Cicero nodded again, mouthing silently the word “True.” Catilina looked sour as ever, but it was a look of boredom. The face of Hortalus retained its joviality, but his smile had gone stiff. Publius glared at me angrily, and Ti-granes looked into his winecup as if afraid of what his face might reveal.
“Excellent,” Caesar said, with a look of approval. It meant nothing. Caius Julius was the most controlled man I ever knew. He could smile at a man he was about to kill, and he could smile at a man he knew was about to assassinate him.
The talk continued, and the wine was drunk for a while longer, but nothing of consequence was touched upon for the balance of the evening. In time Hortalus called for his sandals, as did Cicero and Caesar. Catilina, Curius and Publius were carried off by their slaves. Tigranes spoke animatedly and drunkenly for a space; then he, too, nodded off. The household slaves bore him off and I found myself alone amid unsettling thoughts.
I had not brought a slave, so I found my own sandals and prepared to let myself out. Just outside the dining room, I found Claudia waiting for me. She was dressed in a gown so sheer that the lamplight behind her shone through it, displaying her form perfectly. This was the crowning blow to my already disordered sense. In my father’s country house near Fidenae there had stood an ancient sculpture of the Greek Artemis, said to be the work of Praxiteles. She was dressed in the brief chiton of a hunter, poised on the toes of one foot as she pursued her quarry. When I was a boy, she represented my ideal of female beauty with her slim, supple limbs and lithe hips, her small, high breasts and long-necked grace. I never acquired a taste for the wide-beamed female form personified by the Junos and Venuses favored by most Roman men. Claudia was the image of my marble Aphrodite.
“Decius,” she whispered, “I am happy to find you still on your feet and not swaying.”
“I wasn’t the best of company tonight,” I said. “I couldn’t get into the spirit of the evening.”
“I know. I was listening.”
“Why would you want to listen to a pack of power-addled drunks? You must have been terribly bored.” I tried to will the lamps brighter, so that I could see her better, then gave it up. I was going to see no more of her than she wished me to see.
“It is always good to know what men of power are saying in Rome these days. And while Hortalus was the only man present tonight who wields real power, the rest show great promise for the future.”
“Even Curius and Catilina?” I asked.
“Men don’t have to be intelligent or capable or of good character to play an important role in the high affairs of state. It is quite sufficient to be bad and dangerous.” These were strange words from a half-dressed woman speaking privily in the night to a man who was not her husband. I was willing to overlook the oddness of the situation in order to stay with her longer.
“And I?” I asked. “Am I one of these men of promise?”
She stepped closer, just as I had hoped. “Oh, yes. You have everything they spoke of tonight: ability, birth, loyalty … there is no position you can’t achieve.”
“In time,” I said. “These things must be accomplished slowly, in regular succession.”
“If you are content to have it so,” she said. “Bold men are not afraid to speed the process.”
I could see where this was leading. “Bold men have been beheaded in recent years, or been hurled from the Tar-peian Rock or dragged by the hook into the Tiber.”
She smiled, but it was a smile of scorn. “The same has been the fate of the timid. The difference is that the bolder ones staked their lives on something worth having. Pompey and Crassus haven’t waited on seniority and the ladder of office. They are Consuls now.”
“Hortalus has been more careful,” I said, “and he’ll die in bed. Not those two.”
Her smile went away. “I misjudged you, Decius Caecilius. I had thought you made of better material.” She stepped very close, the tips of her breasts just brushing my tunic. “You might have spent this night with me. Now I think you had best spend it alone, as you deserve. Only the best deserve the best.”
I summoned up my remaining shreds of dignity and said, “All the bolder souls have left or passed out. I had better take my leave as well. Some of them are undoubtedly more deserving of the best.” Her face froze as I walked past her.
