CATILINA'S RIDDLE (Novels of Ancient Rome) - Softcover

Saylor, Steven

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0312385293 ISBN 13: 9780312385293

Verlag: Griffin, 2008

Inhaltsangabe

"Saylor rivals Robert Graves in his knack for making the classical world come alive." --(ortland) Oregonian

"Engrossing...Ironic and satisfying." -- San Francisco Chronicle

The third in Saylor's Roma Sub Rosa novels featuring Gordianus the Finder. Gordianus, disillusioned by the corruption of Rome circa 63 B.C., has fled the city with his family to live on a farm in the Etruscan countryside. But this bucolic life is disrupted by the machinations and murderous plots of two politicians: Roman consul Cicero, Gordianus's longtime patron, and populist senator Catilina, Cicero's political rival and a candidate to replace him in the annual elections for consul. Claiming that Catilina plans an uprising if he loses the race, Cicero asks Gordianus to keep a watchful eye on the radical. Although he distrusts both men, Gordianus is forced into the center of the power struggle when his six-year-old daughter Diana finds a headless corpse in their stable. Shrewdly depicting deadly political maneuverings, this addictive mystery also displays the author's firm grasp of history and human character.

On first publication back in 1994, Catilina's Riddle was a finalist for the Hammet Award.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

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

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Catilina's Riddle

By Steven Saylor

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 1993 Steven Saylor
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-312-38529-3

Contents

PART ONE Nemo, 
PART TWO Candidatus, 
PART THREE Conundrum, 
PART FOUR Nunquam, 
Epilogue, 
Author's Note, 

CHAPTER 1

"According to Cato ..." I said, and paused, squinting at the scroll. Bright summer sunlight from the window glared across the parchment, obscuring the faded black letters. Then again, at forty-seven, my eyes are not what they used to be. I can count the leaves on an olive tree fifty feet away, but the difference between O and U, or even I and L, is not as clear as it once was.

"According to Cato," I began again, holding the scroll at arm's length and reading silently. "Well, this is ridiculous! Cato clearly says that the haymaking should have been done by now, yet here it is, the Kalends of Junius, and we haven't even begun!"

"If I may interject, Master ..." Aratus, standing at my elbow, cleared his throat. He was a slave, not yet fifty, and had been foreman of the farm since long before my arrival the previous autumn.

"Yes?"

"Master, the blooms are not yet off the grass. It is not uncommon for the crop to be late. Why, last year it was just the same. We didn't harvest the hay until almost the end of Junius —"

"And I saw how much of it went bad in the barn! Bundles and bundles rotted away during the winter, so there was hardly enough left to feed the oxen during the plowing this spring."

"But that was because of the storm damage to the roof of the barn last winter, which let in the rain and so spoiled much of the hay. It had nothing to do with the late harvest last summer." Aratus lowered his eyes and compressed his lips. His patience was near its end, if his subservience was not.

"Still, Cato is explicit: 'Cut the grass crop when the time comes, and take care that you are not too late in cutting it.' Now, Marcus Porcius Cato may have been dead for almost a hundred years, but I don't suppose the ways of nature have changed in that time." I looked up at Aratus, who pursed his lips tightly.

"And another thing ..." I shifted through the scroll, seeking the passage that had leaped out at me the night before. "Ah, here: 'The chickpea is poisonous to livestock and thus should be pulled up when found growing among the grain.' And yet, only the other day, I saw one of the slaves take the burnt portions of chickpeas from the kitchen and mix them in among the oxen's feed."

Did I catch Aratus rolling his eyes, or only imagine it? "The herbage of the chickpea is poisonous to livestock, Master, not the bean. Poisonous to men, as well, I suspect," he added dryly.

"Ah, well. Yes, that explains it then." I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. "As you say, if the bloom is not yet off the grass, I suppose we shall simply have to wait to begin the haymaking. The vineyard has begun to come out in leaf?"

