Roman Blood by Steven Saylor Read Free Book Online Page A

vineyards and farms—but he doesn't bother with that anymore. He's long left the work of running things to someone younger."
    " T o m e , " I said.
    Cicero smiled slightly. Like all orators, he hated any interruption, but the question proved that I was at least listening. " Y e s , " he said, "hypothetically speaking. To you. To his hypothetical son. As for the old man, his own life is now devoted solely to pleasure. In its pursuit he walks the streets of the city at all hours of the day and night, attended only by his slaves."
    " H e has no bodyguard?" I said.
    " N o n e to speak of. T w o slaves accompany him. More for convenience than protection."
    " A r m e d ? "
    "Probably not."
    " M y hypothetical father is asking for trouble."
    Cicero nodded. "Indeed. The streets of Rome are hardly the place for any decent citizen to go gadding about in the middle of the night.
    Especially an older man. Especially if he has the look of money about him, and no armed guard. Foolhardy! Taking his life into his hands, day by day—such an old fool. Sooner or later he'll come to no good end, or so you think. And yet, year after year he keeps up this outrageous behavior, and it comes to nothing. You begin to think that some invisible demon or spirit must be looking after him, for he never comes to harm.
    Never once is he robbed. Not once is he even threatened. The worst that occurs is that he may be accosted by a beggar or a drunkard or some vagrant whore late at night, and these he can easily handle with a coin or a word to his slaves. No, time seems not to be cooperating. Left to his own devices, the old man may very well live forever."
    " A n d would that be so bad? I think I'm beginning to like him."
    Cicero raised an eyebrow. " O n the contrary, you hate him. Never mind why. Simply assume for the moment that, for whatever reason, you want him dead. Desperately."
    "Time would still be easiest. Sixty-five, you said—how is his health?"
    "Excellent. Probably better than yours. And why not? Everyone is always saying how overworked you are, running the estates, raising your family, working yourself into an early grave—while the old man hasn't a care in the world. All he does is enjoy himself. In the morning he rests.
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    In the afternoon he plans his evening. In the evening he stuffs himself with expensive food, drinks to excess, carouses with men half his age. The next morning he recovers at the baths and begins all over again. How is his health? I told you, he still patronizes the local whorehouse."
    " F o o d and drink have been known to kill a man," I ventured. " A n d they say that many a whore has stopped an old man's heart."
    Cicero shook his head. " N o t good enough, too unreliable. You hate him, don't you understand? Perhaps you fear him. You grow impatient for his death."
    "Politics?" I offered.
    Cicero ceased his pacing for a moment, smiled, and then resumed.
    "Politics," he said. "Yes, in these days, in Rome—politics could certainly kill a man more quickly and surely than high living or a whore's embrace or even a midnight stroll through the Subura." He spread his hands wide open in an orator's despair. "Unfortunately, the old man is one of those remarkable creatures who manages to go through life without ever having any politics at all."
    " I n R o m e ? " I said. "A citizen and a landowner? Impossible."
    "Then say that he's one of those men like a rabbit—charming, vacu-ous, harmless. Never attracting attention to himself, never giving offense.
    Not worth the bother of hunting, so long as there's larger game afoot.
    Surrounded on every side by politics, like a thicket of nettles, yet able to slip through the maze without a scratch."
    " H e sounds clever. I like this old man more and more."
    Cicero frowned. "Cleverness has nothing to do with it. The old man has no strategy except to slip through life with the least possible inconvenience. He's lucky, that's all. Nothing reaches him. The Italian allies rise in revolt