Outside, it was dark as only a moonless night in Rome can be dark. I knew it would be more than tactless to go back inside and ask for a torch or lantern. Besides, while a light would make walking easier, it would make it even more dangerous than usual. The thieves who lurked everywhere were always on the lookout for those staggering home full of wine. A light would draw them like moths. It would be preferable to risk stumbling or stepping into unpleasant substances. I did a great deal of both before I reached home and collapsed exhausted into bed, worn out by one of the longest, strangest days of my life.
4
MORNING CAME, AS USUAL, FAR TOO early. I will never understand how we came to think it a good idea to rise while it is still dark. I think our moralists find it virtuous because it is so unpleasant. They always speak approvingly of beginning work at “gray dawn,” as if that were somehow superior to a bright blue morning. Perhaps it reminds them of campaigning in the field, where soldiers are awakened an hour before dawn. I never saw any good in that, either. Only an idiot would fight at such an hour. The reason soldiers are roused at such an hour is that most centurions are cruel and brutal men who enjoy seeing their underlings suffer. Because of that, Senators, praetors and Consuls rise when they cannot even see to dress themselves and feel thereby more virtuous than those who prefer to start the business of the day only after they are fully awake. I wonder how many wars we have lost because the Senators who planned them were nodding off in the dim, early light of dawn.
Nonetheless, I was up and hearing the vigile’s report while still yawning and trying to force some breakfast into my fatigue-paralyzed stomach. Mercifully, there had not been a single murder in my district that night. You have to live in the Subura to understand how glad that made me. Especially considering that it might have been my own murder that was reported. All the way home the night before, I had thought I heard the faintest of footsteps behind me. My condition and the darkness of the night were sufficient to make the most skeptical see ghosts, though, so I might have had the whole city to myself.
After the vigiles I received my clients. There was also another visitor, a very tall, strikingly handsome young man dressed in the sort of blue tunic favored by sailors. He smiled when I greeted him, exposing perfect teeth and an attitude friendly but just short of insolence.
“I come from Macro,” he said. “He told me to speak with you privately.”
My clients looked him over suspiciously. “Speak your piece openly, boy,” said Burrus, my old soldier. “Our patron was assaulted a short time ago, and we’d not have it happen again.”
The youth threw back his head and laughed loudly. “Then you need have no fear of me, old man. I never have to attack a man twice.”
“I think I am safe enough,” I told them, ignoring their scandalized looks. “Wait for me in the peristyle; we go to the praetor’s this morning.” To the youth: “Come with me.” I led him to my writing-room, which I had altered to have large windows and a skylight of glass panes. I wanted a better look at this alarming young man. He walked with a loose, easy sway, at once casual and athletic.
I sat behind my desk and studied him. He had curly black hair and straight, clean features that the Greeks might have considered excessively heavy but were the embodiment of the Roman concept of manly beauty. His body was that of a young Hercules. I have never been tempted by pederasty, but in this youth I could understand the attraction some men feel to the practice. I put on my stern public face.
“Do you always call on public officials without putting on a toga first?”
“I’m new in the city,” he said. “I don’t even own one yet.”
“Your name?”
“T
itus Annius Milo, from Ostia. I am now a resident, with Macro as my sponsor.”
On my desk was an ancient bronze dagger, found in a tomb on Crete. The man who sold it to me swore, naturally, that it had belonged to the hero Idomeneus. Every old bronze weapon I ever saw was supposed to have belonged to some Iliadic hero. I picked it up and tossed it to him. “Catch.” He caught it easily, only his arm moving. His palm was so hard that it actually made a clicking sound when the bronze struck it.
“Rowers’ guild?” I asked. Only rowers have hands like that.
He nodded. “Three years in the navy, chasing pirates. The last two rowing barges between Ostia and Rome.” The rowers’ guild is so powerful that it is forbidden to use much cheaper slave labor. Young Milo was a splendid example of what a man could look like if he rowed ships for a living but was paid decent wages and could afford to eat like a free man.
“And what has Macro to communicate to me?”
“First,” he said, “the boy who broke in and knocked you on the head is not local.” He tossed the dagger back upon the pile of papyrus it had been weighting.
