The Roman Conspiracy

by Jack Mitchell

  I could have sworn the sackcloth bag Homer was sitting on seemed to move as he said this, but the dim light of the pantry played tricks on the eyes.

  “You, I take it, do not belong to the Epicureans?” asked Tullía.

  “Madam, I never have. I have always followed the other school,” Homer replied. “But I had not seen Pantolemos since the old days in Athens. See what the years of dissolute living had done to him! Howbeit, sir, Pantolemos exited the house of Volturcius and … and he walked right over to the sausage-seller and ordered a hot sausage! I saw him eat it, sir!”

  “An outrage, no doubt,” I said.

  “Well, it would be if you were an Epicurean, sir, and therefore a sworn vegetarian! How many arguments in Athens did we have about just that point? I’m surprised he didn’t have it wrapped in the ‘divine writings’ of Epicurus himself, sir.”

  “Right, he had a sausage. Go on.”

  “Well, sir, realizing that this Pantolemos was now the house philosopher of the very man who – in all likelihood – is connected to the murder of your uncle, I thought, with the wise Hesiod, ‘Seize not the goods, but take the god-sent chance.’”

  Again I was sure I saw the bag move, but it was likely just shifting under Homer’s weight. He was sitting on it very heavily.

  “How true,” I said. “But come to the point, Homer.”

  “Yes, sir, the point. Well, as I was sitting in the shade and Pantolemos was munching his carnivorous snack, it occurred to me, sir, that the man must know every corner of Volturcius’ house – even the slaves’ quarters. And, therefore, if we are ever to get in there and find the truth about your uncle’s murder, Pantolemos is essential. And he is a man who knows where his best interests lie. And, to be fair, sir, he is not a wholly mediocre philosopher.”

  “What are you driving at, Homer?”

  “I only mean, sir, he is merely mistaken about the cause of philosophical virtue, not necessarily its effects.”

  “And …?” This was tedious.

  “And he’s in this sackcloth bag here, sir.”

  What I Found with the Golden Dolls

  leapt to my feet. There was no doubt about it. Not only was the bag lumpy, but it was also moving and – yes – even groaning softly. I was astounded.

  “Homer, you mean you’ve kidnapped that philosopher? And dragged him across Rome? And sat on him this last half hour?”

  Homer looked unhappy. “I had to, sir.”

  “And why’s that?” I cried. “He may be wrong about the … about what you said, Homer, but what you did is a crime! You’re a kidnapper!”

  “Actually, sir, since I happen to be a slave, it’s my master who’s responsible, legally.”

  “I was just getting to that!” I cried.

  “But, sir, he knows Volturcius’ house like the back of his hand.”

  “Shouldn’t we let him out for some air?” suggested Tullia.

  The philosopher Pantolemos was indeed looking bedraggled when we hauled him out of his bag. Homer had bound his ankles and wrists, too, and they looked sore when we took the rope off. With a nod he agreed not to shout out, so we also removed the gag. He shot Homer a hateful look, but was glad to accept a cup of wine from Tullia.

  “The universities of Athens, in your day, must have been dangerous ground,” she commented wryly.

  “I came here for retirement, yes,” he replied, scratching a long white beard.

  “Well, I’m sorry for my slave’s behavior,” said I. “But I can’t help that. You’re involved in this now. So tell me, what do you know about Volturcius’ trips to Faesulae?”

  “Excuse me, sir,” broke in Homer, “but I think it is usual to threaten the fellow with torture first and then ask questions.”

  Pantolemos glared at him, then turned to me while trying to control his fear. “Young man,” he said, “surely you won’t torture me! I may not be a Roman citizen, but by Zeus, I’m the guest of a Roman knight, a distinguished guest.”

  Homer made some sour remark about what he was distinguished for, but I cut him off.

  “Now look here,” I said to Pantolemos. “I’m a civilized person. We won’t do anything unnecessary. But I want to find out what you know. And I must inform you,” I threw in, “that you are in the house of the Consul of Rome right now.”

