The Roman Conspiracy

by Jack Mitchell

  Move out we did, discreetly. The sergeant knew his business, and even if Pomptinus was incompetent (which no one seemed to doubt), Flaccus seemed fearless. Five cavalrymen were under my command, three riding in front of Tullia, Homer, and myself, and two behind. We kept in the middle of the column as it snaked its way around the Market to the southern gate, from which the road led down to the sea.

  At first I wondered if it was worth going so far out of our way. But though the cavalry kept to itself, it still excited much comment among the people; and just as Tullia had hoped, the rumors in the street did not connect us to the Mulvian Bridge.

  “They’re reinforcements for the East, if you must know,” said one man in a sausage shop to his friend. “A fine lot.”

  “But who’s the lady there, with the veil?” asked his companion.

  “Why, that’s the Governor’s young wife, of course. Ready for a long sea voyage, ma’am?” he called, making Tullia laugh.

  Soon we left the city behind and passed into the countryside. Wide estates stretched on both sides of the road, with slaves working their fields, and here and there an old-fashioned village. In due course we cut to the right and made for the Tiber river. The afternoon was wearing out as we crossed a deep ford, the water coming up to our ankles. Homer shivered on the smaller donkey as the current rose to his knees.

  “Sir, I regret anything I may have said against that bridge we crossed when we first got here. By heaven, sir, I’m freezing! You would think it was the primitive water of Ocean, which, as Hesiod says,

  Is famed for chill and from its lofty fount

  Flows ’neath the earth beneath the jagged mount

  And believe me, sir, I’m not exaggerating!”

  Reaching the far bank, we pressed on. Still, what with the bright sun and the cold river, several riders were falling behind the column. Flaccus grew frustrated at this, feeling it disgraced the troop, and he excused himself and rode back angrily. But in his haste he spurred his horse across the rocks beside the road, and the animal screamed as it planted its hoof on a razor-sharp stone. We spun round and saw Flaccus hit the road with a crack, hurled from the saddle through the air with tremendous force.

  “Pomptinus!” Tullía cried, turning back to where Flaccus lay, unconscious and bleeding from his scalp. The cavalrymen supported him, washing the wound with water from their flasks, but it was no use. They slung him unceremoniously across his horse. We had to leave him at the next village, to be cared for by his servant, for he already had developed a fever. Unfortunately Pomptinus was now in command.

  He spent more time squeezing his drinking-bladder for the last drop of wine, however, than he did in giving orders. Then he stopped at an inn to buy more, while the whole troop waited. Tullia rode beside him after that, all but begging him to hurry. “It is absolutely essential, Pomptinus … are you listening, Pomptinus? Listen, I say! We must reach the bridge before dark, we simply must!”

  Gradually, the officer sagged in the saddle. He dropped the empty drinking-bladder, his head drooped, and he fell fast asleep. The old cavalry sergeant glanced at him with profound disgust.

  “Disgraceful is what I call it. If that’s a Roman noble, I’m a Greek.” He cleared his throat noisily. “Now then, one officer left,” he added, smiling at me toothlessly. “What say you, sir?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “He means you’re in command,” said Tullia. “And I must tell you, Aulus, that we still have four miles to go, and these fifty men are far too slow! Order them to hurry, please.”

  I turned to the trumpeter. “Give whatever signal means ‘hurry,’” I said.

  The trumpeter looked at the sergeant, but the old man said something nasty and the signal sounded. At once the riders reformed, and we picked up our pace as the sun dropped towards the horizon. I rode in front with the sergeant, peering through the falling dark.

  At last we reached the paved surface of the Cassian Road and trotted briskly back in the direction of the river and the city. The Mulvian Bridge was not far off. I saw that it was wider than I had expected, though in need of repair. The Tiber rushed swiftly beneath its three brown arches. Two peasants, who had been fishing from the closest arch, took to their heels when they saw us riding in, but I sent my five men to bring them back, and when I questioned them they swore no one had crossed the bridge that evening. So we were not too late.

