It was a strange armory, obviously gathered from many sources, but brought here for what purpose? I recovered the heap of arms and looked into the other rooms. One was empty. In the other was a small stack of shields, not the great, body-covering scutum of the regular legions, but the small, round or oval ones carried by light-armed auxiliaries.
I went back up the steps. At the landing, I looked to see if there was anyone about who might see me leaving the basement stair. The great shrine was vacant for the moment and I slipped out, replacing the lamp in its niche. When I returned to the treasury, Minicius looked up from beneath his white brows.
“Where have you been?” he demanded. He was only a freedman, but as one of the most important freedmen in Rome, he did not have to be humble. He sat at his table, his pen racing across a scroll of papyrus.
“I had to run over to the public bath and use the jakes,” I said. “It must have been something I ate this morning.”
“More likely something you drank last night. Here, I’ve a stack of things for you to sign.”
I looked them over, but I really had no idea what I was signing. Only a man who works with numbers all his life can make any sense of columns of figures. I had to trust Minicius. Since every treasury quaestor for the last forty years or so had done the same without coming to harm, I felt fairly safe.
I said nothing to him or anybody else about what I had found. It was the sort of thing requiring a great deal of deep, serious thought. After locking the treasury in the afternoon, I did exactly that. I went to one of the smaller baths, where I was not likely to encounter anyone I would be obliged to talk to. There I sat in the caldarium, stewed in the hot water, and thought.
Somebody had cached arms in the Temple of Saturn. It was clearly not part of an attempt to steal the treasury.Thieves avoid fighting at all costs. On the other hand, someone planning a coup would naturally wish to seize the treasury as one of his first acts.
But who might it be? The times had been tranquil for almost twenty years, since the dictatorship of Sulla. All the wars had been on foreign soil except for the slave rebellion led by Spartacus. Was one of our generals planning a march on Rome and preparing for it by arming cohorts within the city? It would not be the first time.
Something did not fit that theory, though. I worried at it until I saw what was not consistent: it was the hap-hazardness of the weaponry. Surely a general would have supplied his confederates with arms of a uniform nature, if for no other reason than a military sense of tidiness. Whoever had done this had picked up weapons wherever he could find them, probably buying them a few at a time at widely separated places to avoid suspicion.
Of course, not all of our generals were as well fixed as Pompey. Italy was full of the veterans of a dozen wars, paid off, disbanded and settled in smallholdings up and down the length of the peninsula. Every one of them had his helmet and shield, his sword and armor hanging by the hearth, waiting for his old general to call him back to the eagles. These veterans formed one of the most unstabilizing aspects of Roman life, always a potential hotbed of rebellion. Almost any one of the highest men in political life, feeling himself cheated or insulted or thwarted in some way, might remember that he was a soldier before he was a public servant, and that he had many other soldiers ready to follow him. Such a one might very well buy up old arms to equip an urban cohort.
I tried to think who I might approach about this. The problem was that almost any of the men in high office could be the instigator of this plot, or one of his adherents. Many of the men in high office were my relatives, but I could not count on that to save my neck if one of them should turn out to be a part of a conspiracy against the state.
I could see that this matter was going to call for subtlety as well as for boldness and quite possibly for violence. I decided to pay a call upon the man who was a master of all three. I went to see Titus Annius Milo.
Milo was the best representative of a type of man who had come to prominence in Rome during the last century: the political criminal. Such men, besides their usual criminal activities, performed strong-arm tasks for politicians. They broke up rivals’ rallies, made sure that the voters in their districts voted properly, provided bodyguards and rioters, and so forth. In return, their highly placed patrons provided them with protection in the courts. Clodius was another such man. But I detested Clodius, while I counted Milo as a good friend. Clodius and Milo, needless to relate, were deadly enemies.
