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but my curiosity was piqued.
    " Y o u r master is no admirer of Sulla, then?" I tried to sound casual, to set Tiro at ease. But Tiro did not answer.
    "Cicero is wrong, you know, if that's what he thinks—that all the crime and chaos in Rome is Sulla's fault. Bloodshed in the streets hardly began with Sulla—though Sulla has certainly contributed his share of it." There, I had put my foot onto thin ice myself. Still Tiro did not respond. Walking behind me, not having to meet my eyes, he could simply pretend not to hear. Slaves learn early to feign convenient deafness and a wandering mind. I could have stopped and turned around to face him, but that would have been making too much of the matter.
    Yet I would not let it go. There is something about the mere mention of the name Sulla that fans a fire in every Roman, whether friend or foe, accomplice or victim.
    "Most people credit Sulla with having restored order to Rome. At a very high price perhaps, and not without a bloodbath—but order is 23

    order, and there's nothing a Roman values more highly. But I take it Cicero has another view?"
    Tiro said nothing. The narrow street wound to the left and right, making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. Occasionally we passed a doorway or a window, slightly recessed in the wall, always shut.
    We could hardly have been more alone.
    " O f course Sulla is a dictator, " I said. "That chafes the Roman spirit: We are all free men—at least those of us who aren't slaves. But after all, a dictator isn't a king; so the lawmakers tell us. A dictatorship is perfectly legal, so long as the Senate approves. For emergencies only, of course.
    And only for a set period of time. If Sulla has kept his powers for almost three years now instead of the legally prescribed one—well, then, perhaps that's what offends your master. The untidiness of it."
    "Please," Tiro said in a strained whisper. " Y o u shouldn't go on about it. You never know who might be listening."
    " A h , the walls themselves have ears—another bit of wisdom from Master Chick-pea's cautious lips?"
    That finally stirred him up. " N o ! Cicero always speaks his mind—he's as unafraid to say what he thinks as you are. And he knows a great deal more about politics than you seem to think. But he's not foolhardy.
    Cicero says: Unless a man is well versed in the arts of rhetoric, then the words he utters in a public place will quickly fly out of his control, like leaves on the wind. An innocent truth can be twisted in a fatal lie. That's why he forbids me to speak of politics outside his household. Or with untrustworthy strangers."
    That put me in my place. Tiro's silence and anger both were justified; I had deliberately baited him. But I didn't apologize, not even in the roundabout and stuffy manner that free men sometimes use to apologize to slaves. Anything that might give me a clearer picture of Cicero before I met him was worth the trifling expense of offending his slave. Besides, one should know a slave very well before letting him know that his insolence pleases you.
    We walked on. The Narrows widened just enough to let two walk abreast. Tiro caught up with me a bit, but not enough to walk side by side with me, keeping a formal distance behind and to my left. We reentered the Subura Way near the Forum. Tiro indicated that it would be quicker to walk directly through the Forum rather than around it. We passed through the heart of the city, the Rome that visitors think of, with 24

    its magnificent courts and fountains, temples and squares, where the law is made and the greatest gods are worshiped in their finest houses.
    We passed by the Rostra itself, the high pedestal decorated with the beaks of captured ships, from which orators and advocates plead the greatest cases in Roman law. Nothing more was said of the dictator Sulla, yet I could not help but wonder if Tiro was thinking, as I was, of the scene at this very spot only a year before, when the heads of Sulla's