The Roman Conspiracy

by Jack Mitchell

  “Gentlemen,” the voice continued, “friends, Senators, and Roman knights, this will not be our last meeting. But it will be the last before our great enterprise is brought to fulfillment. So I will speak plainly tonight to all of you together. If I did not trust the honor of each and every one of you, I would not be here, and I would not be speaking here tonight; but neither would I have undertaken this adventure in the first place. I would not have been so bold.”

  I stood like a statue, for there was an easy confidence and good will in the voice that commanded you to listen. But somehow I felt the man was being less than straightforward already, despite what he assured his listeners.

  “We want the same thing, gentlemen, and this common goal of ours is the proof of our friendship. We are Romans, certainly, and we are pleased when the nations, the princes, the kings of the earth pay this city their taxes and their tribute. So they should, and so they must. We want the glory of Rome forever. But we should rule it. We must rule it!

  “By now, one thing is clear. Though Rome flourishes, we cannot flourish as things stand. The Senate rules, and Cicero rules. They claim they rule for the good of Rome. But, gentlemen, we are the good of Rome! To them, we are merely the instruments of their power. They will be our instruments! To them, we are mere fools. They will be our fools! To them, we are slaves. They will be our slaves! And which one of us here tonight would not prefer to own this city? Who would not prefer exile to insult? Who would not prefer death to disrespect?”

  There was a mounting murmur of approval – from many more voices than I had thought were present, at least two dozen. And for a moment I myself wavered. The power of that voice was almost irresistible. He seemed like an honest man, a man only asking for what he deserved. Then a young voice cried. “That’s it, Catiline! You speak for us! Good for Catiline!”

  My heart leapt into my throat when I heard that name. Could this really be the voice of the most dangerous man in Rome? The pickpocket at the inn had praised him, Tullia had called him the man behind Manlius, an enemy of the Roman People. But suddenly he was more than a name. He was standing in the room below me, with only the floorboards between us. I almost wished that Homer were by my side. What could I do except listen?

  “While they prosper, gentlemen,” the voice of Catiline continued, “while they prosper, we are laughed at in the street. While they conquer the world, we cannot even conquer the slaves who should worship us. In short, we have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. And now the hour has come to seize the prize, the prize that belongs to those who are not afraid to conquer.

  “If you wish, I will be a simple soldier. If you wish, I will be your leader. If you wish, I will be the Consul Rome has dreamed of. But if you do not remember much of what I say tonight, remember this much: We are facing ruin already, we are confronted this very night by a hundred dangers, but we are working now for victory, for glory, for immeasurable riches, and for a fame that will not die. A new Rome, a Rome without the Senate, without aristocratic shame, without Cicero, is waiting to be born. And we ourselves have waited long enough!”

  He was finished, and though the men listening could not cheer in the quiet house, their grunts of approval went on for what seemed an eternity to me. There was an ugly fierceness in their agreement. I lowered my arms to my sides, terrified that they might hear my shirt brush against my skin.

  “You speak well, Catiline!” said the same young voice. “But that should not be the end of it. We have one army in Etruria, but we need another here. If we would only proclaim to the whole city that we will free the slaves, then …”

  “Free the slaves?” cried Catiline. “Free the scum of the earth? What do you take me for? I am not here to liberate, my young friend! I am here to conquer! And we have that other army already, though you may not know it. Yes, we do. And here I call upon my true friend, our common friend, a friend of Rome.”

  A silence fell again, and I heard someone walk to the middle of the room beneath me. He began to speak in a low tone and with a foreign accent, so quietly that I could not make out much. But my pulse began to throb in my ears, for there was no mistaking the sing-song lilt of his Latin. It was the Druid I had seen lying at Cicero’s own table earlier that evening, talking with Tullia, looking nervously at the Consul who was his host.

  “… do what we can,” I heard the Druid saying, “… with both armies, if you think of the total … the advantages on both sides, and I have … the other ambassadors … certain assurances will, of course, be … because of the needful supplies … ten thousand warriors … confident of our sincerest thanks,” he ended, to what seemed to be sighs of relief from the other men. Were they themselves afraid of the Druid?