From the bath, I walked to Milo’s house, which was not far from my own, near the base of the Viminal, in a district of raucous shops that were beginning to quiet down as late afternoon sapped the vigor that had been so boundless earlier in the day. Milo had once been assistant to Macro, who had been a very distinguished gang leader. Now he ran Macro’s gang and lived in the house that had belonged to Macro. Macro had died rather suddenly and Milo had produced a will that looked authentic.
A tall, gangling lout leaned against the doorpost, favoring me with a gap-toothed grin. He was a Gaul, but he must have arrived in the city very young, because he spoke without any accent. The inevitable bulge of a sica handle showed through his tunic beneath the armpit.
“Greeting, Quaestor, we haven’t seen you in too long.”
“No, I haven’t been hanging about the criminal courts, Berbix, or we would have seen a lot of each other.”
“Now, sir,” he said, still grinning, “you know I’m as innocent as a little lamb. And speaking of innocence, you wouldn’t be meaning my patron any harm with that sticker you’ve got under your tunic, would you? I know you and him is friends, but friendship only goes so far, if you take my meaning. I’m shocked, sir, you being a public official and all.”
I had all but forgotten about the dagger. I had wrapped it in a scrap of cloth and tucked it beneath my tunic. He had sharp eyes to spot it through tunic and toga both.
“When did a little dagger do anyone any good against Milo?” I said.
“I won’t argue with that. Come on in, I’ll announce you.”
The house was a fine one, which Milo had remodeled so that he had both a large courtyard and an assembly room, where he could hold mass meetings with his associates in good weather or bad. The thick, wooden door was reinforced with iron strapping and had heavy locking bars. The place was built like a fort, to withstand attack by rioting mobs led by rivals. Three streets bounded his house, and he had clearly sited the door on the narrowest street, so that enemies would have no running space to use a ram against it.
The Gaul left me in a small anteroom and sent a serving girl to search for the master, then he resumed his post by the door. It was sign of the relative tranquility of the times that Milo thought one man on the door was enough. Milo had ambitions to become a Tribune of the People, an office that had been the death of more than one Roman. Clodius likewise was angling for that office, and the inevitable collision of these two was anticipated with great glee by the idlers of the Forum. Clodius cultivated the rising fortunes of Caesar while Milo had formed an odd alliance with Cicero.
Milo arrived, his face decorated with a tremendous smile, and I took his hand. It had not grown soft despite the passage of years since he had earned his living as a rower. He was a huge man, still young, with so much energy and ambition that it made me tired just to be in his presence.
“Decius! Why have you not come to see me in so long? You look pale. That’s what comes of spending your days counting money under the watchful eye of Saturn. How does it feel, being in charge of all the gold in Rome?”
“Whatever pleasure is to be had in watching it flow by is mine,” I told him. “I assure you, that is very little pleasure indeed.”
“Then let me cheer you up. Come with me.”
He led me to a small room equipped with a single table and two small dining-couches. Next to them was a bronze basket filled with glowing-red stones that had been heated in a baker’s oven. This provided heat without smoke, for which I was grateful. The afternoon had grown cool. The table was furnished w
ith cups and a pitcher of wine and snacks of the simplest sort: olives, nuts, dates and figs. This represented not a philosopher’s love of simplicity but rather a busy man’s lack of time for any sort of ostentation.
We drank each other’s health and passed a few pleasantries between us. Then Milo spoke in his usual, direct fashion.
“Much as we always enjoy each other’s company, I take it that this is by way of being an official visit?”
“Not precisely. That is to say, it doesn’t involve my present office. I’ve come upon evidence of a possible conspiracy against the state, and I am not sure what to do with it. I know of no one totally trustworthy in whom to confide.”
“Except me.”He smiled.
“You come closest,” I admitted.
“Then tell me about it.”
Milo was not a man with whom to prevaricate, or speak in circumlocutions or innuendo. I told him exactly what I had found and where I had found it. I told him my reasons for not going to the Consuls or praetores. He listened with great concentration. Milo did not have the most brilliant mind I ever encountered; that laurel would have to go to Cicero. But I never knew a man who could think harder than he did.
“I can understand your urge to caution,” he said when I had finished. “So you suspect a plot against the state?”
“What else could it be?” I asked.
“I know that you have fears that Pompey will make himself king of Rome, but somehow I don’t see him arming a few hundred scruffy supporters to hold the gates for him. If he truly wanted to, I think he could bring his armies to Italy and walk into the city unopposed.”
“There are plenty of others, besides Pompey,” I pointed out. “Men who once commanded legions and know they will never have the chance to do so again. Men who have been disappointed in their bids for high office. Men who are desperate. Who else?”
“The weapons you describe would not be much use in arming soldiers for the field, but they are just the thing for fighting in a city. No heavy shields or armor, no long pikes, no bows or arrows. They might be used as you fear, but there is another possibility.”
“I would be glad to hear of it,” I said.
“Decius, you have allowed these fears of overambitious generals to dominate your thinking. Those men have learned from what happened in the days of Marius and Sulla. I think that, in the future, they will do most of their fighting outside of Italy. But there are other men who have no ambition to command great armies and lord it over the provincials. These men want to control Rome itself, just the city. Such a cache as you describe would be of great use to one of those.”
“And who,” I said, “might this person be?”
“Clodius Pulcher comes immediately to mind,” he said.
“And you would be another. No, it is tempting, and that makes me even more skeptical. There is nothing in the world I would love more than to impeach Clodius before the Senate. It would rid the Republic of a despicable cur and, incidentally, make my name in politics. For that reason, I can hardly believe that the gods have dropped this opportunity in my lap. I will not, of course, suggest that you might have had anything to do with this.”
“Give me credit for greater subtlety. Then let us go back to the idea of a malcontent itching for a coup. It wouldn’t be just one malcontent. They have a way of finding one another and talking about how unjustly they have been treated.”
“Why the Temple of Saturn?” I asked him.
“It is a good location, near the Forum. It has, as you found out, disused storerooms nobody ever looks into. The treasury is always securely locked but the temple itself is open. It will only be one of several caches, you know. Keep an eye on the one in the temple and see if there are more deposited there in the next few days. But don’t let anyone see you do it. I would hate to hear that you were found dead in the street one morning, like poor Manius Oppius.”He would have known of the murder within minutes of the body’s being found. I only hoped that he had not known of it before.
“I passed by the murder scene this morning,” I told him. “I took charge until the Iudex Octavius arrived. Do you know anything about the man?”
“He was a banker, like a lot of that family. I didn’t know him, but I know plenty of people who owed him money.”
“There will be no shortage of suspects, then,” I said. I took the dagger from beneath my tunic and unwrapped it. “This is what he was killed with. Have you ever seen one like it?”
He turned the knife over in his hands, ran his thumb along the carved serpent. Then he shook his head. “It’s no national type I know of. Not even very good work. If I were going to murder a man, I’d probably go to a market, pick up a thirdhand weapon like this from a junk dealer, use it once and leave it where it was or toss it into the nearest storm drain.”He handed it back to me. “Sorry. I suspect that whoever used this picked it because it could not identify him.”
I rose. “I thank you, Milo. I still haven’t decided what to do, but you have given me some things to think about.”
“Stay for dinner,” he urged.
“Alas, I am having dinner with the Egyptian ambassador. Ptolemy the Flute-Player is in trouble again and is cultivating every official in Rome for support. He comes here so often we ought to make him a citizen.”
“Well, I won’t try to keep you from a good party.”He rose as well and put his hand on my shoulder as he walked me to the door. “You recall what I said about how malcontents find each other?”
“I do.”
“If you really want to find out if some of them are plotting to overthrow the state, let them find you. They are always looking for others like them. Don’t be too obvious, but let fall a few comments about how no good offers for post-quaestor appointments have come your way, how your highly placed and jealous enemies are thwarting your ambitions for higher office. You know how they talk. But let them think that it is they who are suborning you.”He thought for a while. “You might drop some of these words where Quintus Curius may hear them.”
