SPQR II: The Catiline Conspiracy

by John Maddox Roberts

  I was joyful as I walked home. It is difficult to be sad at such a time. There were days of celebrations and public games ahead, and no work for me. Yet there was sadness too. Once again we had rejoiced in Rome’s increasing power and glory, but I had a feeling of something coming to an end.

  With a small group of revelers, I made my way to my home in the Subura. We trod on heaps of flower petals and bawled old victory-songs, as if we had done all the fighting ourselves. They left me at my gate, but I stood outside for a while, as the street grew quiet.

  I wondered what was the meaning of this melancholy, the sense that I had seen the end of something. I could make no sense of it. I looked up at the sky, but gray dawn had washed out the stars and I could not see the bloody eye of Sirius gazing down.

  2

  FATHER WAS RIGHT ABOUT THE treasury. I found that the gold did indeed flow out like the Tiber in flood. Most of it went to pay the legions, since the great public works are usually given to the city as gifts by wealthy men. It seemed shocking at first, that the relatively small number of legionaries, whose pay is not high, could cost so much. But people forget that, besides the citizen legions, there are an even greater number of auxiliaries, all of whom must be paid. They must have slaves, horses and other animals, rations, tents and so forth. Forts had to be built, ships had to be purchased and manned. Since Roman citizens paid virtually no taxes, and looting opportunities such as the sack of Tigranocerta were rare and growing rarer, somebody had to be found to pay for all this.

  The answer was to tax the provinces. Since the government of Rome was too august and dignified to dirty its hands on anything as base as tax collecting. this task was farmed out to the publicani, the men who bid at auction for the public contracts, among which was the tax-collecting franchise. It was often hard on the provincials, but people who don’t want to be taxed should make sure to win their wars. It had the advantage that the provincials usually hated the local publican rather than the Roman government.

  Most Romans manage to live out their lives blithely ignorant of these things, but I had to learn them as part of my job. Another part was that, as a quaestor, I was expected to contribute to the paving of the high roads out of my own purse. It was a sort of poll-fee for entering the life of politics. What it meant was that I had to borrow heavily from my father, who at least wouldn’t charge me usurious interest.

  Even with all this, I truly had little to do at the Temple of Saturn. My days were passed amid boredom, watching the slaves and freedmen laboriously adding and subtracting. I signed for contributions and disbursements. The days passed without variety: mornings at the temple, afternoons at the baths, evenings I usually had dinner at someone’s home. As an official, even a lowly one, I was much in demand as a guest.

  On a morning in fall, I went to the temple in a better frame of mind than usual. The year was waning, soon I would be out of office. Some other poor office holder could take over the drudgery of the dim rooms beneath the temple. By virtue of having held this office I would be a Senator, with a purple stripe on my tunic and the privilege of sitting in the Curia listening to speeches and pretending to have influence. Perhaps I would seek an appointment as legate in one of the provinces. I always detested having to be absent from Rome, but I was ready for a change of scenery after my dismal quaestorship and it was idle to seek higher office without a consistent military record.

  With these pleasant thoughts in mind, I walked from my house toward the Forum. I was not halfway to my destination when I saw a small crowd blocking my path. There is a way that people stand, grouped in a sort of elongated oval and looking downward, often on tiptoe and over one another’s shoulders, that tells you they are gawking at a body. This seemed odd to me, because there had not been any large gang fights since the elections. A man in the tunic of a vigile saw me and came running.

  “Quaestor, there has been a murder. Will you take charge here until we can inform a praetor?”

  “Certainly,” I said, delighted at this break in routine. “Any idea who the victim is?”

  “Well, no, sir,” the man said. “We were afraid to touch him. Not that I’m afraid of ghosts or dead men’s curses, but some of the men are.”It was typical. We kill people enthusiastically all over the world, and we are entertained by violent death in the amphitheater, but Romans are afraid to touch dead bodies.