"Yes, Master. We have already begun to trim the vines and tie them to supports — just as Cato says to do. And since, as Cato advises, only the most skilled and experienced slaves should be engaged in the task, perhaps I should go and oversee the work."

I nodded, and he left.

The room seemed suddenly stuffy and hot, though the hour was not quite noon. I felt a throbbing in my temples and told myself it was the heat, though it was more likely from squinting at the scroll and arguing with Aratus. I walked out into the herb garden, where the air was cooler. From within the house I heard a sudden shriek — Diana screaming, and then Meto shouting, "I never touched her," followed by a maternal scolding from Bethesda. I sighed and kept walking, through the gate and onto the path that led to the goat pens, where two of the slaves were engaged in mending a broken fence. They scarcely looked up as I passed.

The path took me alongside the vineyards, where Aratus was already busy overseeing the tying of the young vines. I kept walking until I came to the olive orchard and paused in the cool shade. A bee buzzed by my head and flitted among the tree trunks. I followed it up the hillside to the edge of the orchard, to the ridge where a patch of virgin forest stood. A few naked stumps at the periphery showed where an attempt had once been made to clear the high land, and then abandoned. I was glad the ridge had been left wild and wooded, though Cato would have advised clearing it for crops; Cato always seemed to prefer high places to the lowlands where mist might gather and ruin the crops with rust.

I sat on one of the stumps and caught my breath beneath the shade of a gnarled, ancient oak. The bee buzzed by my ear again — perhaps it was drawn to the almond-scented oil that Bethesda had rubbed into my hair the night before. How gray my hair was becoming, half gray or more, mixed in with the black. Living in the countryside, I did not bother to have it cut as often as in the city, so that the loose curls lapped onto my neck and over my ears, and for the first time in my life I had grown a beard — that also was half gray, especially around the chin.

Bethesda, too, had been growing grayer, until she began to dye her hair with henna; the tint she had concocted was a deep, rich red, like the color of a bloodstain. How beautiful her hair still was, thick and luxurious. As I had grown more careless with mine, she had grown more elaborate with hers. She never wore it down anymore, except for bed. During the day she wrapped it into coils and pinned it atop her head, as haughty as any Roman matron — though her Egyptian accent would always give her away.

The thought made me laugh, and I realized that my headache was gone. I looked down on the valley and breathed in the smells of summer in the country: the odor of living beasts, of grass rustling in the dry breeze, of the earth itself dozing beneath the hot, baking sun. I studied the plan of the farm, like a picture laid before me: the red-tiled roof of the great house, hiding the bedrooms, kitchen, library, and dining room within; the higher roof that showed where the baths were installed; the formal courtyard just within the front door, with its fishpond and flowers; the second courtyard where the wine was fermented, with its kettles and vats; the third courtyard with its paved threshing floor open to the sky; the herb garden appended to the library, from which I had come. Close by the house were the sheds and pens and the well and the little house that held the olive press. The surrounding land was divided into various uses: fields for grains and other crops, vineyards, olive orchards. The boundary was marked on my left by a wooded stream, on my right by the road from Rome — the wide, paved Cassian Way — and in the far distance directly before me, beyond an expanse of cultivated fields, by a low stone wall that ran from the stream to the road. Stream to the left, road to the right, wall in the distance; and the fourth boundary was the ridge on which I sat. It was an idyllic setting, worthy of a poem or even of crusty old Cato's praise, I thought. It is the dream of every Roman, rich or poor, to have a farm in the countryside, to escape the turbulence and madness of the city. Against all expectations, I had done so at last. Why, then, was I not happy?

"You don't belong here, Gordianus."

I gave a start and swung around. "Claudia! You startled me."

"Good! Startled is better than bored and unhappy."

"And how, from behind, could you tell that I'm bored and unhappy?"

My...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Griffin
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2008
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0312385293
• ISBN 13: 9780312385293
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 528
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: preigu GmbH & Co. KG; mail@preigu.de; ; Lengericher Landstr. 19; Osnabrück; Niedersachsen; 49078; Deutschland