The Roman Conspiracy

by Jack Mitchell

  “Homer,” I asked, “what on earth is that poor donkey carrying? The entire archive?”

  “Just some useful proof for your Protector to look at, sir,” he answered, smiling. Then he looked serious. “As well as something that you should see as soon as possible.”

  “And that is what?”

  “You mean, what is it you should see as soon as possible, sir?”

  “Yes. Stop beating about the bush, Homer!”

  “Well, sir, I don’t wish to bother you with paperwork, but …” He fished around in the saddlebag and produced a letter with a broken seal.

  “A letter to my uncle?” I asked.

  “No, sir, from your uncle.” Homer passed it to me. “I wrote it myself, sir, to Cicero, your Protector. Look, this is my handwriting. This is your uncle’s signature. It lays out some particulars of your dispute, together with an account of Manlius’ activities in the area.”

  “Harassing the tenants, you mean?”

  “Well, that too, sir, but much more than that. It describes the encampment they’ve made, together with …”

  “What encampment?”

  “If you’ll just look over to your right, sir, as we cross the bridge up here,” he began. I squinted over the valley of the Arrus River below us, and could see there was a sizeable wooden wall there, with a tower. I caught the glint of metal.

  “It looks like an army camp!” I cried. “Are you telling me that’s Manlius’ work, meant for us?”

  “No, sir, I believe his plans are rather bigger than just your valley. He’s been up and down the whole area, collecting old soldiers. But I haven’t told you how I got this letter.”

  “Didn’t you ever send it? But the seal is broken.”

  “Indeed, sir. And I picked it up next to your dear uncle’s bed, when they found him dead. We had sent it to Cicero, and there it was back again, and, furthermore, if you’ll just notice the stains on the left-hand margin …”

  I saw what he meant. There were bright blue marks on the papyrus sheet, as though some thick liquid had been smudged there by a finger or a thumb.

  “This doesn’t look like wine, or ink, or …” I swallowed, “…blood.”

  “Sir, I’m afraid there is only one thing it can be. Only one admixture can produce that lurid blue. It is murex and concentrated silphium, sir. One of the strongest dyes, and a deadly poison.”

  That was the word I had hoped he would not utter. “This means,” I said weakly, “that my uncle was poisoned? But how could we not have noticed?”

  Homer bit his lip. “He was so sick, sir, and though I tried to inform your aunt, she was so upset that she paid no attention.”

  “We must find the person who did this, Homer. We must avenge my uncle!” I cried. “But what about the tenants and the land?” I felt lost. I had been glad to have a straightforward task in going to Rome, but now I felt we should turn back and deal with this new problem. “Homer, why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “With respect, sir, I did try. But look at it this way. The letter concerned Manlius and his soldiers – how he is gathering them far and wide, sir – and it seems the man who killed your uncle must have dropped it by him when he killed him. Therefore there is a link between the old soldiers and the killer. And I have a good notion who that killer is.”

  “What?” I exclaimed. “Homer, you know who it is?”

  “Well, not for certain, sir, no. But I think it was the man who used to take your uncle’s letters, including this one, to Rome. He owns property in Faesulae, and is in the town often. He pledged to deliver letters to your Protector in the city. Perhaps he has some connection with Manlius that we don’t know, sir. Whoever it was, he intercepted the letters about Manlius.”

  I considered this. “And what is this man’s name?”

  “Volturcius, sir, a Roman knight. A small, shy man – or so I would have said from the way he behaved with your uncle. Until this,” Homer shuddered. “‘An evil neighbor is a woeful curse,’ as the poet says.”

  “The poet?”

  “Yes, sir, Hesiod, the prince of poets.”

  “What do you mean? You say Volturcius lives in Rome?”

  “Yes, sir, though I don’t know where. I never saw much of him. He always met with your uncle privately. But I would know him if I saw him.”

  There was a hard glint in Homer’s eye. As for me, I was shocked and furious that it might have been murder that set my uncle on the pyre. But it was a relief, too, that both missions were now leading us to the same destination – Rome. I put the letter carefully into the large wallet I carried in the pouch of my toga.