“Can he be sure of that?”
“To break into an important man’s house only to steal a paltry bronze amulet means a special hire, and all of the break-in boys are accounted for that night. They all report to a ward master and all the ward masters report to Macro. No one would seek to conceal such a crime.”
“Go on.”
“Sinistrus was almost certainly killed by an easterner. The bowstring garrote is an Asian technique. Romans prefer the sica, the pugio or the sword.”
“Or the club,” I said, rubbing my still-sore scalp. “All these homicidal foreigners are awfully convenient for Macro. I’ve suspected him of many things, but never of innocence.”
“Even a man like my patron can’t be guilty of everything.” He grinned infectiously. “Finally, this H. Ager who bought Sinistrus is the overseer of a farm near Baiae. It may take a few days to find out to whom the estate belongs.”
“Very good,” I said. “Tell Macro to report to me as soon as he has the name of the estate holder. And tell him, when he has something to communicate, to send you. You are not nearly as objectionable as most of his men.”
“I’m flattered. Have I leave to go?”
“Just one more thing. Tell Macro to buy you a decent toga.”
He flashed his teeth a last time and was gone. Indeed, he was a definite improvement upon the usual street scum and freed gladiators who thronged the gangs. I liked his easy manner and quick intelligence. I was always on the lookout for valuable contacts in Rome’s underside, and I had a feeling that young Milo would go far in the city, if he lived.
As we trooped to my father’s house, I brooded on this new information. The origin of my attacker and the murderer of Sinistrus was of minor interest, save that the same person could not have done both. A boy had broken into my house, and only a strong man could have throttled a powerful trained killer like Sinistrus. The hint of Asian origin was tantalizing, but hints are not facts.
Another question bothered me far more: Why did H. Ager come all the way from Baiae in Campania to buy a fighter and then free him? I thought of the men I knew who owned villas near Baiae. Caesar had one. So did Hortalus. So did Pompey. Truthfully, that meant nothing. It was the most famous resort in the world. Everyone who could afford a villa at Baiae owned one. I intended to own one myself, as soon as I was rich enough. It had a wonderful reputation for luxury, loose living and immorality. Moralists loved to rant about decadent Baiae. It sent people flocking there.
On our way to my father’s house, there occurred one of those common, trifling events that somehow turn out to have, not so much consequences, but reverberations later. An all-white litter came by, carried by men in the white tunics of temple slaves. Immediately, we halted and bowed low. Inside the litter was one of the vestal virgins. These ladies, consecrated to the goddess of the hearth, have prestige second to none in Rome. They are so holy that, should a felon being led to execution encounter a vestal in his path, he is immediately freed. This puts little hope in the hearts of malefactors. Vestals do not leave the temple very often, while criminals are executed in multitudes.
When she was past, we went on. I had not recognized her. The Temple of Vesta is frequented mostly by women, and the vestals were chosen from girls of good family not yet in their teens. I knew personally only a single vestal, an aunt who, after her term of service was over, had very sensibly declined to leave the temple for the dubious advantages of a middle-aged marriage and had chosen to remain a vestal for life. The term of service is thirty years: ten to learn the duties of a vestal, ten to practice them and ten to teach the novices. A life like that does not prepare a woman for life in the outside world.
We did not get as far as my father’s house. Instead, we almost collided with him as he and his whole crowd of clients strode toward the Forum.
“To the Curia,” my father said. “A messenger has arrived from the East. Important news from the war.” I had wanted to speak with him about the odd occurrences of the day before, but now that would have to be postponed. As we neared the Curia the crowds grew dense. In the almost magical fashion I knew so well, word had spread throughout the city that there was important news from the East. We reached the Forum to find a veritable sea of close-packed humanity. Father’s lictors strode forward with their fasces and the crowd parted before them like water before a warship’s ram.