  “Sergeant,” I said, “a Roman knight will be riding this way sometime tonight. Our mission is to arrest him on the bridge.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “He will have a bodyguard of Celts with him, but we will not be the first ones to attack,” I went on. “My plan is to divide our force in half and take them from both sides when they cross. I will cross the river with twenty-five riders, and we will hide behind the low ridge there. You stay on this side with the other twenty-five. When the enemy is on the bridge, you will block them in front and I will come up behind and capture the knight. We didn’t leave the city from this road, so they won’t be expecting us. Any questions?”

  “No, sir. But what about this … uh, this officer?” he asked, indicating Pomptinus, who had begun to snore loudly.

  “Keep him on your side, in the bushes. And keep out of sight yourselves until you hear the signal: three notes on the trumpet.”

  “Very good, sir. Three notes.”

  I led my half of the cavalry across the span to the Rome side of the river once more, followed by Tullia and Homer. The low ridge there would hide us while we waited. Fortunately there was also a hollow behind it on the left-hand side, deep enough that a rider could crouch in the saddle there and not be seen. But we dismounted, to be safe; and I ordered the men to rub their polished armor with dirt, so that it would not be noticed from a distance. Reluctantly – for they were proud of the shine – they obeyed.

  “I could get used to this,” I commented to Tullia.

  “I can see that,” she replied, “from the way you’re throwing out your chest. But seriously, Aulus, it’s a good plan. I just hope Volturcius comes soon. It’s cold.” She pulled her cloak tight. Her veil was long since gone.

  “By the way,” I said, “I am under orders from the Consul to make sure you don’t do anything rash. Just leave it to the cavalry this time, will you?”

  She started to protest, and then just snorted. “Show some sense, Aulus. Who are you going to leave the negotiating to, Pomptinus? By Hercules, you can hear his snoring from here.” And she asked a rider to go over and stop the noise.

  Deep night fell, with only a sliver of moon to light the rustling countryside. The dew was heavy, and our cloaks were not much comfort as we lay in the grass. Tullia, Homer, and I nestled at the top of the hollow, peering down the road and listening. Tullia’s eyes never left it, and Homer for once was not drowsy, and he quoted no poets. Instead there was a sparkle in his eyes: he was longing for vengeance on Volturcius.

  All night long we waited, watching. But we might as well have laid our ambush in the Land of the Dead, for not a living soul appeared on the road. The sliver of moon sank over the horizon, and still we kept our watch. At last, as I felt the dawn breeze flow down the river valley and the eastern sky began to glow, we heard the distant fall of horses’ hoofs.

  “Can you see anything?” I whispered to Tullia.

  “There, sir,” said Homer, “I think I see them, look there!”

  I followed his pointing finger, and sure enough there was a new shadow on the flat, dark land. Tullia breathed a deep sigh of relief. Soon the shadow grew nearer and we could see distinct figures riding briskly in the growing light – many Celtic warriors, perhaps sixty, the feathers in their helmets waving up and down. They were closing quickly, making for the bridge. There was a large figure in their midst, the Druid by his shape. And next to him rode a man in a white toga, his head concealed in the hood of his black cloak.

  I signaled to the riders in the hollow, and they stood to their horses, grasping their spears, but we di
d not mount up yet, nor make a noise. I clenched my teeth. Would the sergeant on the far bank be ready? Would he cut off their forward escape?

  The Celts reached the approach to the bridge. Were they pausing there? No, they were onto it, crossing it. The trumpeter at my side blew three clear notes, shockingly loud after the hours of silence.

  “Now, stay back!” I said to Tullia, as we heard shouting on the far bank and the stamping hoofs of the sergeant’s force cutting off the enemy’s way forward. I threw myself onto the white mare, dug in my heels, and roared over the lip of the hollow, followed by my force of twenty-five.

  The enemy had reached the middle of the bridge. The Celtic warriors were packed in tight there, with the Druid in their midst. The sergeant’s riders had blocked the far end, spears leveled, and now my own men swung round in perfect formation to prevent a retreat. We had them trapped, but would they fight?

  I had to admire the Celts. Not only were they a striking group – each man being dressed as he pleased, and as ferociously as possible – but they also now displayed an iron discipline. They did not scatter, or panic, or even shout out, or show their surprise. At a single word from their captain they lowered their spears and hugged their shields to their bellies.

