" and so on. I gathered he was studying some treatise on oratory and cribbing rhetorical flourishes to use in his campaign against Catilina.

At the far end of the room, Cato and Antiochus stood in a doorway, talking in whispers. Cato uttered an exclamation and tapped a rolled scroll against Antiochus's chest for emphasis. Antiochus threw back his head and laughed. Cicero stopped his pacing and shushed them loudly.

I followed the pathway that circled the house. A short flight of steps brought me to the terrace outside the Apollo Room. The doors were open. I stepped inside. The sunlight on the terrace had dazzled me, so that the room appeared dark; for a long moment I thought I was alone, until I realized otherwise.

"Do you mind? You're blocking my light."

It was Arcesislaus the artist who spoke, looking at me over his shoulder with a sour expression. He stood before the long wall that boasted the painting of Apollo and his gifts to mankind. I smelled the singular odor of encaustic wax and saw that Arcesislaus was working with a thin blade and a palette of pigments, applying a new layer of colored wax over the existing one.

"And you're blocking my view," said a feminine voice. I turned about and saw Servilia, who reclined on a couch near the door to the terrace. Apparently, I had wandered into her line of sight and was blocking her view of the artist's handiwork—or was it her view of the artist himself?

I stepped to one side. "You're reworking part of the painting?"

Arcesislaus made a face which indicated that he did not care to explain himself, but finally sighed and gave me a curt nod. "Yes; Lucullus wants cherries. He's decided that cherries must have been created by Apollo—'Greatest of all the god's gifts!' he says—and so cherries must appear in this painting."

"Where is Lucullus, by the way?" I said.

Servilia answered. "My husband is out in the orchard now, eating more cherries. He's mad for them; cherry-mad!" She laughed—rather unpleasantly, I thought.

Arcesislaus stared at the painting, arms crossed, brooding. "'Here, in this corner,' he told me. 'A cherry tree, if you please.' Never mind that it completely unbalances the composition. I'll have to add some new element to that other corner, as well. More work for me!"

"But isn't that what you artists live for—to work?"

He snorted. "That's a misconception commonly held by those who possess no talent. Like any sane man, I prefer leisure—and pleasure—to working." Did he steal a look at Servilia, or simply look beyond me? "I sculpt and I paint because Lucullus pays me to do so, and very handsomely."

"Money matters a great deal to you?"

He gave me a withering glance. "I'm no different from any other man. Except for my ability to do this." He scraped the blade against a daub of red wax on the palette, touched the blade to the painting, and as if by magic a cherry appeared, so glossy and plump that it made my mouth water.

"Remarkable!" I said.

He smiled begrudgingly, pleased by the compliment. "There's a trick to it—painting cherries. I could paint cherries all day long." He laughed, as if at some private joke. Servilia laughed as well.

A chill ran up my spine. I looked from the face of Arcesislaus to the face of Apollo—his self-portrait, there could be no doubt, for man and god shared the same sardonic smile. I thought of how merciless, selfish, and cruel the god could be, in spite of his beauty.

I looked at the palette of pigmented wax. Not all paints were so thick. Other techniques called for paints that were quite thin, hardly more than colored water. With a thin liquid and a tiny horsehair brush, one could paint cherries—or paint cherries...

I backed out of the Apollo Room, onto the terrace, then turned and ran to the cherry orchard.

Lucullus was where I expected to find him, seated on a folding chair beneath the tree that bore the cherries called Most Precious of All. As I approached, I saw him reach up, pluck a cherry, gaze at it admiringly, and then lower it towards his open mouth.

"No!" I shouted. "Don't eat it!"

He turned his head, but continued to lower the cherry towards his lips—until I knocked it from his hand.

"Gordianus! What in Hades do you think you're doing?"

"Saving your life, quite possibly. Or perhaps just your sanity."

"What are you talking about? This is outrageous!"

"What was it you said to me about these cherries? So fragile they can be eaten only beneath the tree—which gives them a more practical advantage, that they can't have been poisoned."

"Yes; they're the only things I ever eat without having a taster test them first."

"And yet, they could be poisoned, here on the tree."

"But how? No one could soak them, or cut them open, or..." He shook his head. "I didn't call on your services for the purpose of finding a poisoner, Gordianus. I require of you one single task, and that regards—"

"They could be painted," I said. "What if someone diluted a poison, and with a brush applied the solution to the cherries while they yet hang on the branch? You might consume only a little at a time, but eventually, considering how many of these cherries you've eaten—"

"But Gordianus, I have suffered no ill effects. My digestion is fine; my lungs are clear; my eyes are bright."

