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enemies lined the Forum, hundreds every day, stricken from their bodies and mounted on stakes. The blood of his victims still showed as rusty stains against the otherwise white, unblemished stone.
    25

    THREE
    AS Tiro had said, Cicero's house was considerably smaller than my own.
    Its exterior was almost self-consciously modest and sedate, a single-story structure without a single ornament. The face it presented to the street was utterly blank, nothing more than a wall of saffron stucco pierced by a narrow wooden door.
    The apparent modesty of Cicero's home signified little. We were, of course, in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Rome, where size gives little indication of wealth. Even the smallest house here might be worth the price of a block of villas in the Subura. Besides that, the wealthier classes of Rome have traditionally shunned any display of ostentation in their homes, at least as regards the exterior. They claim this is a matter of good taste. I suspect it has more to do with their fear that a vulgar show of wealth might kindle jealousy among the mob.
    Consider also that a costly decoration on the outside of a house is far easier to carry off than the same decoration safely displayed somewhere inside.
    Such austerity and restraint have never ceased to be regarded as ideal.
    Even so, in my own lifetime I have seen a definite veering toward public opulence. This is notably true among the young and ambitious, especially those whose fortunes flowered in the wake of the civil war and Sulla's triumph. They add a second story; they build porticoes upon their roofs.
    They install statuary imported from Greece.
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    Nothing of the sort appeared on the street where Cicero lived. Decorum reigned. The houses turned their backs upon the street, facing inward, having nothing to say to any stranger who might wander by, reserving their secret life for those privileged to enter within.
    The street was short and quiet. There were no markets at either end, and wandering vendors apparently knew better than to disturb the silence. Gray paving stones underfoot, pale blue sky above, faded stucco stained by rain and cracked by heat on either side; no other colors were allowed, least of all green—not a single unruly weed could be seen sprouting through the cobbles or springing up beside a wall, much less a flower or a tree. The very air, rising odorless and hot from the paving stones, breathed the sterile purity of Roman virtue.
    Even in the midst of such restraint, the house of Cicero was particularly austere. In an ironic way it was so unassuming that it actually drew attention to itself— there, one might say, there is the ideal dwelling for a wealthy Roman of the most rarified Roman virtue. The little house looked so modest and so narrow that one might have assumed it to be the home of a once-wealthy Roman matron, now widowed and in reduced circumstances; or perhaps the town house of a rich country farmer who came to the city only for occasional business, never to entertain or enjoy a holiday; or perhaps (and so it was, in fact) such an austere house on such an unassuming street might belong to a young bachelor of substantial means and old-fashioned values, a citified son of country parents poised to seek his fortunes among Rome's higher circles, a young man of stern Roman virtue so sure of himself that even youth and ambition could not lure him into the vulgar missteps of fashion.
    Tiro rapped upon the door.
    A few moments later a gray-bearded slave opened it. Afflicted by some palsy, the old man's head was in constant motion, nodding up and down and tilting from side to side. He took his time in recognizing Tiro, peering and squinting and extending his head on its slender neck in turtle fashion.
    The nodding never ceased. Finally he smiled a toothless smile and stepped aside, pulling the door wide open.
    The foyer was in the shape of a semicircle with its straight wall to our backs. The curving wall before us was