  “And you have consulted the gods, the local gods?” broke in the dry voice I had heard before, playing ball in the court. “Surely you have not neglected the proper rituals, the test of the animals?”

  “Volturcius” said Catiline, “your concerns are natural, and our friend has naturally consulted the gods. They have confirmed our inevitable victory. But now give us your report from Faesulae. Will Manlius march, if the Druid’s Celtic warriors are ready?”

  “Manlius will not fail us. He has collected two legions. They will march when the moon is full,” answered Volturcius.

  “And in secrecy? You remember that at our last meeting we discovered that Cicero” – Catiline nearly spat the name – “was receiving information about Manlius from Etruria, from that wretched landowner and his farmer spies. That has stopped?”

  “The landowner has stopped,” answered Volturcius hoarsely. “The sad news came only two days ago when I was there. The poor man passed away, thanks to our little blue ally.”

  There were some chuckles at this. My hands began to shake uncontrollably with fury. Volturcius was joking about the murder of my uncle! I had not really doubted his treachery before, what with the blue flask, yet … and with that the flask slipped from my fingers, bounced off a papyrus roll, and fell tinkling to the floor.

  “What was that?” came the voice of Catiline below. “What was that noise? It came from the kitchens.”

  “No, from upstairs!” cried several other voices. I could feel twenty necks craning to stare through the ceiling under feet.

  “I sent the kitchen slaves to bed, I assure you,” broke in Volturcius. “It’s the mice, gentlemen. My study is above us and the mice come to chew the papers. Please, please be seated.”

  “Very well,” said Catiline with some hesitation. “Let us continue. This landowner may be no further trouble, thanks to you, Volturcius,” he went on, “but hear this, my friends. I am not satisfied. It is time that Cicero himself was dealt with. Only yesterday he blocked our move at Praeneste. All of the gladiators we sent there have been taken by his forces. I found out today. Our best fighters are prisoners. He is energetic, and he knows more about us than we suspect, I am sure of it. But we still have some gladiators, do we not?”

  “About twenty,” someone answered.

  “Good,” said Catiline. “We will not need that many. But I want volunteers. The dawn is not far off now. Two of you will go to pay your respects to Cicero this morning. You will take gladiators, five of the best we have left, and you will pretend to consult him on affairs of state. Mention my name if you have to. Say that you will give him information. And then, in his own hall, you can cut him down.”

  There was silence at this. I gasped, and the young voice below exclaimed, “But you can’t kill the Consul! By Hercules, the Senate will never stand for it – that risks everything!”

  “The Consul?” cried Catiline, his clear tone suddenly hoarse. “You idiot,” he rasped, “it is /who am the Consul! I would have been Consul these last ten months if it weren’t for Cicero’s tricks, and I would be Consul next year if they hadn’t all stood against me during the election. Cicero is no Consul, I tell you that. And do not worry about the Senate. In three days the city will be burning. We will put the torch to it, as planned – Greek quarter, t
he Slaves’ quarter, and Pomegranate Street – and you worry about the Senate! The Senate will be ours for the taking, once Rome is burning.”

  My mind was reeling. First the poison, then Catiline’s own voice and his terrible speech, then the treacherous Druid, and Volturcius laughing about my uncle. Now it was to be murder for Cicero: I had to act. I scooped up a pen from Volturcius’ papers and began scratching frantically across the back of one of his astrological charts. The Greek quarter … the Slaves’ quarter … Pomegranate Street … Praeneste … all the names I could remember. I underlined Volturcius. Whatever plan I had for my personal revenge would have to wait. Tullia had to know what I now knew. The men below went on with their conspiracy, but I was running out of time.

  “I shall go to Cicero,” someone said, volunteering for murder. “And my friend here shall come with me. A Senator and a Roman knight – both Orders shall have a hand in it, with the gladiators.”

