The Roman Conspiracy

by Jack Mitchell

  “No, really, madam,” objected Tullia, “it’s fine. We ate in the camp. Please don’t fuss. Besides, I really am looking forward to watching Aulus explain what he’s been up to.”

  At last all three of us took a seat, while half a dozen farming families eavesdropped openly. I took it from the first night at the roadside inn all the way to the arrest of Volturcius at the Mulvian Bridge. And all the while my aunt’s shock gave way to a sort of speechless amazement. She patted her cheek as each new adventure was described, exclaiming, “You, Aulus, and the Consul!” or, “You, Aulus, and the Judges!” or just a simple, “You, Aulus! You!” which made Tullia laugh rather too much, I thought. But I could see the old pride rising in Aunt Hercna’s eye, the old fire, and by the time I got to the part about the bridge, she looked just like my old aunt again. I didn’t mention that my uncle had really been murdered, for Homer and I had taken care of that anyway.

  “And it was Cicero’s own scribes who wrote out Homer’s certificate,” I finished. “Oh, and also I forgot to mention this.”

  I produced the magnificent papyrus document that the Judges had signed. Aunt Hercna took it without a word and read it to herself.

  “‘guarantees the right of Spurinna and his Tenants to their land, and also the Protection, the special Protection of that right, from the Senate and the Roman People …’” she read in a whisper. And then she read it again. And when she looked up she was crying, my dear old stern Roman lady of an aunt, crying in front of the tenants.

  “You did it, Aulus,” she whispered. “I don’t know how! My nephew!”

  And with uncharacteristic generosity she ordered ten jars of wine to be opened for the farmers, and all the candles to be lit, and she herself led me by the hand to the old shrine of the household gods where I had performed the offering when my uncle died. Still crying, she said a prayer of thanks. The tenants greeted me again, with no hesitation this time, as “Aulus Lucinus Spurinna, keeper of the peace, Protector of the valley, upholder of the Law!” That dried my aunt’s tears; she was beaming.

  “Now,” she said, turning to me, “if only if it weren’t for that Manlius, our troubles would all be over. Shouldn’t you be going?”

  “Going?” I asked, taken aback.

  “You said you came with the army,” Aunt Hercna answered, “and everyone in the valley knows there’s going to be a battle tomorrow. Shouldn’t you be getting back? Aren’t you commanding the cavalry reserve?”

  I left Tullia at the house, talking the latest fashion in Rome with my aunt and eating a big plate – she couldn’t refuse twice – of baked beans. I would never have guessed Aunt Hercna cared at all for such things, but there she was, already learning a lot about the latest silk dresses, interspersed with political ideas, as I left with the riders. I took my own javelins from out back, glad to have them with me again.

  “Is it your house that I see, sir?” asked one of my bodyguards as we rode down the lane.

  “Yes.”

  “And a fine place,” he said sincerely. “I do prefer the old style myself. But I’m sorry that Tullia, that is to say, the Consul’s daughter, is staying and missing the fight. I wouldn’t be surprised one bit if she knew how to charge with a spear. I mean, the lady knows how to ride, sir!”

  But his regrets were premature, and in fact no one was surprised when Tullia rejoined us the next morning. But for once she promised to stay away from the battle. Only, she added, because Antonius needed company, and generals usually had the best view of the action.

  “But I shall be watching your troop, Aulus,” she did say. “So don’t find yourself attacking the wrong people or I shall tell my father all about it.”

  The Consul joined us. “Ah, Tullia,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here. Now the whole city will hear about our victory as soon as possible.” He turned to me. “Good weather for a battle, eh? But my orders for you, Spurinna, are to hold back from the first assault here by the Praetorian Guard. Manlius is coming down now, and we must see what develops. But be ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

  It was a bright, cold morning. We extinguished the cooking fires and mounted up, but little was happening. The sergeant offered me a big cup of hot wine, which I sipped as I gazed across at Manlius’ force: it looked like four legions, a trifle smaller than ours, standing in ranks not half a mile away.

  “Sergeant,” I asked him, “I don’t understand why they’re just standing there. Don’t they see we’re going to beat them?”

  He smiled grimly and said, “Well, sir, as to that, two reasons spring to mind. The first is that they can’t run, not with the Campanian legion sitting on the south road to the left there. And the second is, I think they plan to beat us.”

  “The Consul Antonius seemed confident,” I observed.

  “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant. “Which is why I’m not the Consul.”

  Now trumpets on both sides sounded, all down the long lines of foot soldiers, a grim symphony. But still no one moved.