  “Then go to the Temple of Libitina and have a priest and some attendants sent to perform the rites. We can’t just leave a body lying in the street until a relative or owner comes to claim it.”

  “Won’t be any owner, Quaestor,” the vigile said. “Look at him.”

  The crowd parted at my approach and I saw the body. The disarrayed toga covered the head, but enough of the tunic was uncovered to reveal the purple stripe that ran from collar to hem. It was not the broad stripe of a Senator, but the narrow one of an eques. It lay facedown, one hand protruding from beneath the folds of cloth to display a number of weighty gold rings glinting in the growing light of morning. In the middle of the back, a dagger pierced toga and body. A broad circle of blood surrounded the blade, marring the whiteness of the toga.

  “You vigiles,” I called to the men who stood around, their fire-buckets dangling from their hands, “keep this crowd back and keep the street clear enough for people to pass.”They did as I said.

  I squatted by the body, careful to keep my toga clear of the filthy street and especially careful not to touch the corpse. It was not that I was afraid of ghosts or curses, but if I touched it I would be ritually unclean and then I could not enter the temple without a lot of tedious cleansing ceremonies.

  The handle of the dagger was curiously carved, but in the still-dim light I could tell no more about it. I promised myself a closer look later. I could tell nothing about the dead man except his rank, and I would know nothing further until the libitinarii arrived to turn him over. I was almost disappointed that the purple stripe of the tunic was not wider. There were a few Senators I would not have minded seeing in this condition. Even worse luck, it could not be a patrician, because then I could have amused myself by hoping it would be Clodius’s face I would see.

  Within a few minutes, a lictor cleared a way through the crowd, the people parting magically before his fasces. Behind him was a Senator I recognized. It was Caius Octavius, who had been appointed a Judex Quaestionis for that year. I stood when he arrived.

  “The Praetor Rufus has sent me to report to him on this matter,” he said. “I don’t suppose there were any witnesses?”

  “Are there ever?” 1 answered.

  “Who is he?”

  “That is what I would like to know,” I said, then: “We may know soon. Here come the corpse-takers.”

  Down the street came the one sight guaranteed to make Romans stand back: the libitinarii, preceded by their priest with his long-handled mallet. With their long, red tunics, their high buskins, their pointed Etruscan beards, wide-brimmed felt hats and high, pointed false ears they are the ghastliest sight anyone could ask for so early in the morning. People jumped back with their thumbs protruding from their clenched fists or fished out tiny phallus amulets and pointed them at the libitinarii.

  Wordlessly, the priest stepped up to the body and touched it with his mallet, claiming it for the underworld goddess. An attendant carrying a box opened it and the priest began a long chant, from time to time taking liquids or powders from the box, sprinkling them on the corpse. When the lustrum was finished, the attendant closed the box.

  “Turn him over,” Octavius instructed. The attendants crouched by the corpse. One of them plucked out the dagger and nonchalantly tossed it to the pavement. Grasping the corpse beneath the shoulders and knees, they rolled it over.

  I did not recognize the man. He appeared to be about fifty years old, with sandy, graying hair. His mouth and eyes were open, but his face bore no readable expression. I saw that the other hand was equally beringed.

  “Does anyone here know him?” Octavius asked loudly.
Amid muttering and shrugs a man came forward.

  “That’s Manius Oppius, sir. He lives … lived not far from here. I’ve delivered sandals to his house a number of times. My shop’s down there on the corner.”

  “Good. You can lead these men to his house. His family will want to claim his body.”He turned to me. “Oppius. Aren’t they bankers?”

  “I believe so,” I said. There was a commotion a little way up the street. An important man was coming, followed by a great mob of friends, clients and retainers.

  “What now?” Octavius said with annoyance. Then his face registered alarm. “Oh, no! Stop him!’ Then I saw who was in the lead and ran to block his way. It was Caius Julius Caesar. He smiled, puzzled, when he saw me.