  “Very good,” said Catiline. “But you must be thorough. The whole house, you understand? And if they …”

  “That’s not mice now,” someone interrupted. “That scratching, do you hear that? I know mice, by Hercules, and that’s not …”

  “That’s the floorboards!” exclaimed Catiline. “I knew it, there’s someone up there! Mice indeed, Volturcius! Who’s your spy upstairs, I’d like to know?”

  “There’s no spy!” protested Volturcius. “No one can get in my door. We’re safe, and I would never …”

  “Go and find out,” Catiline ordered, and instantly men were up and moving.

  But I had left the study far behind.

  I had bolted for the corridor by the time they heard the floorboards, the astrological chart in my hand, but I had no time to pick up the blue flask. I did not dare descend the spiral staircase now: I could already hear footsteps coming up, and I caught the hint of torchlight on the stairs. To my right were bedroom doorways. There was a narrow window at the end of the corridor to the left, but it was barred with wooden shutters.

  I raced for the window and tore off the wooden latch. The window was set high in the wall, but I hoisted myself up to the sill. The window was narrow, too – a full-grown man’s shoulders could never have fit. I barely got through it myself.

  And, by Hercules, it was a long way down. I could hardly see the garbage alley and the kitchen scraps in the darkness beneath. I could hear feet racing to the top of the stairs and into the study. Yet just as I was about to jump – probably to my death – I saw that the garden’s ivy had grown up as far as the window. I seized the trunk of the vine with both hands.

  It tore away from the wall! No sooner did the roots tear than I grabbed a new hold beneath them, lowering myself handful by handful until I tumbled backward into space. The garbage broke my fall, but it was all I could do not to scream as I landed. Bits of bone and wood jabbed into my side, but I was on my feet at once. I thanked the gods the hungry dog had disappeared. And then I ran.

  Not the way I had come, past the front of Volturcius’ house, but the other way. Would the alley lead me somewhere? Or would I have to bury myself in the trash and hope they did not find me?

  I reached the next street. A wooden fence barred the way, but the blood was pumping in my veins and for the moment I felt no pain in my side. I sprang to the top. Just then I heard a voice behind me. A man was speaking from the narrow window I had left behind.

  “Nothing here. Double-check the other way,” he said. “Just the wind, and these old shutters.”

  He latched the shutters as I swung over the fence to the street beyond. I had escaped, and I had my scribbled notes. I was safe. Unfortunately, I was also lost.

  Nothing could force me to double back down the alley to the front of the house. I would have to find my way around, and it seemed likely that the street I was now on would run parallel to Sicklemaker Street. Yet though this new street began in the same direction, it gradually veered to the right. I scanned the shops on the left, but there was neither a cross street nor another alley. I was being headed off, down the hill towards the clothmakers’ district.

  It was a íabyrinth. A turn to the left led only to another faceless, impassable block of buildings. I hoped for an empty square where I could get a feeling for the direction of Cicero’s house, but when I finally found one I could see nothing beyond the lofty third stories of the blocks. There was no one to give directions, except for sleeping drunks and a group of men who could not have looked more sinister if every one of them had been a Catiline. I pressed on blindly, alone.

  I could feel the change in the air, the breath of dawn, by the time I finally reached the cobblestones again. From here I could guess the way to the Market. But I was panting with exhaustion and bathed in chilly sweat as I shuffled over that vast empty space, ghostly at the hour poised between the old night and the new day. The tops of the gigantic marble columns of the temples floated high above me. “The Marky,” I heard Tullia say in my head. “You must say ‘Marky,’ Spurinna.” And I thought of how I had dreamed of seeing the Market during the manhood festival in the Spring. How far away the world of school and farm and harvesting now seemed, where everything except our house was built of wood, and no one had ever seen a cobblestone.

  Now that I had found the Market, I knew which way to go. It was not far to the hill where Cicero lived, the Palatine hill. But I had lost precious time. I sprinted with a final effort up the steep street.

  When I reached the doors of his house, I gasped. Where were the guards who had been there in the afternoon? I pounded on the doors for what seemed like forever. At last someone called out from inside.