  We sat on our mounts staring at each other. I had stopped my horse in front of our line; and though I could not make out much through the screen of Celts, there seemed to be one point of commotion in their midst. A man was darting around on foot inside the press of horses, dashing from one side of the bridge to the other, letting out panicked shrieks. Otherwise the enemy was silent.

  “How is it, sergeant?” I roared.

  “All secure, sir,” came the faint reply from the other side.

  I advanced my horse further, meeting the dull stares of the warriors.

  “Volturcius, come out!” I roared again. “We know you’re in there! Come out!”

  A figure in white peered around the nearest horses, edging inch by inch into view. He had shed his cloak.

  “Volturcius,” I called, “Volturcius, I arrest you in the name of the Senate and the People of Rome. Come out and you shall be taken to the city.”

  The horses shifted, and there he stood, framed between two warriors and stricken with amazement.

  “It’s you!” he cried. “What can this be? The slave – the magician’s slave! Impossible!”

  “And here is the magician!” said Homer, coming up on the donkey. “But you’re mistaken, Volturcius! He is not my slave: he is Aulus Lucinus Spurinna, the nephew of the man you murdered in Etruria!”

  “Help me!” cried Volturcius, turning to the Celts, and running to the Druid’s horse. “Come on!” he said, grasping at the Druid’s leg. “We can break through! Otherwise we’re ruined! Charge now, cut our way through!”

  I saw the great red beard of the Druid as it advanced toward us, and I recognized the glint in his eye. I had seen it in the alley behind Volturcius’ house, when he prayed to his strange gods to destroy me.

  But then the strangest thing happened.

  I had been so intent on arresting Volturcius that I had not – in spite of Cicero’s strict orders – paid any attention when Tullia had ridden up with Homer. Nor had I noticed when she dismounted. Now she flung the reins to Homer and to my horror she rushed towards the Druid. Volturcius shrank back from them, clinging to his horse, for the Druid was suddenly laughing. And now he was dismounting too, his large legs landing smartly on the ground, and he opened his arms to Tullia. She all but sprang into them, and they embraced.

  “Does he have the letter?” she asked.

  “It’s in his saddlebag,” came the Druid’s sing-song answer. The captain of the Celts reached in to remove it, and handed it to Tullia.

  “Here, Aulus, come take this,” she called. I dismounted and approached them, as though walking in a dream. “Here it is,” she said. “And here is Brennus, if I may introduce him. An Ambassador of the Allobroges, and, as you know, a Druid.”

  Volturcius’ eyes were round as eggs. He stared now at Tullia, now at Brennus. He began to shake, as though he were in the presence of the supernatural at last. But with a cry he slipped away, out of the captain’s grip. He rushed to the side of the bridge, hesitated for blink of an eye, and threw himself over the side.

  We sprang to the edge ourselves, but his splash was lost in the foam. Was he gone? But then there came another splash, just below us, as another figure leapt into the stream.

  “Homer!” I cried.

  I stared into the rushing water. Two figures were struggling, carried by the current. Homer’s head bobbed up as he thrashed with Volturcius, both gasping for air, but Homer had him by the shirt – and he was not about to let go.

  “He’ll drown!” I cried, forgetting about Tullia, the Druid, the Celts, and the cavalry. I flew back down the bridge, leaping the last bit of wall, stumbling down the riverbank and then along the shore.

  “Homer, where are you? Homer!” I raced up and down the bank; but neither my uncle’s murderer nor my uncle’s secretary could be seen. I shouted incoherently.

  “Over here, down here, sir!” came a faint cry, far downstream. And there he was in the middle of a reed bed, crawling on his knees and spitting. “Here, sir, over this way!” His right hand grasped at the mud as he pulled himself free of the reeds, onto the bank. His left hand was locked around Volturcius’ ankle.

  So there they lay as we ran up – Tullia and the Druid with me, and a crowd of Celts and cavalry troopers behind – side by side in the mud, Volturcius sprawling and coughing, Homer dazed but faintly triumphant.