  “Well, thank you for telling me all this, Homer. I appreciate it. I realize you must be just as angry as I am.”

  Homer did not look particularly angry, however. Homer’s face rarely showed much emotion. There was a Greek detachment there that rarely left him. I had seen him troubled and confused only once, when my uncle died.

  By the end of our first day on the road, we reached Arretium, a small town that until now had marked the edge of our country, and so of the world – at least in my mind. My aunt had a cousin there who was happy to put us up, a learned and silver-haired gentleman with a cool Etruscan air. From Arretium we passed down the wide river valley, bordered by tall mountains topped with shadowy pines. The next two nights we spent camped on the road in the chilly night air.

  On the fourth day, however, as we approached the great expanse of Lake Volsinium, which divides Etruria from the great vale of Rome, the sky began to grow a darker gray. In the afternoon it rained hard as we traveled through a wild and uninhabited stretch of country. We pushed on for some time, for I refused to waste a moment until we found this man, Volturcius, but the rain did not let up. At length we took refuge under a low tree, though this gave little shelter. Homer offered to hold his cloak over me to keep me dry, but I informed him that my first act as a full Roman man would not be to hide from rain under a Greek slave’s cloak.

  “I am quite of your view, sir,” he said, rising and looking out from our refuge beneath the tree. “It is most philosophical. To wish to avoid what cannot be avoided – that is as foolish as to desire to have what one cannot have. Hesiod says it well, don’t you think? ‘The gods take note of those whose judgment errs.’”

  “He does indeed,” I said, getting quite wet now, and not for the life of me grasping Homer’s point.

  “It is like with this rain, sir,” he said. “When it rains, we get wet.” And with that he stepped out from under the tree into the highway, standing there in the rain with a small smile. “Here I am now, getting wet, just as you are doing under the tree!”

  “I don’t see how it’s so hilarious, Homer.”

  “You might, sir, if you weren’t busy trying not to get wet,” he said.

  Besides helping Homer illustrate his philosophical points, however, the rain meant we could not go far that day Once it subsided to a drizzling mist, we walked our beasts over the next rise. From there we made for a chimney of smoke we could barely discern about two miles ahead.

  It proved to be coming from a wretched little inn; but to our eyes this was a very welcome promise of a fire and some hot soup or food. There was a painted sign at the front showing a leopard snarling in what might have been the Arena. Few people were inside, just two of the usual traveling sort on the dirty benches by the fire, a peddler and a tinker, and one drunk farmer sleeping in a corner. Not a promising sight, but the fire looked warm enough, and a girl was stirring a cauldron of soup. I sent Homer round to the stables with the horse and donkey, paid for a room, ordered us some soup to be sent to the room, and settled down to a cup of hot wine.

  “Rough weather for a gentleman on the road, isn’t it?” asked a strange voice.

  I looked to my left and realized I had not seen the fourth man in the room sitting behind one of the wooden pillars. He was older than I was, perhaps twenty, but dressed much the same: a white toga and a wet cloak. He was unshaven, however, and I g
ot the idea he’d been drinking as much as the sleeping farmer, but perhaps had more practice.

  “I’m glad to come in for the fire,” I said.

  “And the wine!” he called, indicating he would like more. I told the girl to add it to my bill. “So you’ve got money, I see,” the young man said. “Good thing – a gentleman always needs money. What’s life without it, I ask you? I’ll tell you. No girls, no gambling, no food, and a roof like this over your head!” He laughed derisively at the roof of the establishment. “Not much better than death, don’t you think?”

  “Well …” I began, taken aback by the fellow’s intensity and his bloodshot eyes.

  “I’ll tell you another thing, my friend. I used to have money. A big name, I used to have, among some people in the city, and not the worst set, not by a long way’s. But the marriage fell through, don’t you see, and then the moneylenders started coming after me. I borrowed money, sure I did. But who’s a gentleman who doesn’t live a bit beyond the strict limit, after all! Look at Caesar there, borrowing left and right – and does anyone mind? Well, they might, but they don’t dare say it. And they’re right about that.”