  “What in the name of Numa is this blasted racket?” I was being watched through the observation hole. “Who in the name of – Spurinna? It can’t be! Again!”

  It was the scornful steward.

  “Yes, it’s me,” I cried. “Open up, in the name of Jupiter! You must wake Cicero … you must wake the Consul! Let me in, I have urgent …”

  With a dull plunk, the heavy wooden bolt struck the marble floor of the hall, and the iron doors creaked open.

  “What’s this now?” whispered the steward. “Young man, do you have any idea what time …”

  “I do, yes. And if you don’t wake up Tullia before I get my hands on you, I’ll …”

  I stopped. No time for another squabble. The steward was biting his lip with annoyance and contempt. It suddenly struck me that I must look ridiculous, even more ridiculous than when I had shown up with the horse and the donkey. Now I was sweaty, covered in bits of garbage, and notably – as far as the steward was concerned – not covered in the toga of a citizen paying his morning respects.

  “Get Tullia.” I repeated. “Your master’s life may depend on it!”

  He obeyed reluctantly, leaving me alone there, with the dark sky now growing pale. I heaved the wooden bolt back across the iron doors, and collapsed beside them.

  But Tullía was not long in coming.

  “Spurinna, what in heaven’s name …? Are you all right?” she called, hurrying across the hall to my side. She pulled me to my feet.

  She was wearing a white sleeping gown. I saw her hair was undone and her eyes were sleepy; but I must have looked worse myself because she said, “You look absolutely terrible! Are you hurt? Did you get inside that traitor’s house?”

  “Where is Homer?” I asked.

  “He came back, but he said he waited near Volturcius’ house and you didn’t come out, so he left to see if you had gone to the room he rented. He looked tired. But, Spurinna, are you going to tell me what happened or not?”

  I gave her an incoherent account. Her brows knit with concern, as I babbled incoherently. “They are coming to kill your father this morning … two men volunteered … going to pretend it’s political advice … gladiators with them … I have some names, information scribbled on this chart ….” She grew instantly alert, told me to wait, rushed off, and brought back two guards with their long-handled axes.

  “We
must be ready for them,” she said in a low voice. “Can you stand? Will you lie down?”

  “I’m staying,” I said.

  “Stay by the door,” she said. “I’m going for the rest of the guard. Steward,” she barked, “wake up the Consul. Spurinna, if they come, you must delay them. Do you hear me? Delay them til I come with more guards. You can talk? Then you must delay them. No one comes in, alright? No one!”

  And she was gone in a flash of the white gown.

  The silence afterward was unbearable. A rooster crowed the dawn, followed by another, and another. A chorus of roosters. Where were the other guards?

  I turned to the two guards with me. They looked as frightened as I felt.

  “Who is coming, sir?” one asked.

  “Assassins,” I told them bluntly. “We must protect the Consul.”

  It was the right thing to say. The first guard brightened and gripped his ax: protecting the Consul was the purpose of his life. But the second guard looked less steady.

  “Assassins, like at Praeneste yesterday?” he asked. “Those were gladiators, you know, the best of the Arena. That’s what they say … champions, sir. It took two hundred men to stop sixty.”

  “We’re not two hundred men, but we can stop them,” I replied, wondering how foolish that sounded. “Just be as tough with them as you were with me when I first showed up. We’ll be all right then, don’t you think?”

  At this the second guard nodded nervously. “Deliveries do go round the back,” he said, smiling bleakly.

  “That’s right,” I said. “And don’t forget this is the Consul’s house.”

  At that moment there were footsteps in the street. It seemed to be only one pair of sandals, but what if there were many walking softly? One loud pair of sandals, and others treading silently? Someone called out a cheerful “Good morning!” and then, to my horror, there came a polite knock at the door, and the sound of something being placed on the ground. When neither I nor the guards made any answer – they were following my lead – the knock was repeated, more forcefully. For a second I paused, and the thought crossed my mind that these were perhaps the final minutes of my life.