  “Good morning, Decius Caecilius. What is happening here?”

  “There has been a murder, Caius Julius. Somebody stabbed an eques named Oppius. There is blood.”

  Caesar looked concerned. “Oppius? Not Caius Oppius, surely.”

  “A sandalmaker here says his name is Manius. The Iudex Octavius has taken over.”

  “I don’t know any Manius Oppius, but Caius is a friend of mine. I will make inquiries. Thank you for warning me, Decius. This could have been a terrible misfortune for the city.”He drew a fold of his toga over his head as if he were offering sacrifice and he held a great fold of it draped over his arm, hiding his face from the body on the ground as he went on past, followed by his entourage. It was necessary but, being Caesar, he turned it into a broad, actor’s gesture.

  A few weeks before, the old pontifex maximus had finally died. To the immense amusement of the whole city, Caesar had been elected to his place. The man known for the frequency as well as the diversity of his debaucheries had become the high priest of the Roman state. One of the restrictions of the office was that the pontifex maximus could not look upon human blood.

  “Does anyone have a coin for the ferryman?” the priest asked. Fumbling in my purse, I came up with a copper as and tossed it to one of the attendants, who placed it beneath the dead man’s tongue. It was the least I could do for the unfortunate man, who had relieved the tedium of my day.

  As the libitinarii lifted the corpse onto a folding stretcher, I stooped and picked up the dagger. The man’s toga was ruined anyway, so I used it to wipe off the blade. Then I thought of something. “Is there any way to tell how long he’s been dead?” I asked the funeral-men.

  “He’s not quite cold,” said one. “And he hasn’t gone stiff yet. I’d say he hasn’t been dead more than two or three hours.”

  As the body was borne away Octavius and I turned our steps toward the Forum. I held the dagger up so that he could see it. “This is evidence,” I said. “I call on you to witness that I am not bearing arms within the pomerium.”

  He laughed. “If we enforced that one, the courts would have nothing else to do. What sort of dagger is it?”

  I shrugged. It was not the broad-bladed pugio of the legions, but neither was it the curved sica most favored by the city cutthroats. It was straight and double-edged, with a thick midrib reinforcing the blade. The hilt was of plain bronze, the grip a piece of bone with a serpent carved on it, rather crudely. Winding its long body from the hilt to the pommel, the serpent formed a raised, spiral rib that afforded an excellent grip. The pommel was a plain, mushroom-shaped cap of bronze.

  “Just an ordinary sticker as far as I can see,” I told him. “The kind you can buy in any cutler’s shop.”

  “Nothing of any real use as evidence, then,” said Oc-tavius. “Not as if the blade were engraved ‘Death to the enemies of King Phraates of Parthia’ or something of the sort.”

  “That would be convenient, but my experience of life has taught me that things are seldom ordered for our convenience.”1 tossed the dagger in the air and caught it again.

  “Why, Decius, you’ve become a philosopher! Will you be growing a beard and opening a school?”

  “Spare me, Octavius. Do keep me informed about this, will you? I almost feel that the poor fellow was my client, since I presided over the first part of his funeral rites.”He promised to do so and we parted in the Forum.

  It was a clear, cool day, one of those brilliantly lucid mornings such as one only encounters in Italy during the fall. The oppressive heat of summer was past and the chill and rains of winter had not yet begun. It made me have second thoughts about seeking an appointment that would take me out of Rome. I knew that winter would cure that. I would start thinking about the Greek islands, Africa, perhaps even an embassy to Alexandria, which I had always heard was a deliciously wicked city.

  The day passed like all the others, save for the brief excitement of the morning. I found the staff waiting impatiently for me to unlock the treasury and I soothed them with a lurid account of the murder. I signed for yet another consignment of silver to the legions. I walked away when the tedious task of weighing a shipment of gold from Spain began.

