Roman Blood Read Free

all about him, and yet you're able to tell me exactly why I've come. It's like producing coins out of thin air. How can you create something out of nothing? Or discover a truth without evidence?"
    " Y o u miss the point, Tiro. It's not your fault. I'm sure you're able to think as well as the next man. It's the sort of logic that's taught by Roman rhetors that's the problem. Retrying ancient cases, re-fighting ancient battles, learning grammar and law by rote, and all with the point of learning how to twist the law to the client's advantage, with no regard for right or wrong, or up or down for that matter. Certainly with no regard for the simple truth. Cleverness replaces wisdom. Victory justifies all. Even the Greeks have forgotten how to think."
    " I f it's only a trick, tell me how it's done."
    I laughed and took a bite of cheese. " I f I explain, you'll have less respect for me than if I leave it a mystery."
    Tiro frowned. "I think you should tell me sir. Otherwise, how will I cure myself in the event that I'm ever lucky enough to be allowed to have a hangover?" A smile showed through the frown. Tiro was capable of striking poses no less than Bethesda. Or myself.
    "Very well." I stood up and stretched my arms over my head and was surprised to feel hot sunshine bathing my hands, as palpable as if I had immersed them in steaming water. Half the garden was filled with light.
    "We'll take a walk around the garden, while it's still cool enough. Bethesda! I will explain my deductions, Bethesda will take away the food—
    Bethesda!—and order will be restored."
    We walked slowly, circling the pond. Across the water Bast the cat was stalking dragonflies, her black fur gleaming in the sunlight.
    "Very well, how do I know what I know about Marcus Tullius Cicero?
    I said he comes from a proud family. That much is obvious from his name. Not the family name Tullius, which I've heard before, but the third name, Cicero. Now the third name of a Roman citizen generally identifies the family branch—in this case the Cicero branch of the Tullius family. Or, if no branch name exists, it may be unique to the individual himself, usually describing a physical feature. Naso for a man with a large nose, or Sulla, the name of our esteemed and worthy dictator, so-called 10

    for his florid complexion. In either case, Cicero is a most peculiar-sounding name. The word refers to the common chick-pea and can hardly be flattering. What exactly is the case with your master?"
    "Cicero is an old family name. They say it comes from an ancestor who had an ugly bump on the tip of his nose, clefted down the middle, something like a chick-pea. You're right, it does sound odd, though I'm so used to it I hardly think of it. Some of my master's friends say he should drop the name if he means to go into politics or law, but he won't ear of it. Cicero says that if his family saw fit to adopt such a peculiar name, then the man who first bore that name must have been quite extraordinary, even if no one remembers why. He says he intends to make all Rome know the name of Cicero and respect it."
    "Proud, as I said. But of course that would apply to virtually any Roman family and certainly to any Roman lawyer. That he lives in Rome I took for granted. That his family roots are to the south I assumed from the name Tullius. I remember having encountered it more than once on the road to Pompeii—perhaps in Aquinum, Interamna, Arpinum—"
    "Exactly," Tiro nodded. "Cicero has relatives all through that region.
    He himself was born in Arpinum."
    "But he did not live there past the age of, oh, nine or ten."
    "Yes—he was eight when his family moved to Rome. But how do you know that?"
    Bast, having given up on catching dragonflies, was rubbing herself against my ankles. "Think, Tiro. Ten is the age for a citizen's formal education to begin, and I suspect, given his knowledge of philosophy and your own erudition, that your master was not educated in a sleepy little town off the