We turned right, proceeding westward along the Subura Way, following the drunken gladiators. Another road descending from the Esquiline emptied into a broad intersection ahead. A rule in Rome: the wider the street or the greater the square, the more crowded and impassable it will be. Tiro and I were forced to walk in single file, threading our way through the sudden congestion of carts and animals and makeshift markets. I quickened my pace and called back at him to keep up; soon we caught up with the gladiators. Predictably, the crowd parted for them like mist before a heavy gust of wind. Tiro and I followed in their wake.
'Make way!' a loud voice suddenly called. 'Make way for the dead!' A cluster of white-robed embalmers pressed in upon our right, coming down from the Esquiline. They pushed a long, narrow cart bearing a body that was wrapped in gauze and seemed to float in a cocoon of fragrances — attar of roses, unguent of clove, unnameable Oriental spices. As always the smell of smoke clung to their clothing, mixed with the odour of burning flesh from the vast crematoria up on the hill.
'Make way!' their leader shouted, brandishing a slender wooden rod of the sort one might use to discipline mildly a dog or a slave. He struck nothing but empty air, but the gladiators took offence. One of them slapped the rod from the embalmer's hand. It flew spinning through the air and would have struck me in the race had I not ducked. I heard a squeal of painful surprise behind me, but didn't bother to look. I stayed low and reached for Tiro's sleeve.
The press of the crowd was too thick for escape. Instead of quietly turning back, as circumstances recommended, strangers were suddenly pushing in from all sides, smelling the prospect of violence and afraid they might miss seeing it. They were not disappointed.
The embalmer was a short man, pot-bellied, wrinkled, and balding. He rose to his full height and a little beyond, straining on tiptoes. He shoved his face, twisted with rage, against the gladiator's. He wrinkled his nose at the gladiator's breath — even from where I stood I caught a whiff of garlic and stale wine — and hissed at him like a snake. The sight was absurd, pathetic, alarming. The huge gladiator responded with a loud burp and another slap, this one knocking the embalmer backwards against the cart. There was a sharp crack of bone or wood, or both; the embalmer and the cart collapsed together.
I tightened my grasp on Tiro's sleeve. 'This way,' I hissed, indicating a sudden opening in the crowd. Before we could reach it the breach was filled with a crush of new spectators.
Tiro made a peculiar noise. I wheeled around. The noise was less peculiar than the expression on his face. He was looking downwards. There was a hard, heavy nudge against my ankles. The cart had spilled its contents onto the street. The body had rolled face-up against my feet, its gauzy shroud unwinding behind it.
The corpse was that of a woman, hardly more than a girl. She was blonde and pale, the way that all corpses are pale when drained of their blood. Despite the waxiness of her flesh, there was evidence of what had once been considerable beauty. The tumble had ripped her gown, baring a single breast as white and hard as alabaster, and a single nipple the colour of faded roses.
I glanced at Tiro's face, at his lips parted with spontaneous, unthinking lust, yet twisted at the corners with an equally spontaneous revulsion. I looked up and spotted another opening in the crowd. I stepped towards it, pulling on Tiro's sleeve, but he was rooted to the spot. I pulled harder. There was sure to be real trouble now.
At that instant I heard the unmistakable metallic slither of a dagger pulled from its sheath and glimpsed a flash of steel from the corner of my eye. It was not one of the gladiators who had drawn the weapon — the figure was on the opposite side of the cart, in the midst of the embalmers. A bodyguard? One of the dead girl's relatives? An instant later — so quickly there was no sense of motion at all, only of displacement — both figure and glint of steel were on the nearer side of the cart. There was a strange ripping noise, tiny but somehow final. The gladiator bent double, clutching his belly. He grunted, then moaned, but the noise was submerged in a loud collective shriek.
I never actually saw the assassin or the crime; I was too busy trying to push through the crowd, which scattered like kernels of grain from a ruptured sack the moment the first drop of blood fell to the paving stones.