  I was speechless. I lifted him up. I slapped him on the back. But no words came. At last I managed to speak. “Homer, I didn’t know you could swim!”

  “To be honest,” he answered weakly, “I didn’t know it either, sir. I think we were lucky with the current. But I couldn’t let him get away, sir! Not Volturcius!”

  We turned to the waiting crowd. They gave him three cheers, echoing across the fields.

  The Druid spoke. “You have a remarkable slave, sir,” he said to me. “I have never seen anything like it. This jumping into the river. And the performance he gave at Volturcius’ house! That was quite … what is the word? It was excellent, fantastic.”

  I stared at him, the full strangeness of it returning to me. “You mean,” I said, “you were with us the whole time? At that dinner?”

  Tullía cut in. “I’m sorry, Aulus, really … I didn’t mean to trick you, you know, and I’m sorry for it. But you had to see the letter and testify to the Judges, and it was so important that Volturcius should not suspect Brennus. Oh, I’ve been dying to tell you all about it for the last ten days!”

  “But … but … but you chased me through the house!” I exclaimed. “And down the alley!”

  “Oh, Spurinna, I apologize,” said the Druid earnestly. “I was trying to give you the letter, you see, but you are such a fast runner and my Latin sometimes fails me.” He smiled. “But I admit it may be that I can look frightening. Even your slave here, who I think is not afraid of much in this world, was nervous at that dinner, looking over at me.”

  “My slave?” I asked. It was all falling into place. Tullia’s mysterious evasions, and the chase through the house, and the way the Celts had not seemed surprised on the bridge. “My slave? Yes, a wonderful man,” I said. “Quite fearless. But you’ve reminded me of something, something important.”

  I took the letter from where it lay in Tullia’s open hand, that vital piece of proof; and I put it safely in my toga pouch. But I had two other documents in there already: one was the Judges’ letter of protection for my aunt, and the other – well, I took the other one out.

  “Homer, dry your hands. And take this.” I gave him the third document.

  “What’s this, sir?”

  “Well, Homer, I … that is to say, I want you to know that even if we’ve had our disagreements in backgammon, and so on, and the black sheep, and all that … well, I have alway
s thought highly of you. I’m a lucky man to have you, and my uncle would be proud of you today. Very proud, Homer.”

  “Sir, thank you. But if I may observe, you haven’t said what this …”

  “It’s a certificate of freedom. I got the scribes to write it out before we left. I’m freeing you, Homer.”

  He stared. Now at the certificate, and now again at me. His eyes filled with tears as the men gave him three more cheers, now louder and longer than ever.

  “Sir … sir!” he stammered. “Sir, I … I don’t know what to say, sir, for the first time in my life! I haven’t felt this happy since … since I first read the first line of Hesiod!”

  “Hesiod?” the Druid broke in. “Now that you mention it, sir,” he said to Homer, “now that you mention it, I have been thinking about your praise of that poet, and what you said at dinner. Afterward it gave me much to reflect upon. Now, sir, I should like to know more about this Hesiod. You do not happen to know something of his actual poetry, do you?”

  The Battle for Rome

  y now the sun was rising high, reflected in the rushing river; it dried the grass beside the road, and there we lit cooking fires and thought of breakfast. We put Volturcius in chains and Homer seized the chance to deprive him of his toga, wrapping it around himself, for he was now a Roman citizen. It was of the finest cloth, though slightly too small for him.

  “You won’t need it where you’re going,” he remarked to our prisoner with a certain glee.

  All order in the ranks of cavalry and Celts had disappeared when they had crowded down to watch Homer pull Volturcius from the water. They had witnessed Homer’s freedom as a mingled mass of men. But it seemed I was lucky to have such an audience, for as we sat down to eat – neither the cavalry nor the Celts had touched anything since the evening before – they drank my health respectfully but merrily, and all together. Everyone agreed it had been a noble gesture, and though the Celts spoke no Latin and the riders no Celtic, they took turns doing impressions of Homer’s reaction. They were hitting it off. For their part, Homer and the Druid were already deep in Hesiod’s unfairly neglected minor works.