At the door I took my leave and thanked him again. As usually happened when I had discussed something with Milo, [ felt that I had been vouchsafed a special insight, making simple what had seem a thorny, difficult problem. He had a way of cutting through the dross and the distractions to reach the core of the matter. He was not bothered by the useless fears, the ethical considerations, the nonpertinent inconse-quentialities that cluttered my own mind. His fixation on the acquisition and exercise of power was as intense and single-minded as those of Clodius, Pompey, Cicero, Caesar and the rest, but he was far more likable than any of them, even Caesar, who could be incredibly likable when he wanted your support.
For instance, why had I not thought of Quintus Curius? He was a penurious malcontent of the first order, a man known to have committed half the crimes on the law tables and suspected of the rest. If anything truly villainous was being plotted in Rome, he would be involved. A few years previously, the Censors had expelled him from the Senate for outrageous behavior. He came of an old and distinguished family, and so naturally thought that he was entitled to wealth, high position and public esteem. He was one of those men who simply could not understand how a new man like Cicero could have become Consul.
I went to my home in the Subura to put on my best toga, thinking of how I might establish a link with Curius. It should not be difficult. The social life of Rome, like its political life, was dominated by a rather small group of men and women. Since I was dining out almost every evening, it should not take me more than a few days to make the necessary connections. The opportunity was to come far sooner than I had hoped.
The house of the Egyptian ambassador was located outside the city walls, on the Janiculum. This gave it almost the aspect of a country villa and allowed the ambassador to lavish his guests with entertainments restricted or forbidden within the walls. The politics of Egypt formed a source of endless entertainment for Romans. The huge, rich nation of the great river was ruled, to use the term loosely, b
y a Macedonian family that had adopted the quaint Egyptian custom of legitimizing one’s reign by marrying one or perhaps more of one’s close female kin. This family had an almost Roman paucity of names, all the men being named Ptolemy or Alexander, and all the women Cleopatra or Berenice. (There was an occasional Selene, but that was usually a third daughter. By the time you were down to marrying a Selene, your claim to the throne was shaky, indeed.) At least one of them, named Ptolemy, deposed his older brother, also named Ptolemy, married his brother’s wife, Cleopatra, who was also sister to both of them, and then, just to make clean sweep of it, married her daughter (and his niece), also named Cleopatra.
The last of the legitimate Ptolomaic line had been Ptolemy X, a Roman client, who claimed the throne by marching his troops into Alexandria and marrying his elderly cousin and stepmother, Berenice, whom he assassinated within twenty days. The Alexandrians, who had been fond of that particular Berenice, promptly killed him. Needing a Ptolemy, lest the natural order of things be shaken, they found a bastard, Philopater Philadelphus Neos Dionysus, better known as Auletes, the flute-player, for his realm of greatest competence. At the same time, for incredibly complicated dynastic reasons comprehensible only to Egyptians, they made his brother king of Cyprus. Since that time, several cousins had laid claim to the throne of Egypt. Since it was generally understood that the legitimate king in Egypt was the one who had Roman support, all of them, cousins, ambassadors and frequently the Flute-Player himself, were in Rome, passing extravagant bribes and entertaining lavishly. This was a source of great fun and profit for us Romans, and I was a frequent guest there, as was every man likely to reach high office.
The villa itself was a wonderful mishmash of architectural motifs, with Greek sculptures, landscaping in the Ro man fashion, Egyptian lotus and papyrus pillars, shrines to the Roman gods, to the Divine Alexander, to Isis and a horde of animal-headed Egyptian divinities. There was a beautiful fishpond in the gardens with a huge obelisk in its center, and another pond full of crocodiles, presided over by a loathsome crocodile-headed god named Sobek. There was a rumor in the city that the Egyptians fed these huge reptiles on unclaimed corpses they obtained by bribing the attendants at the public burial pits, but I never saw any proof of this.
SPQR II: The Catiline Conspiracy Page 5