  “And your employer, Volturcius, may have links to an enemy of the Roman People,” added Tullia. I looked at her with surprise, but Homer seemed extremely pleased to hear it.

  “But I really know nothing about Faesulae!” groaned Pantolemos. “That is, Volturcius owns some land there, everyone knows that, and he goes there, but I’m not his secretary, his agent, or anything. I just read the divine writings of Epicurus to him sometimes in the evening,” he ended pitifully, “and I expound.”

  I asked more questions, but it really did seem Pantolemos was the last man you would trust with information about shady dealings or murder, and it was impossible to believe he had heard my uncle’s name before.

  “Homer, what now?” I asked.

  “He can at least say how we can find the information, sir, if it exists.” He turned to Pantolemos. “My dear old colleague, what is that back alley you were sneaking out from today? There was a terrible smell, if you remember.”

  The philosopher hated answering Homer, but he admitted that it was the garbage route. And, yes, he said, if you went in the back door there, no one could see you except the kitchen staff, and they would not be there tonight. A big key was hidden, he said, behind the ivy, and if you got past the door, you would see a corridor that led past the ball court. A flight of stairs at the end of the corridor led up to the study.

  “And he uses the study?” broke in Tullia.

  “Yes, yes, always a mess of papyrus sheets in there, great disorder,” Pantolemos said. “And not a scroll of philosophy among them!” he added, warming up.

  “Tullía,” I said, “I’ll bet my uncle’s letters to your father are there. I can see them in my mind’s eye, stacked up in a corner. We just need to get at them.”

  “If they haven’t been burned,” Homer observed.

  “The letters, and other documents that are maybe even more important,” Tullia replied. “Not to say that your tenants’ troubles aren’t important, I mean. And, Spurinna, I think you should go tonight.”

  “What? Tonight? Me?” I had been planning to lie low, scouting out Volturcius’ house, and shadowing him around. I certainly had not been planning to break into his house by myself. “Maybe your father has agents he could send?”

  “At this hour?” she answered. “No, it’s already dark. And we don’t have enough men these days, not with all the new developments. In all frankness,” she ran her teeth over her lip, “I don’t think my father would send agents on a hunch of mine. But Volturcius is a friend of Catiline’s, or that’s what I hear, and it fits with your interest in him. No. No, I will take care of this nice old man – he can stay here with the guards for several days – and you must go alone, or with this enterprising fellow,” she said, indicating Homer.

  Homer looked up brightly, but I shook my head. “I’ll go alone,” I said. “Homer, you look exhausted. But you can show me the way. I’m willing to try it.” I looked back at Tullia. “And you re not coming, I suppose?”

  She looked annoyed at this. “Well, I might, Spurinna, just to show you. But I can’t leave the party now. And I have to help with the speech for tomorrow. Some other time, perhaps?”

  “Sure thing,” I said, somewhat angry to be sent off like this, as it seemed to me.

  “I’ll show you the way out,” she replied with a grin, sending Pantolemos, happy enough now with another glass of wine, to a waiting room, and instructing the servants to burn the muddy bag from which he had emerged.

  “So did you find us a place to stay?” I asked Homer when we had taken leave of Tullia and ventured out into the streets of Rome once more. It was a different scene than during the day. No one was out walking, and the night was almost
chilly. I was excited enough not to care, however. Things seemed to be going almost too well. Not only had we located the man involved in the murder of my uncle, but I had talked to our Protector; and now I had a chance to show Tullia what I could do, infiltrating Volturcius’ house. After such a string of success, what could really go wrong?

  “A place to stay, yes, sir, I have,” answered Homer. “By the square where I left you. I stopped there with the bag. An extraordinary rent they asked for it, extraordinary. And a dirty place, sir, but we can clean it up.”

  He led us past the square. The building he showed me did look like it was falling apart. But from there we kept on towards Volturcius’ house. It felt strange to be the only ones in the street: the buildings seemed even taller in the faint moonlight. We left the cobblestones far behind. They don’t extend much past the Market and the temples in the city center. My feet were soon caked in cold muck.