  “Julius Caesar?” I asked. I had heard the name somewhere.

  “Right, him … and Catiline. They’re both Senators, and they know what it is to be a gentleman and have the moneylenders after you. Some people don’t care. Take that Cicero, now. He’s Consul, you know, though no reason he should be – look where he’s from! – and he doesn’t care about us younger gentlemen. There’s going to be trouble, mark my words. That Catiline, he may be a tricky character, but he knows it takes money to live the good life!”

  With that he downed an immense gulp of his wine and started on the cup I’d bought him. I looked over to the door for Homer, but he was taking his time. Not the best man with horses, of course.

  “You mark my words, there’s going to be fighting,” the young man went on, now quite drunk. “If the Senate goes on listening to Cicero and doesn’t care what our friend Catiline thinks, as they’ve been doing, well, we’ll take matters into our own hands! If they won’t lend us the money we need to be gentlemen, we’ll take it! What are we, slaves? Scum? A gentleman can’t stand for it, the way it is. Just as good to be born poor as to be born rich, these days. And that means trouble, for Italy, and for Cicero, and for Rome! Catiline’ll see to that! You’ll see flames, my friend, you’ll see flames! I notice you’re not drinking your wine,” he added, after he took another swig.

  “No, no. I think I’ll go have the soup in my room. Thank you for the conversation, however,” I said, and rose to go.

  He insisted on embracing me, and remarked that we young people had to stick together. I made a hasty retreat to the back of the inn. It wasn’t much more than a stable for people, with walls, I realized. And I found our door was locked.

  The girl saw me at the door and said, “Oh, I gave the key to your slave, Hesiod was it?”

  “Homer. Though he may have quoted Hesiod.”

  “Whatever, I gave the key to him.”

  I walked around to the stables, but Homer wasn’t there. My mare and the donkey were well looked after, though wet. As I was patting the mare down to dry her off (since Homer had not thought to do this), I felt a strange lightness in my toga pouch. My hand shot to my belly – the wallet was gone! The large wallet where I’d put the letter with the blue stain and all my silver!

  Doubling back to the door to our room, I scanned the ground. Perhaps it had dropped out there. But no luck. My heart sank.

  Just then Homer appeared, carrying a tray of bowls and laughing with the girl from the inn.

  “Oh, there you are, master! I had to run an errand for this rude gentleman who was leaving. He must have mistaken me for the stableboy – me, sir, if you can believe that – and he told me to take all his things out to his horse, a great pile of rags, while he had more wine. I’m not sure a man should ride with that much wine in him, sir, but I did as he said … to help Secunda here,” he said, with a smile at the girl.

  “Homer, Homer, has he gone? The drunk man who was here? I think …” I trailed off. I didn’t know how to break the news.

  “He’s gone, sir. And good riddance, if I may add, because you’ll never believe what I found in the rags as I dropped them by his horse. At first I thought he must have a wallet just like yours, but then I realized there must have been some mistake.” And here he put down the soup tray, felt inside his shirt, and pulled out my wallet. With my heart in my mouth, I checked it. The letter was intact, and all the silver coins were still there.

  “Homer,” I cried, “I would never have taken you for a pickpocket, even as a pickpocket of other pickpockets.”

  “Sir,” he answered, “it is as Hesiod says: ‘Arrogance never helped a desperate man.’”

  “It is indeed,” I observed, as the girl let us into the room. I sat down to enjoy the soup, wondering if Homer was quite as impractical a fellow as I’d thought.

  The Consul’s Daughter

  e had fair weather the next morning; the heat was offset by wind, blowing against us as we came down from the hills. Many small rivers flowed down to our right, toward what I had never seen – the great sea that lies at the center of the world. We went down to Sutrium, on the Cassian Road, and then south from there, staying at Calepodius the fifth night, not far from Rome.

  Etruria was behind us. The food was different here, the air was hotter, and people spoke more quickly, pronouncing their Latin (as it seemed to me) through their noses. We could sense the city was very close, even before we saw it.