  “They’re waiting for the skirmishers, sir, the slingers,” my sergeant said.

  And sure enough I could just see lone figures picking their way through the fields, and I heard the dim whistle of the slings sending deadly stones among both armies. They were like two thin clouds, converging. When they met, we heard faint cries, and it appeared our own slingers were being driven back.

  Now the right flank of Manlius’ army advanced on our left flank, where the Campanian legion waited on the south road. I saw a figure in front of the enemy lines there, making a speech we could not hear.

  “That’ll be Manlius himself,” said the sergeant. “Tough old dog. I served under him out East, back in the old days.”

  After his speech, Manlius raised his sword. He led his troops against the Campanians, and soon the ringing and clanking of battle reached us. At about the same time we heard reports that our right flank, over behind the trees, was under assault and being driven back.

  “Where are our orders?” I wondered aloud. I could see Manlius making great progress now, though nothing was happening in the center. There both sides’ skirmishers were still fighting.

  Soon word came that our right flank had not broken: it was holding out in the woods, defending the end of the line. Fighting now began in the center, where both lines pressed against each other, hoping by sheer weight to push the enemy back. But the Campanians on the left were breaking, dozens of men running back, and the rest being slowly encircled by Manlius’ old soldiers. We could hear the enemy legions singing.

  A rider galloped up from the Consul, ordering us to move to the left and watch the slope, keeping in plain view to encourage the men. I said good-bye to Tullia and off we rode.

  Reaching our new position, I had a clearer view of what was happening. Manlius simply had more men, and you could see him not far below, riding to and fro with his bodyguard. The Campanians were reforming, but it looked like time was running out.

  “There they go, sir!” said the sergeant, pointing to the center. From the point we had just left, the Praetorian Guard was marching down the slope toward the heart of the battle. They were easy to spot: the only forces on either side with a real uniform, and they knew how to march in step. They locked their shields together, chanting like a single man with a giant voice. And then they charged.

  Actually, you can’t really charge with a shield that size, in full armor; but they managed to jog, and the worn-out legion in front of them made way as they slammed against the enemy center. It was like a wave of steel roaring against the beach. The enemy was falling back – no, they were running.

  “The center! The center gives way!” came the cry.

  But now the enemy center stopped running and began to rally. A splendid figure in golden armor had appeared in their midst. He dashed to and fro, trying to bring them back to the fight, and at last his trumpets sounded and he threw himself into the Praetorians like a lightning bolt.

  “Catiline! Catiline rides!” came the cry from below
, and all Manlius’ forces stopped to try and watch.

  But the Praetorians held. Their ranks shuddered, and you could trace the golden figure’s path through them as he and his bodyguard kept on. But in the end the Praetorians were ranked too deep, and the lightning bolt’s progress slowed and stopped at last.

  All eyes strained to see, but as usual in battle it was word of mouth that told us of the victory.

  “Catiline is down! Catiline has fallen! Catiline has fallen!”

  You could hear the celebration of the Praetorians a mile off. And Manlius’ troops reacted also. Despite the pleas of their officers, they began to fall back. Many threw away their shields and ran. The line of the enemy center collapsed, and it was plain that our legion on the right was leaving the woods, driving the enemy back and dispersing them like autumn leaves.

  Below us, even Manlius could not keep them together, and Catiline’s right flank began to melt. But they had the south road open for their escape, for the Campanians were too tired to prevent them.

  “Sergeant,” I said, “get the men ready. We’re moving out. We’re going to block that road. Are the Celts ready? Alright now, tell the trumpeter to be prepared.”

  I put on my helmet and seized my javelin from the ground. The riders around me readied their spears, showing huge relief that they would not be left out of the battle after all. We had received no orders, but I was sure this was right. We would cut off Manlius’ escape.

  Down the slope now, in good order, getting a cheer from the Campanians as we formed triple ranks, thirty men by three. I had my eye on a wide open stretch of the road to the south, which it seemed that Manlius was making for. We veered off, racing him to it at a brisk trot.

  Manlius saw us coming, and he rushed to defend the road, to reach the open stretch before we got there and so to keep the road free. It was the only escape his army had left. I heard him bawling now, calling to his best old soldiers to hurry.

  But it was no race at all. We had fine, well-rested horses; his men were tired with battle. We arrived with time to spare, though not much. And it struck me what a fine footing the road made for our horses.

  “Well done, sergeant,” I said. “But we are not waiting here. Do you see Manlius up in front of us? Well, we’re going to charge. Alert the Celtic captain and tell the trumpeter. Watch for my javelin, I’m going to shake it in the air, and then we charge!”