The mob smelled of garlic, garum and rancid olive oil. Questions were shouted at us as if we knew more than they did. Rumors flew back and forth in the immemorial fashion: victory for Rome; defeat and disaster for Rome; plague approaching Rome; even a revival of the slave insurrection. And, of course, everybody talked about the latest omens: Fifty eagles circled the Capitol last night; a child was born with a snake’s head in Paestum; the sacred geese had spoken in human tongue, prophesying doom for the city. Sometimes I think there is a town in Italy where the only occupation is to think up and disseminate omens.
Praetors in their purple-bordered togas filed into the Curia while their attendants crowded the steps and portico outside. The lictors stood to one side, and as we ascended the steps Father summoned them.
“Get this mob into some kind of order,” he told them. “The citizens will soon hear an important announcement, and I want them looking and behaving like Romans when they do.”
“Yes, Praetor,” said Regulus, the chief of the lictors. He shouted for the heralds, and as we entered the Curia we could hear them calling for the citizens to assemble by tribes.
Inside, the Curia was utterly packed. Sulla had nearly doubled the size of the Senate in order to fill it with his cronies and reward his followers, but he had not seen fit to build us a larger Curia to accommodate them. Pompey had given the two Censors for the year, both adherents of his, the task of weeding out corrupt and unworthy Senators, but this had alleviated the situation only slightly. My father went to sit with the praetors while I made my way to where the rest of the committee members stood, in the rear of the house.
Down in front, before the theater-style tiers of benches, sat the Consuls side by side in their curule chairs. Pompey, the most illustrious soldier of the age, still looked absurdly young for the office he held. He was, in fact, not constitutionally qualified for the Consulate, nor for any of the higher military commands he had wielded. He had never been quaestor, aedile or praetor and, at thirty-six, he was still not old enough to be Consul. Still, much may be forgiven a man who has an army at the gates, and there he sat. His main ambition was to own all the military glory in the world, but he was not a total political dunce like so many military men, and some aspects of his Consulate had been exemplary. The purge of the Senate I have already alluded to, and he had reformed the courts so justly that only the corrupt and venal could complain, which they duly did.
Crassus was a different matter. He had all the political qualities for the office but was sadly lacking in the military
department. This was due to bad luck more than anything else, for the commands he had been assigned following his domestic office tenures had been lacking in opportunities. While Pompey had been winning glory in the civil wars in Italy, Sicily and Africa, and in Spain against Sertorius and Perperna, Crassus had been fighting slaves. Even then, Pompey had taken some of what little glory there is in a servile war, for he had smashed the force under the Gallic gladiator Crixus that had left Spartacus to make its own way home. Crassus had made up for some of his disappointment with a memorable gesture. He had crucified six thousand captured slaves all along the Appian Way from Capua to Rome. As rebels they were now useless as slaves, and they served as an example to other malcontents. It also let everyone else know that Marcus Licinius Crassus was not a man to be trifled with.
Crassus envied Pompey’s glory and Pompey envied Crassus’s incredible wealth. Both itched for Lucullus’s eastern command. It made for a volatile combination and Rome was edgy as a result. Everyone would breathe a little easier when the two stepped down in less than two months to leave Rome and take up their proconsular posts elsewhere. Hor-talus and his colleague Quintus Metellus, another amiable hack, terrified nobody. (This was not the kinsman under whom I served in Spain, but another Quintus Caecilius Metellus, later surnamed Creticus.)
At a gesture from Pompey, a young man came forward and stood nervously before the now-silent assembly. He was a military tribune, still dressed in a travel-stained tunic of the sort that is worn beneath armor. By ancient custom, he had surrendered his weapons and armor at the city gate, but he retained his military belt with its pendant, bronze-studded straps and his hobnailed military boots, which crunched loudly on the marble floor. I did not know him, but resolved to make his acquaintance when this session was over.
Hortalus stood from his seat at the lowest tier and turned to address the Senate. He was dressed in a toga of dazzling whiteness, draped gracefully in a new fashion he had devised. It was so impressive that tragic actors had begun to imitate it.
SPQR I: The Kings Gambit Page 7