  On the morning of the sixth day, we set off before dawn and crossed the Tiber, the river of Rome, at daybreak. That is, we started over the bridge at that hour, but it took us forever to get across. There was already a huge throng of pedestrians bustling across to the Roman Market and the Cattle Market, some carrying chickens, some leading pigs, and some just stopping to chat with each other. The confusion was overwhelming. It was my first taste of the chaos that is a central street in Rome. We had to lead the beasts on foot.

  “I’m sure … I’m sure it will be quicker on the other side,” I called out to Homer, as he tried to navigate his donkey through a large family.

  The thing was, we were desperate to get to my Protector’s house before the sun was very high. In the country you can visit a Protector any time before noon. Everyone knows there are cows to be milked and sheep to be led out to pasture. But in the city, as Aunt Hercna had often told me, there are no errands more important than calling on your Protector first thing in the morning. And that ‘first thing’ was slipping by before we reached the far side of the bridge. It was maddening!

  Nor was it any better on the other side. It was easy to ask directions. Cicero lived on the slope of one of the main hills, the Palatine, on Glassmakers’ Street, someone said – but our first wrong turn taught us that we had to stick to the main streets and not get caught up in the labyrinth of alleys and passageways between buildings. Those main streets were a nightmare, though, for anyone in a hurry, as we were. The press of pedestrians, the sheer weight of bodies behind us, made us feel like we were caught in the pull of a brisk, narrow river. It was all I could do to cling to my mare and hope the current would eventually drop me.

  On top of it all, I was making an enormous effort not to look too awed by the sheer scale of the city. We passed several buildings that were four stories tall, and try as I might I couldn’t help gaping up at them. I almost walked over people when I did so, for it seemed that many people slept in the streets and stayed there all day, though what with the rain of two days before the streets themselves were as muddy as the pig pen at home.

  We were not making good progress, and the thought of reaching the Protector’s house too late to see him made me boil with frustration. We had nowhere to stay in the city, and I dreaded a refusal at the door and a humiliating walk back home.

  At a square, not far from the Roman Market, I paused to let Homer catch up,
but he must have passed me somehow, for I heard his voice over to my left.

  “Homer, I’m so glad I found you!”

  “Yes, sir, but you’ll never believe …” He was out of breath, and very excited. He put his donkey’s reins in my hand. “Master, you won’t believe it,” he continued, “but over there by the fountain, I just saw him, the Roman knight, Volturcius! He was talking to three men under the awning of the wine stall. Just now, sir!”

  “Volturcius?” I exclaimed. “Are you sure, Homer? What are the odds that … you’re sure it wasn’t just a man who looked like him? Everybody’s wearing a toga here.”

  “Almost sure, sir. Almost absolutely sure it was him!”

  I was paralyzed by indecision. Yes, we had come to find the murderer, or at least find out how a man with poison had got his hands on my uncle’s letter; but we also had to ask for help from Cicero, our Protector. How could we do both at the same time?

  “With respect, sir,” Homer volunteered, “why don’t you continue to your Protector’s house and I’ll see if I can’t find Volturcius? I can meet you at Cicero’s later, and I’ll even find us a place to stay.”

  He made it sound like a bargain. It didn’t really seem like a good idea to split up, but it was the only plan on offer, so I agreed. “Look for me at Cicero’s, then, but if you don’t see me, come find me here in this square, alright? I’ll sit by the fountain, all day if I have to.”

  I gave him some of the silver and he darted off like a hound on the scent, leaving me with the mare and his donkey. A pretty sight for a gentleman showing up unannounced on his Protector’s doorstep, without even a slave to hold the beasts!

  Nevertheless, I set my teeth and trudged on. It wasn’t far now. I got new directions, found Glassmakers’ Street, and followed it high up the hill ’til it left the apartment blocks behind. It seemed marvelously quiet after the bustle on the streets below, and I felt a gentle breeze.

  Here it was: a long, smoothly plastered blank front wall, right up against the street, with a trim of painted vines in the conservative style. Apart from the fact that the wall and the street were spotless, the only signs that this was indeed the right house were the two men with long-handled axes in front of the tall iron doors. I tied the two beasts to a tree opposite the door, rearranged my toga, and walked up to them.