  “Just a little farther now, sir,” Homer encouraged me, though he was far gone himself. He looked dead tired. “We turn right, I believe. Yes, and then past the public toilet. And left here. This is it now, Sicklemaker Street. And now, do you see the sausage shop sign up there, in red?”

  Homer insisted that we should approach slowly and keep to the dark shadows. It was a good precaution. We weren’t more than forty paces away when from behind us we heard the clank of hobnailed sandals, marching in step, a sudden clatter in the silent street. We melted into a gap in the wall of shops. The glow of torches passed us by, lighting the way for a large sedan-chair supported by the backs of sweaty porters.

  I peered cautiously round the corner and watched the sedan-chair come to a stop. An aristocrat was entering Volturcius’ house, together with two heavy men. I caught the clank of metal as they closed the door. The sedan-chair did not wait for them: once they were inside, it quickly disappeared down the street.

  “Sir, are you sure it’s wise to go in there tonight? That wasn’t Volturcius in the sedan-chair,” Homer said.

  “I don’t know if it’s wise, Homer, but I’m going. Remember my uncle, and the blue poison on that letter. And Tullía would be glad to see some of those documents.”

  “Well, at least take this off, sir,” said Homer, tugging at my bright white toga and unwinding it. “Your shirt is enough. Do you see where they went in? The alley is just before that, a little space between the buildings.” He sighed. “Good luck, sir,” he added, but I was already too intent on my next move to pay any attention to the Greek quotation he threw in. If I was not back in half an hour, we agreed, I would find him at the dingy apartment. He would look after my toga.

  I’ll say this: I am good at moving quietly when I choose. When you’ve often gone hunting in the hills, you have that advantage. I crossed Sicklemaker Street in total silence, and moved cautiously in the shadows on the other side, toward the opening next to Volturcius’ house.

  Homer had not been joking about the nasty smell of the alley. A narrow track snaked between heaps of rotting vegetables and bones, months and months of kitchen scraps. The reek was so strong, I reflected, that surely no Roman citizen would ever have set foot there – until I did, that is.

  I heard a rustling sound ahead, as I rounded the corner. I realized – too late – that I was face to face with a dog. “Of course, the night guard dog,” I thought bitterly, and I half turned to run. But the dog only gave a low growl. He didn’t bark, and now he seemed less large. He was big-boned, yes, but he was starving, and too keen on the magnificent feast of bones he was holding in his jaws to bother with me. I crept on past him.

  There in the wall of the house, just as Pantolemos had told us, was a small door, lower than my shoulders, with a keyhole. Beyond the door, the wall seemed to turn into an outer wall of a private garden, for ivy was growing over it and part way up the house itself. I reached behind the ivy, and found a little hollow where a brick had broken off. Nestled inside was the iron key, just as Pantolemos had promised.

  Gently, I slid it into the lock, and tried to turn it quietly. It wouldn’t turn! Five times I brought it out and tried again. Nothing moved. Could it be the wrong key? Could the lock have rusted since Pantolemos used it this afternoon? I finally gave it a violent twist; and with what seemed an ear-splitting scrape (though it could not have been so loud) the iron key turned and the door opened.

  It was as dark as the underworld inside. Five steep steps led down to a passageway, which smelt strongly of cooking herbs. I closed the door behind me and descended. My eyes adjusted quickly. There was lamplight filtering through windows high on the right-hand wall of the corridor. It seemed the corridor ran rather lower than the ground level of the house, and that lamp-lit room was the ball court.

  “Point, a point for Volturcius!” came a cry from the room. It shook me terribly, for it was the first sign that indeed there was someone in the building. Craning my neck, I could see the sandaled feet in the ball court: two pairs of feet, though I heard three voices, together with the smack of the polished wooden ball upon the catchers’ palms. “Game point,” remarked a shy, dry voice. “This is it now.”