But your mind is deranged, I wanted to say—but how could one say such a thing to a man like Lucullus? I would have to find another way; I would have to go roundabout, perhaps approach Marcus and win him over, make him see that his older brother needed looking after. Yes, I thought, that was the answer, considering how famously close was the bond between the two brothers. A very public family tragedy had struck them early in life; sometimes such an event drives a wedge between siblings, but quite the opposite had occurred with the brothers Lucullus. Their father's self-destructive behavior had very nearly ruined them, but together they had regained the city's respect and made a name for themselves that exceeded anything their ancestors had achieved. One might even say that Lucullus owed his success to the failure of his father—that he owed everything to his father....

Then I saw, in a flash, that cherries had nothing to do with Lucullus's dilemma. The will, yes—but not the cherries....

A slave, hearing his master's voice raised, appeared and stood at a respectful distance, a quizzical look on his face.

"Go find your master's brother. Ask him to come here," I said.

The slave looked to Lucullus, who peered at me for a long moment, then nodded. "Do as this man requests. Bring Marcus only—no one else."

While we waited, neither of us spoke. Lucullus moved his eyes here and there, never meeting my gaze.

Marcus appeared. "What's this? The slave told me he heard raised voices, an argument, and then Gordianus asked for me."

"He seems to think that my beloved cherries have been poisoned somehow," muttered Lucullus.

"Yes, but that was a false notion," I said. "And realizing that it was false, I gave it up. If only you could do the same, Lucullus."

"This is about Motho, isn't it?" said Marcus, regarding his brother with a pained look.

"Call him by his true name—Varius!" cried Lucullus.

"Why did you recently decide to write a will?" I said. The two brothers both looked at me sharply, taken aback at the change of subject.

"What a peculiar question to ask!" said Lucullus.

"For many years you had no will. You were far from Rome, fighting battles, accumulating a vast fortune, and repeatedly putting your life at risk. Yet you saw no cause to write a will then."

"Because I thought I'd live forever! Men cling to the illusion of immortality for as long as they can," said Lucullus. "I think Archias once wrote a poem on the subject. Shall I summon him to deliver an epigram?"

"'The closer I cut to the bone, the more he laughs, denying all danger,'" I said, quoting Ennius. "How's that for a suitable epigram?"

"What are you talking about?" snapped Marcus. But the tremor in his voice gave him away; he was beginning to see the train of my thoughts.

"You encouraged him to write a will. Didn't you?"

Marcus stared at me for a long moment, then lowered his eyes. "Yes. The time had come."

"Because of a change in Lucullus's health? Because of some other threat to his life?"

"Not exactly." Marcus sighed. "Dear brother, he knows. There's no use hiding the truth from him."

"He knows nothing. There is nothing to know!" said Lucullus. "I have employed Gordianus for a single purpose: to prove to the world, and to you, Marcus, that I am not mistaken in what I know about Varius, or Motho, or whatever we should call him. I know what I know, and the world must be made to know it, too!"

"Did your father say things like that after he was recalled from Sicily and made to stand trial?" I said as gently as I could.

Marcus drew a deep breath. "Similar things, yes. He had strange notions; he fixated upon impossible ideas that no one could talk him out of. His emotions became inappropriate, his logic inexplicable, his behavior unpredictable. It began in a small way, but grew, until toward the end, there was almost nothing left of the man we had known. There was only the slightest hint of the change before he left to take up the command in Sicily—so slight, no one really noted it at the time, but only in retrospect. By the time he returned to Rome and stood trial, the change was obvious to those closest to him—our mother, our uncles. My brother and I were mere children, of course; we had no way of understanding. It was a very difficult time for everyone. We spoke of it only within the family. It became a source of shame to us, greater than the shame of my father's conviction and exile."

"A family secret," I said. "Had such a thing happened before, in earlier generations?"

"Don't answer, Marcus!" said Lucullus. "He has no right to ask such a question."

Unheeding, Marcus nodded. "Something similar befell our father's father. An early dotage, a softening of the wits; we think it must be a kind of a malady that passes from father to son, a coiled serpent in the mind that waits to strike until a man is at the peak of his powers."

"All supposition!" snapped Lucullus. "Just as likely, it was the harassment of his enemies that drove our father to distraction, not some affliction from within."