  “Very good, sir.”

  As one man, the Romans leveled their spears; as fifty men, the Celts swung their swords above their heads, each calling out to the Celtic gods for victory. And then I raised my javelin and shook it, and the trumpeter’s clear note echoed across the broken battlefield.

  We began at a walk, and soon the trot, and then a swift canter. Ahead, Manlius was trying to get his men into ranks, but it was too late. I shook my javelin once more and we reached a full gallop, dashing through Manlius’ bodyguard with the fury of the hot south wind. Time seemed to slow down. My bodyguard and I were at the heart of the troop – I couldn’t ride as fast as the cavalry – so I didn’t see the first clash, but after a blink of an eye I was in among them too, my horse flying straight through two men and on, on over the standard-bearer, on through the second line of spears. Two of my bodyguard fell, one with a spear in his side and the other when his horse tumbled; but I was not hurt. The Celts on our right were making fearful havoc, shouting with each kill. It seemed forever that we were in among them, stabbing with our spears; but I called a halt after a hundred yards.

  “Where are you, sergeant?”

  “Here, sir,” he said, riding up. His wrist had been badly twisted.

  “Tell them to form ranks immediately. And tell me, did we break them?”

  “They’re broken, sir. The road’s ours.”

  “Then get the men in line across it. Tell them to keep their spears up, so that the rest can see there’s no escape this way.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  While they were gathering, I rode back the way we’d come. I saw the standard-bearer lying there with a spear stuck through him, and Manlius’ old soldiers were heaped around, groaning and begging for help. And over in the ditch, still crawling, I saw the man himself. He had been terribly trampled in the charge, and he was covered in blood.

  “Manlius,” I began. But I fell silent. There was nothing to say; he could not recognize me, and I could not explain. As I watched, he ceased his crawling, gave a final soft sigh, and died.

  So that was the last chapter of the Roman conspiracy, as I saw it. My family’s land was saved forever, my Aunt Hercna was restored as the lady busy running it, and last year the tenants held a festival to celebrate the anniversary of my return, and the battle. Catiline fell fighting, as I’ve described, at the front of his troops: he got some of the glory he had dreamed of, for everyone agreed it was a brave thing to attack the Praetorians single-handed, but everyone was also glad it was the last glory he would get. I don’t think anyone missed Manlius, but it was heart-wrenching to walk the battlefield the next day and see so many Romans killed by other Romans, on both sides. I saw how horrible war could be then, but I couldn’t object to the congratulations that Antonius offered me in his victory speech, and the pure joy of my troop was a moving sight to see.

  Tullia, too, was pleased, though she joked about my leading a charge without orders. I’m glad to be living in Rome now, for I get to see her quite often, and she takes me to hear the debates and the court cases and generally keeps me up to date on politics. But she thinks I should go out to the East and make a fortune, and she says I should take Homer along. But how can I do that, when he’s busy copying this story on papyrus? Sometimes I don’t follow Tullia’s logic. Cicero’s career continues, naturally, with its ups and downs; and as for Julius Caesar – well, that is another story altogether, for another time.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank my family, first of all, and particularly my brother David, with whom I discussed the plot of this book in detail one afternoon in the Jardin des Plantes in Paris. Kathy Lowinger of Tundra Books placed a great deal of faith in me as an author, for which I am altogether grateful; she and Carolyn Jackson have been invaluable in working out the story and the text. Likewise my thanks go out to Catherine Mitchell, Alison Morgan, Pamela Osti, Kong Njo, and Cindy Reichle at Tundra. And I cannot fail to mention the inspiration of my friendships with Andy and Moira Johnson, Chris Thompson, Dustin Bermudez, Doug Taylor, Wade Richardson, Alessandro Barchiesi, and Richard Martin, and with my many colleagues at Stanford.

  Text copyright © 2005 by Jack Mitchell

  Published in Canada by Tundra Books,

  75 Sherbourne Street, Toronto, Ontario M5A 2P9

  Published in the United States by Tundra Books of Northern New York,

  P.O. Box 1030, Plattsburgh, New York 12901

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2005920631

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced,

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  without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of

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  Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Mitchell, Jack, 1977-

  The Roman conspiracy / Jack Mitchell.

  eISBN: 978-1-77049-070-3

  1. Rome – History – Conspiracy of Catiline, 65-62 B.C. – Juvenile fictions.

  I. Title.

  PS8626.I838R64 2005 jC813′.6 C2005-900541-6

  We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada

  through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BDIPP)

  and that of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media

  Development Corporation’s On
tario Book Initiative. We further

  acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts

  and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.

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