'Come on!' I shouted, dragging Tiro behind me. He was still staring over his shoulder at the dead girl, unaware, I thought, of what had happened. But when we were safely away, well beyond the scuffling and confusion that continued around the upset cart; he drew up alongside me and said in a low voice, 'But we should stop and go back, sir. We were witnesses.'
"Witnesses to what?'
'To a murder!'
'I saw nothing. And neither did you. You were looking at the dead girl the whole time.'
'No, I saw the whole thing.' He swallowed hard. 'I saw a murder.'
'You don't know that. The gladiator may recover. Besides, he's probably just a slave.' I winced at the flash of pain in Tiro's eyes.
'We should go back, anyway,' Tiro snapped 'The stabbing was just the beginning. It's still going on, see? Half the marketplace has been pulled into it now.' He raised his eyebrows, struck by an idea. 'Lawsuits! Perhaps one of the parties will be needing a good advocate.'
I stared at him, quietly amazed. 'Master Cicero is a lucky man, indeed. How practical you are, Tiro. A brutal stabbing takes place before your very eyes, and what do you see? A business prospect’
Tiro was stung by my laughter. 'But some advocates make a great deal of money that way. Cicero says that Hortensius employs no fewer than three servants whose only job is to roam the streets, keeping an eye out for likely cases.'
I laughed again. 'I doubt that your Cicero would care to take on that gladiator for a client, or the gladiator's owner. More to the point, I doubt that they would care to deal with your master, or with any other advocate. The interested parties will seek justice in the usual way: blood for blood. If they don't care to take on the job themselves — though the stabbed man's friends hardly look cowardly or squeamish to me — they'll do what everyone else does, and hire one of the gangs to do it for them. The gang will find the assailant, or the assailant's brother, and stab him in return; the new victim's family will hire a rival gang to return the violence, and so on. That, Tiro, is Roman justice.'
I managed to smile, giving Tiro permission to take it as a joke. Instead, his face became more clouded. 'Roman justice,' I said more sombrely, 'for those who can't afford an advocate, or perhaps don't even know what an advocate is. Or know, and. don't trust them, believing all courts are a sham. It's just as likely that what we saw was the middle of such a blood feud, not its beginning. The man with the knife may have had nothing to do with the embalmers or the dead girl. Perhaps he was just waiting for the right moment to strike the blow, and who knows why or how far back the quarrel goes? Best to keep your nose out of it. There's no one you can call upon to stop it.'
This last was true, and a constant source of astonishment to visitors from foreign capitals, or to anyone unaccustomed to life in a republic: Rome has no police force. There is no armed municipal body to keep order within the city walls. Occasionally some violence-weary senator will propose that such a force be created. The response on all sides is immediate: 'But who will own these police' And they are right. In a country ruled by a king, the loyalty of the police runs in a clear, straight line to the monarch. Rome, on the other hand, is a republic (ruled at the time of which I write by a dictator, it is true, but a temporary and constitutionally legal dictator). In Rome, whoever plotted and schemed to get himself appointed chief of such a police force would simply use it for his own aggrandizement, while his minions' biggest problem would be deciding from whom to accept the largest bribe, and whether to serve that person or stab him in the back. Police would serve only as a tool for one faction to use against another. Police would merely become one more gang for the public to contend with. Rome chooses to live without police.
We left the square behind, and the Subura Way as well I led Tiro
into a narrow street I knew of, a shortcut. Like most streets in Rome, it has no name. I call it the Narrows.
The street was dim and musty, hardly more than a slit between two high walls. The bricks and paving stones were beaded with moisture, spotted with mould. The walls themselves seemed to sweat; the cobblestones exhaled the odour of dampness, an almost animal smell, rank and not entirely unpleasant It was a street never touched by the sun, never dried by its heat, or purified by its light — filled with steam at high summer, coated with ice in winter, eternally damp. There are a thousand such streets in Rome, tiny worlds set apart from the greater world, secluded and self-contained.
The alley was too narrow for us to walk side by side. Tiro followed behind me. From the direction of his voice I could tell that he kept glancing back over his shoulder. From the timbre of his voice I knew he was nervous. 'Are there a lot of stabbings in this neighbourhood?'
'In the Subura? Constandy. In broad daylight. That's the fourth I know of this month, though it's the first I've actually witnessed. The warmer weather brings it on. But it's really no worse in the Subura than anywhere else. You can have your throat slit just as easily on the Palatine, or in the middle of the Forum, for that matter.'
'Cicero says it's Sulla's fault.' The sentence began boldly but ended with an oddly stifled catch. I didn't have to see Tiro's face to know it had reddened. Rash words, for a citizen to criticize our beloved dictator. Rasher still for his slave to repeat it carelessly. I should have let the matter drop, but my curiosity was piqued.
'Your master is no admirer of Sulla, then?' I tried to sound casual, to set Tiro at ease. But Tiro did not answer.
'Cicero is wrong, you know, if that's what he thinks — that all the crime and chaos in Rome is Sulla's fault. Bloodshed in the streets hardly began with Sulla — though Sulla has certainly contributed his share of it.' There, I had put my foot onto thin ice myself. Still Tiro did not respond. Walking behind me, not having to meet my eyes, he could simply pretend not to hear. Slaves learn early to feign convenient deafness and a wandering mind. I could have stopped and turned around to face him, but that would have been making too much of the matter.
Yet I would not let it go. There is something about the mere mention of the name Sulla that fans a fire in every Roman, whether friend or foe, accomplice or victim.
'Most people credit Sulla with having restored order to Rome. At a very high price perhaps, and not without a blood-bath — but order is order, and there's nothing a Roman values more highly. But I take it Cicero has another view?'
Tiro said nothing. The narrow street wound to the left and right, making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. Occasionally we passed a doorway or a window, slightly recessed in the wall, always shut. We could hardly have been more alone.
'Of course Sulla is a dictator’ I said. 'That chafes the Roman spirit: We are all free men — at least those of us who aren't slaves. But after all, a dictator isn't a king; so the lawmakers tell us. A dictatorship is perfectly legal, so long as the Senate approves. For emergencies only, of course. And only for a set period of time. If Sulla has kept his powers for almost three years now instead of the legally prescribed one — well, then, perhaps that's what offends your master. The untidiness of it.'
'Please,' Tiro said in a strained whisper. 'You shouldn't go on about it. You never know who might be listening.'
'Ah, the walls themselves have ears — another bit of wisdom from Master Chick-pea's cautious lips?'
That finally stirred him up. 'No! Cicero always speaks his mind — he's as unafraid to say what he thinks as you are. And he knows a great deal more about politics than you seem to think. But he's not foolhardy. Cicero says: Unless a man is well versed in the arts of rhetoric, then the words he utters in a public place will quickly fly out of his control, like leaves on the wind. An innocent truth can be twisted in a fatal lie. That's why he forbids me to speak of politics outside his household. Or with untrustworthy strangers.'
That put me in my place. Tiro's silence and anger both were justified; I had deliberately baited him. But I didn't apologize, not even in the roundabout and stuffy manner that free men sometimes use to apologize to slaves. Anything that might give me a clearer picture of Cicero before I met him was worth the trifling expense of offending his slave. Besides, one should know a slave very well before letting him know that his insolence pleases you.
We walked on. The Narrows widened just enough to let. two walk abreast. Tiro caught up with me a bit, but not enough to walk side by side with me, keeping a formal distance behind and to my left. We reentered the Subura Way near the Forum. Tiro indicated that it would be quicker to walk directly through the Forum rather than around it. We passed through the heart of the city, the Rome that visitors think of, with its magnificent courts and fountains, temples and squares, where the law is made and the greatest gods are worshipped in their finest houses.
We passed by the Rostra itself, the high pedestal decorated with the beaks of captured ships, from which orators and advocates plead the greatest cases in Roman law. Nothing more was said of the dictator Sulla, yet I could not help but wonder if Tiro was thinking, as I was, of the scene at this very spot only a year before, when the heads of Sulla's enemies lined the Forum, hundreds every day, stricken from their bodies and mounted on stakes. The blood of his victims still showed as rusty stains against the otherwise white, unblemished stone.
3
As Tiro had said, Cicero's house was considerably smaller than my own. Its exterior was almost self-consciously modest and sedate, a single-storey structure without a single ornament. The face it presented to the street was utterly blank, nothing more than a wall of saffron stucco pierced by a narrow wooden door.
The apparent modesty of Cicero's home signified little. We were, of course, in one of the most expensive neighbourhoods in Rome, where size gives little indication of wealth. Even the smallest house here might be worth the price of a block of villas in the Subura. Besides that, the wealthier classes of Rome have traditionally shunned any display of ostentation in their homes, at least as regards the exterior. They claim this is a matter of good taste. I suspect it has more to do with their fear that a vulgar show of wealth might kindle jealousy among the mob. Consider also that a costly decoration on the outside of a house is far easier to carry off than the same decoration safely displayed somewhere inside.
Such austerity and restraint have never ceased to be regarded as ideal. Even so, in my own lifetime I have seen a definite veering towards public opulence. This is notably true among the young and ambitious, especially those whose fortunes flowered in the wake of the civil war and Sulla's triumph. They add a second storey; they build porticoes upon their roofs. They install statuary imported from Greece.
Nothing of the sort appeared on the street where Cicero lived. Decorum reigned. The houses turned their backs upon the street, facing inward, having nothing to say to any stranger who might wander by, reserving their secret life for those privileged to enter within.
The street was short and quiet. There were no markets at either end, and wandering vendors apparently knew better than to disturb the silence. Grey paving stones underfoot, pale blue sky above, faded stucco stained by rain and cracked by heat on either side; no other colours were allowed, least of all green — not a single unruly weed could be seen sprouting through the cobbles or springing up beside a wall, much less a flower or a tree. The very air, rising odourless and hot from the paving stones, breathed the sterile purity of Roman virtue.
Even in the midst of such restraint, the house of Cicero was particularly austere. In an ironic way it was so unassuming that it actually drew attention to itself — there, one might say, there is the ideal dwelling for a wealthy Roman of the most rarefied Roman virtue. The little house looked so modest and so narrow that one might have assumed it to be the home of a once-wealthy Roman matron, now widowed and in reduced circumstances; or perhaps the town house of a rich country farmer who came to the city o
nly for occasional business, never to entertain or enjoy a holiday; or perhaps (and so it was, in fact) such an austere house on such an unassuming street might belong to a young bachelor of substantial means and old-fashioned values, a citified son of country parents poised to seek his fortune among Rome's higher circles, a young man of stern Roman virtue so sure of himself that even youth and ambition could not lure him into the vulgar missteps of fashion.
Tiro rapped upon the door.
A few moments later a grey-bearded slave opened it. Afflicted by some palsy, the old man's head was in constant motion, nodding up and down and tilting from side to side. He took his time in recognizing Tiro, peering and squinting and extending his head on its slender neck in turtle fashion. The nodding never ceased. Finally he smiled a toothless smile and stepped aside, pulling the door wide open.
The foyer was in the shape of a semicircle with its straight wall to our backs. The curving wall before us was pierced by three doorways, each flanked by slender columns and capped with a pediment. The corridors beyond were concealed by curtains of rich red fabric, embroidered along the bottom with an acanthus motif in yellow. Standing Grecian lamps at either corner and a floor mosaic of no great distinction (Diana in pursuit of a boar) completed the decoration. It was as I had expected. The vestibule was adequately restrained and tasteful so as not to contradict the sternness of the stucco facade, yet so expensively appointed as to belie any impression of poverty.
The old doorkeeper indicated with a gesture that we should wait. Silent and smiling, he withdrew through the curtained doorway to our left, his wizened head bobbing above his narrow shoulders like a cork on gentle waves.
'An old family retainer?' I asked. I waited until he had passed from sight, and kept my voice low. Obviously the old man's ears were sharper than his eyes, for he had heard well enough to answer the door; and it would have been rude to talk about him in his presence, as if he were a slave, for he was not. I had noticed the ring of manumission upon his finger, marking him a freedman and citizen.
Roman blood rsr-1 Page 3
