"Nobody else?" I said.

"Nobody except me." The speaker stepped into view between the two men on the roof, put his hands on his hips and looked down at me. He wore a green tunic and a dark cloak. I suddenly realized that I must have been mistaken all along, or else they were playing another game with me. The man was Tiro's height and bore a rough resemblance to him, but had to be younger. His skin was as dark as an Egyptian's, his hair had a reddish tinge without a hint of gray, he was slender as a youth and he wore a neat little beard of the sort that Tiro had despised ever since Catilina made it popular.

"I'm not sure what you're playing at," I said, "but I mean to find out." I stepped onto the ladder.

"No, don't come up," said the stranger. "I'll come down."

I backed away as he descended. His movements on the spindly steps gave him away; he wasn't nearly as young as he looked at a distance. By the time he reached the bottom rung and turned to face me, the stranger had been transformed back into Tiro- Tiro with skin stained and hair dyed with henna, with a thinner face and sporting a very unlikely beard, but Tiro nonetheless.

"You seem to have made a miraculous recovery," I said. "How did you get here from Greece so swiftly- riding Pegasus?"

He silenced me with a finger to his lips. Behind us the ladder withdrew. The two guards vanished.

"We can't talk here," he said. "But I know of a quiet place, where the host never eavesdrops…"

VIII

Directly across the road from Cicero's house, amid the shrubbery where Mopsus and Androcles had hidden themselves, Tiro pulled back a branch covered with little red berries and appeared to step into empty space.

"Mind that the branch doesn't fly back and hit you," he cautioned. "And watch your step on the trail. It's steeper than it looks."

That hardly seemed possible. The trail was hardly a trail at all, just a descending series of little cleared spots large enough for a man to place his foot amid the gnarled trees and thorny bushes sprouting out of the western face of the Palatine Hill. Directly below us was the congested warehouse district.

"Tiro, where are you taking me? If we're heading down, why not take the Ramp?"

"Too much risk of being recognized."

"But you don't avoid the Ramp. I've seen you on it twice myself."

"Oh, I'm not worried about being recognized. But you would be. And then someone would start to wonder, 'Who was that swarthy bearded fellow I saw with Gordianus the Finder today?' "

"Then why not talk privately inside Cicero's house?"

"The guards, for one thing. They tend to hear things they shouldn't. Then they talk."

That was true enough.

"And also…" Tiro hesitated, deliberating where next to put his foot. "To be candid, Cicero doesn't want people coming and going in the house while he's not there."

"You think I might snoop?"

"I didn't say that, Gordianus. But it's Cicero's house. While he's away, I'll obey his wishes."

A loose stone slipped from under my foot and skittered down the hillside. I gripped the branch of a cypress tree for balance, caught my breath, and cautiously sought the next foothold.

At last we reached the lower slopes of the Palatine, where the path gradually flattened and meandered amid trash heaps piled behind the warehouses. Tiro led me this way and that, undaunted by the maze of narrow alleys stinking of urine. At length we turned a corner and I saw ahead of us a familiar sign- an upright post surmounted by an erect marble phallus.

"Not the Salacious Tavern!"

"We ran into each other here after Milo's trial," said Tiro. "Remember? That was the last time I saw you- over two years ago."

"I remember the hangover," I said, but I was thinking of my last visit to the tavern, and the host's account of a swarthy, bearded foreigner…

Tiro laughed. "You were getting over a hangover the very first time we met. Do you remember that?"

"A bright-eyed young slave came to my house on the Esquiline Hill and asked if I'd help his ambitious young master defend an accused parricide."

"Yes, but before I could speak, you demonstrated a cure for your hangover."

"Did I? What was it?"

"Concentrated thought, so as to flush the brain with fresh blood. It was quite remarkable."

"You were hardly more than a boy, Tiro. You were easily impressed."

"But it was amazing! You deduced who'd sent me and why, without my saying a word."

"Did I? A pity I can no longer concentrate my mind so keenly. I can't begin to imagine, for instance, why Cicero's right-hand freedman is wandering about Rome incognito."

Tiro looked at me shrewdly. "You haven't grown less keen, Gordianus, just craftier. You could work it out, if you cared to, but you'd rather draw it out of me."

Over the door of the tavern, the hanging phallus-shaped lamp cast a faint glow to brighten the chilly, overcast afternoon. "A waste of oil," I remarked to Tiro, "considering the shortages in the city."

"Words like 'shortage' have no meaning at the Salacious Tavern," said Tiro, knocking on the door. "Have you been here in the last year or so?"

I shrugged. "Once, I think."

"The place is under new management," he went on. "But nothing's changed. Same girls, same smells, same foul wine- but the taste improves after the second cup."

The peephole opened, then the door. "Soscarides!" the eunuch practically shrieked, gripping Tiro's hands. He failed, as yet, to notice me. "My favorite customer, who also happens to be my favorite philosopher!"

"You've never read a word I've written, you dog. You told me so the first day I came here, two months ago," said Tiro.

"But I keep meaning to," insisted the eunuch. "I placed an order with a book dealer down in the Forum. Really, I did! Or I tried to. The fellow claimed he'd never heard of Soscarides the Alexandrian. Practically laughed at me. The idiot! Now all the book dealers have closed their shops and left town. I shall have to remain ignorant of your wisdom."

"Sometimes ignorance is the truest wisdom," quipped Tiro.

"Oh! Is that one of your famous sayings, Soscarides? I like having philosophers in the tavern. Cleaner than poets, quieter than politicians. Is your friend a famous philosopher, too?" The eunuch finally looked at me. His face fell.

"As much a philosopher as I am," said Tiro, "and even more famous. That's why we're here, to seek some peace and quiet."

The eunuch was nonplused for a moment, then recovered. He acted as if he had never seen me before. "Will a corner in the public room do? The private rooms upstairs are all taken by gambling parties."

"We'll take that corner bench over there," said Tiro, indicating a region so dark I could only conjecture the existence of a corner, let alone a bench. "And two cups of wine. Your best."

Tiro set out for the corner. I followed close behind him. "I didn't realize there was more than one quality of wine offered in this establishment," I said.

"Of course there is. For the best, you pay a bit more."

"And what do you get?"

"The same wine, but poured through a strainer. No nasty surprises floating in the cup."

I grunted as I bumped into something that grunted back. I apologized to a murky, growling shape and moved on, glad when we at last reached the far side of the room. The corner bench was built into the wall. I leaned back and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. Our wine arrived. It was as foul as I remembered. The Salacious Tavern seemed unusually crowded, considering that the sun was still up. With all normal activities in the city at a standstill, what better way to pass the time on a cloudy afternoon than to indulge in a bit of vice? Amid the murmur I heard laughter and cursing and the rattle of dice.