  Creeping, I passed two rooms on my left that looked like small kitchens. Beyond that, there was a black emptiness. I could just make out steps. It was the spiral staircase, again just where Pantolemos had told us. Though I could see nothing as I climbed up, I could sense the cold stone, and as careful as I was my footfalls brought uncanny echoes.

  After two tight spirals, I reached another corridor on the next story. All was quiet, except for the smack of the wooden ball in the court, which I could now hear more distinctly. According to Pantolemos, the study should be close by; and there it was, just opposite the top of the stairs, on the far side of the passage. I crept to the door. Lamplight was filtering through the cracks in the wooden floorboards, and I could clearly see that the room was covered in papyrus sheets.

  I entered the study. Surely my uncle’s intercepted letters lay nearby.

  The problem was finding them in the mess. If Volturcius had thrown all the scrolls and sheets up in the air and let them fall where they liked, there could not have been more confusion. There were no stacks, no piles. Here and there lay chewed-up reed pens. On a shelf I saw a jumble of strange figurines – enchanted dolls for evil magic, from Egypt, painted with dull gold.

  Laughter burst from below. The study was directly above the ball court, it seemed. A man clapped, then many people seemed to be entering the court. Chairs scraped on the stone floor, and cries of greeting and the hum of chitchat filled the silence. Not only was the house inhabited, but now it appeared to be hosting a large number of guests. I did not stop to wonder why they should be gathering in the ball court.

  Instead I concentrated on my task, frantically searching through as many papers as I could. There was an endless series of them. Letters from creditors, threatening to haul Volturcius to court and ruin his political career; anxious letters from friends, wondering how the investment they were making together was coming along; letters from Volturcius, begging shamelessly for more time to repay, or in fact for further loans of an immense amount – five times what our whole property was worth. The man had ambitious plans.

  Then there were the astrological tables, diagrams in colored ink whose intricate arcs and bisecting angles promised to reveal the fate of whoever could understand them. There were maps of animal organs, too, precisely labeled with odd abbreviations, for soothsaying, and prayers to recite in languages I did not recognize, and a set of knucklebones inside a stack of revenue charts. I went through everything. Whenever the papyrus sheets and scrolls rustled and crackled, my hands clenched and I held my breath. But the conversations in the room beneath me never stopped.

  Nowhere, however, could I see my uncle’s or Homer’s handwriting. I scanned sheet after sheet, scroll after scroll for mention of “Spurinna,” “Manlius,” “Etruria,” or “Faesulae” – finding this last in one crumpled scroll, but only with respect to how much more rent the leatherworkers there could be force
d to pay for Volturcius’ protection. There was nothing – not until I lifted a dusty jumble of miniature scrolls and caught the glint of blue glass.

  My hand trembled as I picked it up. The golden magic dolls seemed to leer at me through the darkness. The small flask, stopped with a piece of wood, was not dusty, and with the sixth sense that tells us when an object has recently been touched by human hands, I knew that the flask did not belong with the neglected documents and magic charts. It had been purposely hidden beneath them. It was a flask of thick blue liquid, bright and shiny even in the gloom, and I knew it was the poison that had stained the letter Homer found, the poison that had brought death to my poor uncle.

  Conspiracy for Murder

  will not say that it was sadness for my uncle that made me silently choke back tears, and it wasn’t rage either. The feeling that surged through me was unmistakable. Suddenly my hesitation and my doubt were gone. I saw everything with terrible clarity – my duty was to get revenge.

  At that moment, however, the chitchat of the guests in the ball court ceased. The silence was sudden and profound. I froze, still clutching the blue flask in my outstretched hand, not daring to move. Then someone began to speak formally, pronouncing each word distinctly, just the way my Aunt Hercna used to speak to the tenants once a month. After the voice said, “And we thank our friend Volturcius for again opening his fine house to our gathering,” there was a murmur of agreement and then the speech – that is the word for it, an authentic political speech – began: