The Catiline Conspiracy s-2

by John Maddox Roberts

  I turned to trot toward the square when a scream from above made me pause and look up. Something large was descending upon me from an overhead balcony. I had a quick impression of a face that was a mask of blood, a mouth twisted into a grimace of fury and demented eyes. Even in flight, Clodius was unmistakable.

  He landed on me like a stone from a catapult, driving me to the ground and forcing the breath from my lungs. Clodius grabbed the horse's head and twisted it from my arms, standing and raising it aloft, screaming a victory cry like some Homeric hero who has slain an enemy and stripped him of his armor.

  If Clodius had run then, he might have gotten away with it, but the fool had to pause and kick me for a while. The first few got through my dazed defense, but then he spun to run away and I lurched forward from my kneeling position and tried to tackle him. I did not manage to get both knees but my arms wrapped around one leg. As he tugged and stumbled to get away, my slimy coating made me slide down his leg until I held only his ankle. My hands and arms were terribly weary and I knew I could not hang on much longer, for he was kicking back at me violently. My jaw muscles, however, were quite unfatigued. As he tried to kick back at my face, I sank my teeth into his heel, which was unprotected by his sandal. He screeched and tried to twist away, but I held on grimly. At last I was able to grip his other ankle and brought him down.

  The instant he hit the cobbles, I scrambled atop him, pummeling away. He raised his hands to defend his patrician face and I got both arms around the horse's head and stood, wrenching it away from him. He tried to get to his feet, but I raised the head and brought it down sharply on his skull, twice. Clodius collapsed into an inert heap. This time, I did not pause to kick him as I leapt over him. Look what that had done for Clodius.

  I was running like a man made of half-melted wax when I reached the Square of Vulcan. Somebody saw me and raised the cry. Soon I was surrounded by my neighbors, enduring slaps on my back as we walked to the Guildsmen's Hall, the building where the neighborhood guilds held their meetings and banquets. There, the still-beautiful head was washed in a trough and was fastened to a spike atop the pediment over the portico of the hall. The Subura had regained its luck and the rejoicing was deafening. At least, that was what I was told later. I passed out during the head washing.

  I awoke looking up at a grave, bearded old gentlemen who leaned on a staff. The staff was wound with a serpent and the old man was about twenty feet tall and made of marble. I was in the Temple of Aesculapius, on the island in the Tiber. Now a much smaller man appeared above me, one whose face I knew.

  "Asklepiodes!" I said, or rather croaked. "I thought you were in Capua."

  "There will be no more games for a few months, so my services were not much in demand. I took leave to come here and work in the temple. You are not badly hurt, and I took advantage of your unconscious state to do most of the necessary stitching. Your face escaped damage, but your scalp was not so lucky. You will not appear comely to gods regarding you from above for some time to come. The shoulder wound was nasty, but the stitches took care of that. The whip injury is just the sort of thing that most slaves have to put up with, and they seldom complain. Can you sit?"

  With a little help from one of his Egyptian slaves, I was able to sit on my pallet. A wave of dizziness washed over me, but it was quickly gone. There were many pallets in the temple, but few patients. The beds would fill in the evening, when the ill and injured would come to the temple to sleep, in hopes that the god would send them a dream to aid in their cure.

  I found that I was naked, but I had been washed well by the slaves. Except for numerous unsightly bruises, I looked as if I had just returned from the baths. "I would appreciate the loan of something to wear home."

  "Certainly." He checked the bandaging of my scalp and made sure that all was to his satisfaction. His slaves were the most artistic bandagers who ever dressed my wounds. "You have not consulted me on a murder in a long time," the physician chided.

  "It is not for lack of homicides," I assured him. "It's just that the latest string of killings have been damnably crude and unimaginative, with no subtlety about them." I found myself relating to him the story of the murders since I had encountered the body of Oppius.

  Asklepiodes was a very eccentric physician, who actually did his own cutting and stitching. As physician to the gladiators of the Statilian and other schools, he had acquired a knowledge of every sort of weapon-inflicted wound, and I had consulted him on murders before. He could glance at a wound and say what sort of weapon had made it, whether a blade's edge had been straight or curved, whether the killer was right- or left-handed, whether he was taller or shorter than the victim, whether the victim had been standing, sitting or lying down when he received his deathblow. Asklepiodes had developed this sophistry into a sort of sub-branch of medical philosophy that had no name. He was named for the Greek god of medicine, Asklepios, which is how the Greeks name Aesculapius. Greeks can never pronounce anything correctly.

  "The art of murder in Rome seems to have reached a new low of amateurism," Asklepiodes commented.

  "Cheer up," I said. "Somebody may die interestingly yet. If so, I shall not hesitate to call upon you."

  A slave brought a tunic that was almost my size and I drew it over my head, wincing at the stiffness of all my movements. I tried out all my limbs and they all seemed to work. The pain was so diffuse that I seemed to hurt everywhere equally.

  "What time of day is it?" I asked. It seemed like several days since I had mounted the October Horse.

  "About midafternoon," Asklepiodes said.

  "Good. I have a dinner engagement and I need to get home to change clothes."

  "In your condition," the physician said, "I should devote the evening to repose."

  "A matter of duty," I said. "It is connected with the murders. At least, so runs my theory. There is also a lady of high birth and great beauty involved." I have found that one can discuss these things with a physician.

  "After a day of such exertion your mind is still fixed not only upon duty and danger, but upon love. This is truly heroic, my friend! Incredibly foolish, of course, but much to be admired."

  Chapter VIII

  I descended the steps of the temple, wincing at the pains that enveloped my body like a cloud. I might have persuaded Asklepiodes to lend me a litter and some slaves, but I was determined to walk lest I grow too stiff to move at all. I crossed the bridge to the riverbank. This was the old wooden bridge. The fine stone bridge that now stands there was built the next year by the Tribune Fabricius. In the city, the celebration was still in full roar. Applause greeted me wherever I showed my bandaged head, and red-dripping wineskins were held out to me by the score, but I only sipped at a few, just enough to ease my way to my house. I wanted a dear head that evening. It took a great effort of will, because I desired nothing more than to drink until my pains were forgotten and lose all my cares in the city's festal mood. I was weary of murders and intrigues and scheming politicians and generals.

  Ladies wearing the brief tunic and feminine toga of the courtesan offered themselves to me freely, but my mind was so fixed upon a single woman that I was not even tempted. Infatuation is a terrible thing. Musicians wound through the streets playing flutes and cymbals, and behind them danced women in the fashion of Bacchantes; their hair unbound and dressed only in animal skins or flimsy chitons open down one side. This was a Greek custom frequently forbidden by the aediles or the Censors, but it had been a few years since the last censorship and the aediles had more important concerns, anyway. A vendor handed me a flat loaf wrapped around a heap of thin-sliced lamb, fried onions and olives, all of a delightful greasiness. This I devoured hungrily, for I had had nothing since breakfast and I knew I would have to drink with Catilina and his cronies or else be suspect. It was so good that, when another vendor offered me a broad fig-leaf heaped with grilled sausages. I accepted that too. These needed something to wash them down, so I next took a cup of unfermented apple juice at a stal
l, along with a handful of figs and dates.

  Women rubbed themselves against me for luck and 1 did not complain. Men tried to do the same and I did complain. I was hero for a day, but for a day only. The Roman people are infinitely distractable, and I would be forgotten by the next day.

  I reached home pleasantly stuffed and let my elderly house slaves fuss over me for a while. They might treat me like a hero for as much as two days, or perhaps even three, if I did nothing to offend them in the meantime. Cassandra wanted to strip the fine bandages from my head and try her favorite poultice on me, but I preferred to trust Asklepiodes's more professional treatment.

  When the sun drew low to the west, I donned a decent tunic and opened my arms chest. Inside were my swords, my field armor and my parade armor, my daggers and my caesti. I took a sheathed pugio and thrust it beneath my tunic, under the girdle. Then I took up a caestus . I had won the boxing gloves in a long-ago game and I had stripped one of its complicated straps, leaving only the thick, bronze bar that went over the knuckles. With its half-inch, pyramidal spikes it was just the thing to give an assailant a truly memorable punch. I tested it to make sure the single strap was still snug against my palm and then tucked it beneath my tunic on the other side, where I could reach it easily with my left hand.

  I did not fear trouble from Catilina or his men, but it was likely that Clodius and his men might be prowling the city and he was unstable enough to attack me on sight. I would have to watch out for Clodius until someone else should enrage him. That would not be long.

  Clodius acquired enemies the way Caesar picked up votes.

  Leaving word that I would return late, I left my house and entered the darkened streets. The revelry had quieted some, but not entirely, by any means. It is seldom truly quiet in the Subura, but by this time most of the roistering had moved indoors, although in the open squares and courts of some neighborhoods, tables had been erected and the dwellers of the local insulae sat back, picking their teeth contentedly. The day's sacrifices had provided plenty of meat and the harvest was in, so fruits and vegetables were plentiful and cheap. Fall was usually a good time in Rome, unless the harvest had been bad. Then it would become necessary to squeeze the provinces.

  I reached Orestilla's house without encountering Publius or his myrmidons. The janitor let me in and I went into the atrium. A cheer went up at my arrival. Catilina rose and took my hand.

  "Well done, Decius, well done!" His arm around my shoulders, he turned to face the others and gestured grandly. "Here is our hero, at last. We've been awaiting your arrival, Decius."

  There were a dozen men present, and all of them rose from their seats to congratulate me. Some of them I knew already: Curius, Cethegus Sura, Laeca, the twin beards, Thorius and Valgius. The latter two showed the trophies of their vigorous efforts on my behalf that morning. Thorius sported a bandage around his head, although it was not as artistic as my own. Valgius had a pair of black eyes, nearly swollen shut. There was a bulky, balding man in the tunica laticlavia with the narrow red stripe; an eques. The rest bore no marks of distinction.

  "Decius," Catilina said when the balding man approached, "this is Publius Umbrenus, a prominent businessman with interests throughout Gaul." So this was the mysterious financier who had been speaking with the Allobroges.

  "I knew your father in Gaul," Umbrenus said. He had the false heartiness of an auctioneer.

  The others were introduced, but I had little oppor tunity to absorb more than their names: Publius Gabi nius Capito, Lucius Bestia, Marcus Fulvius Nobilior and Lucius Statilius were all of the equestrian order, although they had purposely attended in common tunics. They were living proof that not every eques was a wealthy businessman, for these were as ragged and hungry a pack of ne'er-do-wells as one could ask for. Some were ruined entrepreneurs like Umbrenus, others had never reach high enough to achieve ruin.

  There were others, but the rest were not from Rome. They were minor nobles from various Italian municipia and coloniae. I no longer remember their names, although they are to be found in the court records. I remembered 'what Milo had said about malcontents. It gave me cause to reassess the fairly rosy picture I had of the empire's condition. In truth, only the city of Rome itself was relatively tranquil. Everywhere else there was discontent and unrest.

  Amid the backslapping and embracing, Catilina's brows went up at a faint clink from under my tunic. I displayed my weapons for their admiration.

  "I wasn't taking any chances on encountering Clodius this evening," I told them. Several of them grinned and exposed the grips of daggers or short swords beneath their tunics.

  "You won't find anyone here who's squeamish about carrying arms," Catilina chuckled. "But you needn't have bothered yourself about Clodius. He's safe at home, being nursed by his beloved sister and complaining piteously of his wounds. He says that only serpents are in the habit of biting men on the heel."

  "Hence your new name around town," Cethegus said, "Metellus the Viper."

  "I like the sound of that," I said.

  "I heard one of his sycophants at the baths this evening," said Laeca, toadying it up superbly. "He was declaiming some new verse he'd cobbled together, likening Clodius to Achilles, wounded in the heel by a coward." He laughed loudly and falsely. "As if the man who carried the head of the October Horse from the Forum to the Subura single-handed could be accused of cowardice!"

  "You'll be the talk of Rome for some time to come, Decius," Catilina said.

  "And forgotten next time I stand for office," I said, remembering my role.

  "But then, that's why we're all here," Catilina said. "We are all fed up with the fickleness of the electorate. They were spoiled by the Gracchi and have been growing worse ever since." He paused while the others made grumbles of agreement. "Now, I would never want to see us return to monarchy, but things were best when decisions were made by the Senate and the Centuriate Assembly, all solid men of property and military experience, patrician and plebeian both. Now they hand out citizenship to anyone, even freedmen." Then he remembered the non-Romans present and added, hastily, "And on top of that, our demagogues have robbed the municipia and coloniae of their old rights of self-government without giving them a commensurate place in the government." That was the sort of mistake Caesar never would have made. Catilina just wasn't a born politician.

  "Very true," said one of the strangers. "We Italian allies supposedly have citizenship, but we must come here to Rome for the voting if we want to be represented. We crowd into tents and tenements at a miserable time of year." The man was glowering, his words bitter. "Then, as often as not, we are cheated of our vote. Whenever an issue that might favor us comes up for a vote, the speakers carry on endlessly, or the augurs suddenly see omens decreeing that the vote must be delayed. Then they wait until we must return home before voting." This was indeed a common abuse of the day, and the allies had much just cause for grievance.

  I put on a stern face. "Such injustice is intolerable!"

  "And we will see it corrected," Catilina said. "Gentlemen, take your seats and let us get down to business."

  We seated ourselves and slaves came in to set a table with pitchers of wine and platters of fruit, nuts, olives and the like. This was not a dinner party, but Romans cannot talk seriously without refreshment save in the

  Senate and the courts, and there we are just pretending to be dignified. The slaves withdrew. Like most such homes, this one had no internal doors in that part of the house, so we could see into the peristylium and the adjoining rooms and be sure that no one was lurking in them.

  "Orestilla has locked the domestic slaves in the rear of the house," Catilina said. "We may all speak openly, without fear of being overheard." He looked around the room with the eagle-eyed gaze of a general proudly surveying a veteran legion. "I will make no speeches. The time for that is past and the time for action is at hand. Let us hear your reports. Publius Umbrenus, let us hear yours first."

  Umbrenus rose as if addressing the S
enate, his left hand going up as if to grasp that fold of the toga just below the collarbone that is so beloved by orators. Remembering that he was not wearing his toga, he grasped a handful of tunic instead.

  "My agents in Gaul have been successful and the tribes will rise upon our signal. Roman government in the Transalpine Province is weak. When Lucius Murena came back to Rome to stand for the consulship, he left his brother Caius to rule in his stead as legatus. To Gauls, that's like a king leaving his idiot son in charge while he goes raiding in someone else's territory. It is an invitation to rebellion.

  "My negotiations here in Rome with the envoys of the Allobroges have been most successful. Their support consolidates our grasp on the northern part of the province. They were hesitant at first, but when I demonstrated to them the extent of our preparations, our power, our backers, then they were eager to cooperate. They stand in readiness to receive our orders."

  "Excellent," Catilina said. "Marcus Fulvius, speak to us."

  Nobilior stood. He was a thin, nervous man who was of some kinship to Fulvia, the mistress of Curius. "My preparations in Bruttium are now complete," he reported. "When you give the signal, Consul"-he addressed this title to Catilina-"they will rise. You may be assured of the complete loyalty and support of the Bruttians."

  I solemnly raised my cup and took a long drink in order to avoid bursting into laughter. If ever there was an assurance of disaster, it was to have the Bruttians on your side. They succumbed to every enemy of Rome who ever marched against us from the south. They harbored Pyrrhus and they harbored Hannibal and even Spartacus tarried there for a while, since the Bruttians weren't up to fighting a pack of runaway slaves. They weren't even proper Latins, speaking as much Greek and Oscan as Latin. In truth, nobody knew exactly what they were, and nobody cared. Nobilior sat.