"As you see, Gordianus, my brother has always preferred to deny the truth of this matter," said Marcus. "He denied it concerning our father. He denies it now, when it begins to concern himself."

"And yet," I said, "he acceded to writing a will when you urged him to—now, rather than later, when his faculties may have eroded to a greater degree. That indicates to me that at some level, Lucullus knows the truth of what's happening to him, even if he continues outwardly to deny it. Is that not so, Lucullus?"

He gazed at me angrily, then his features gradually softened. His eyes glistened. A tear ran down one cheek. "I have led an honorable life. I have served Rome to the very best of my ability. I have been generous to my friends, forgiving to my enemies. I love life dearly. At last, I am about to have a child! Why must this shameful fate befall me? If the child is a son, will it befall him as well? My body is still strong; I may live many years yet. What's to become of me in the time I have left, if I lose my senses? Have the gods no mercy?"

I looked upon Lucullus and shivered. I saw a man surrounded by opulence beyond measure, at the summit of his career, adored by the multitude, beloved by his friends—yet utterly alone. Lucullus possessed everything and nothing, because he had no future.

"The gods have much to answer for," I said quietly. "But while you still can, you must struggle against your delusions, especially those which pose a danger to others. Renounce this idea you have about Motho, Lucullus. Say it aloud, so that Marcus can hear."

His face became a tragedy mask. The struggle within him was so great that he trembled. Marcus, weeping more openly than his brother, gripped his arm to steady him.

"Motho ... is not Varius. There, I've said it! Though every fiber of my being tells me it's a lie, I'll say it again: Motho is not Varius."

"Say that you won't harm him," I whispered.

Lucullus shut his eyes tightly and clenched his fists. "I shall not harm him!"

I turned and left the brothers alone, to find what comfort they could beneath the branches of the cherry tree called Most Precious of All.
* * * *

So I came to taste my first cherry; so I made the acquaintance of Lucullus, to whom I never spoke again.

The months that followed marked the pinnacle of a life which, to any outsider, must have appeared especially blessed by the gods. Lucullus celebrated a magnificent Triumph (at which the rebel general Varius did not appear). Also, a son was born to him, healthy and whole. Lucullus named the boy Marcus, and was said to dote upon him shamelessly. His marriage to Servilia was less happy; he eventually accused her of adultery and divorced her. Whether the charge was true, or the result of a delusion, I never knew.

Those months brought other changes, some very sad. Our conversation about Lucullus was one of my last encounters with my dear friend Lucius Claudius, who fell dead one autumn afternoon in the Forum, clutching his chest. To my astonishment, Lucius made me heir to his Etruscan farm—he had not been jesting that day in his garden. At about the same time, Cicero defeated Catilina and won his campaign for the consulship, making him a New Man among the nobility—the first of his family to attain Rome's highest office. Of my move to the Etruscan countryside, and of the great and tragic events of Cicero's consulship, I have written elsewhere.

An era of enormous tumult was beginning. Steadfast Republicans like Cicero and Cato desperately looked to Lucullus, with his immense wealth and prestige, to rise up as a bulwark against the looming ambitions of warlords like Caesar and Pompey. Lucullus failed to meet their expectations. Instead he withdrew more and more from public life into an existence of sensual pleasure and seclusion. People said Lucullus had lost his ambition. Conventional wisdom presumed he had been corrupted by Greek philosophy and Asian luxury. Few knew that his mind had begun rapidly to fail, for Lucullus and Marcus did everything possible to hide that fact for as long as they could.

By the time of his death, several years after I met him, Lucullus was as helpless as a baby, completely under the care of his brother. A curious rumor attended his demise: One of his beloved cherry trees had died and Lucullus, denied the delicacy he most desired, had lost the will to live.

Lucullus had faded from the scene, but upon his death the people of Rome mourned and recalled his glory days. Great funeral games were held, with gladiatorial contests and reenactments on a massive scale of some of his more famous victories. During the period of mourning, his gardens were opened to the public. I braved the crowds for the chance to see them again. If anything, the exotic flowers were more beautiful and the foliage more luxuriant than I remembered.

Escaping from the crowd to walk down a secluded pathway, I came upon a gardener on all fours tending to a rosebush. The slave heard my approach and glanced up at me with his single eye. I smiled, recognizing Motho. I thought he might recognize me in return, but he said nothing, and with hardly a pause he went back to what he was doing.

I walked on, surrounded by the smell of roses.

Copyright (c); 2005 by Steven Saylor.