  I left the musty interior of the temple with its reek of old incense and older sacrifices and went out into the clean air of the city. Relatively clean, at any rate. The wind wasn’t off the fish market or the slaughter yards or, worst of all, the open burial pits. It blew clean from the north, off the Alps. It was a pleasant waste of time, but it had to end and I turned toward my duties. Just within the entrance, I stopped. Something seemed to be wrong or out of place. I looked about me carefully. The statue of Saturn was as always. The pigeons nesting in the rafters cooed as usual. The temple was one of the most ancient, much of it still made of wood. There seemed to be nothing different about the various alcoves and doorways. My gaze stopped at the low doorway to the right of the entrance. It was the one old Minicius the state freed-man had said led only to some disused storerooms. I walked over to it to see what was wrong.

  There were fresh footprints in the dust, a great many of them. Had another train of slaves taken the wrong turn and gone in there? The question might not have concerned me had I not been so bored. Or perhaps it was because my mind was on mysterious matters such as, why had the murderer of Manius Oppius not stolen those rings, which were valuable enough to keep a poor family comfortable for two or three years? Or it might have been my genius whispering in my ear. Genii are supposed to be guardian spirits, but mine always gets me in trouble.

  For the second time that day, I squatted to examine the evidence. There were prints of sandals and of bare feet.The bare feet probably belonged to slaves. I could see that at least two pairs of sandals had made prints, but little more than that. I straightened and looked around to see if anyone was observing me. I felt foolish, like a boy out climbing trees when he should be at his studies. Quietly, I went to a wall niche and took a lamp from it. Then 1 went back to the doorway.

  The footprints were on a small landing, from which steep stairs slanted downward to the right. I descended the steps slowly, allowing my eyes to become accustomed to the dimness. By the time I reached the bottom, the illumination provided by the lamp’s smoky wick was perfectly adequate. The stairs ended at another tiny landing, with barely enough room for a man to stand and turn around. Three doorways opened off the landing, one to each side and one straight ahead. The last of the steps and these three rooms were actually below the foundations of the temple, carved directly into the bedrock. It felt far older than the treasury rooms. It was a strange sensation, standing on a spot where Romulus might have stood.

  I decided to try the room before me first. Ducking below the lintel, I went through and found myself in a small, cramped chamber. Its walls were decorated with faded paintings of gods and demons in the Etruscan style. On one wall, a blindfolded man was being savaged by a dog or wolf held on a leash by a figure with the long nose and ears of a death-demon. On another, two naked men were locked in mortal combat while men and women in priestly raiment looked on. One combatant grasped his opponent around the neck and thrust his sword through his body while the other’s sword pierced the victor’s thigh. Blood gushed profusely from both wounds. On the third
wall, a warrior in antique armor grasped the hair of a bound prisoner seated on the ground before him and drew his sword across the victim’s throat.

  I like to think that I am not superstitious, but these ancient paintings filled me with horror. Were these long-forgotten rites of worship once demanded by Saturn? Were they scenes from the dedication of the temple? It was not the mere bloodshed, which was a common enough sight. It was the ritual, religious nature of it. We were fond of our gods as patrons of agriculture or craft or war, but we had little liking for the blood-drinking gods of the underworld. Our ancestors had not been so squeamish.

  I would have to bring Cato down here, I thought. He would probably petition the Senate for a return to human sacrifice, since it had been the custom of our ancestors.

  There was a heap of something on the floor, covered by a large piece of cloth. Behind me, next to the door-way, I found a lamp-niche and placed my lamp in it. Then I stooped and drew the cloth back. The flame glittered off a great deal of metal. It was a heap of weapons. The majority were swords and short spears. I saw the stout gladius of the legions in many styles, some recent, others dating back as far as Scipio and the Punic wars. There was the long spatha of the cavalry and the many shapes of sword used in the amphitheater. Some of the spears were hunting weapons such as broad-bladed boar spears. Others were military, the light javelin and the heavy pilum of the legions. Once again, these last were mostly of older design.