Roman Blood: A Novel of Ancient Rome

Roman Blood: A Novel of Ancient Rome

In the unseasonable heat of a spring morning in 80 B.C., Gordianus the Finder is summoned to the house of Cicero, a young advocate staking his reputation on a case involving the savage murder of the wealthy, sybaritic Sextus Roscius. Charged with the murder is Sextus's son, greed being the apparent motive. The punishment, rooted deep in Roman tradition, is horrific beyond imagining. The case becomes a political nightmare when Gordianus's investigation takes him through the city's raucous, pungent streets and deep into rural Umbria. Now, one man's fate may threaten the very leaders of Rome itself. “Gripping…a combination of Hitchcock-style suspense and vivid historical detail.” ― Pittsburgh-Post-Gazette on Roman Blood “Gordinaus has wisdom and prudence; Saylor has intelligence, wit, and insight. Saylor has aquired the information of a historian but he enjoys the gifts of a born novelist.” ― The Boston Globe on A Murder on the Appian Way “Engrossing…contains all the elements that an entertaining mystery and also provides a view of life in ancient Rome. Highly recommended.” ― Booklist on Roman Blood 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. Roman Blood A Novel of Ancient Rome By Steven Saylor Minotaur Books Copyright © 2008 Steven Saylor All right reserved. ISBN: 9780312383244 1 The slave who came to fetch me on that unseasonably warm spring morning was a young man, hardly more than twenty. Usually, when a client sends for me, the messenger is a slave from the very lowest rung of the household--a grub, a cripple, a half-wit boy from the stables stinking of dung and sneezing from the bits of straw in his hair. It's a kind of formality; when one seeks out the services of Gordianus the Finder, one keeps a certain distance and restraint. It's as if I were a leper, or the priest of some unclean Oriental cult. I'm used to it. I take no offense--so long as my accounts are paid on time and in full. The slave who stood at my door on this particular morning, however, was very clean and meticulously groomed. He had a quiet manner that was respectful but far from groveling--the politeness one expects from any young man addressing another man ten years his elder. His Latin was impeccable (better than mine), and the voice that delivered it was as beautifully modulated as a flute. No grub from the stables, then, but clearly the educated and pampered servant of a fond master. The slave's name was Tiro. "Of the household of the most esteemed Marcus Tullius Cicero," he added, pausing with a slight inclination of his head to see if I recognized the name. I did not. "Come to seek your services," he added, "on the recommendation of--" I took his arm, placed my forefinger over his lips, and led him into the house. Brutal winter had been followed by sweltering spring; despite the early hour, it was already far too hot to be standing in an open doorway. It was also far too early to be listening to this young slave's chatter, no matter how melodious his voice. My temples rolled with thunder. Spidery traces of lightning flashed and vanished just beyond the corners of my eyes. "Tell me," I said, "do you know the cure for a hangover?" Young Tiro looked at me sidelong, puzzled by the change of subject, suspicious of my sudden familiarity. "No, sir." I nodded. "Perhaps you've never experienced a hangover?" He blushed slightly. "No, sir." "Your master allows you no wine?" "Of course he does. But as my master says, moderation in all things--" I nodded. I winced. The slightest movement set off an excruciating pain. "Moderation in all things, I suppose, except the hour at which he sends a slave to call at my door." "Oh. Forgive me, sir. Perhaps I should return at a later hour?" "That would be a waste of your time and mine. Not to mention your master's. No, you'll stay, but you'll speak no business until I tell you to, and you'll join me for breakfast in the garden, where the air is sweeter." I took his arm again, led him through the atrium, down a darkened hallway, and into the peristyle at the center of the house. I watched his eyebrows rise in surprise, whether at the extent of the place or its condition I couldn't be sure. I was used to the garden, of course, but to a stranger it must have appeared quite a shambles--the willow trees madly overgrown, their hanging tendrils touching tall weeds that sprouted from dusty ground; the fountain at the center long ago run dry, its little marble statue of Pan pocked with age; the narrow pond that meandered through the garden opaque and stagnant,