The Catiline Conspiracy (16 page)

Approaching from the other end of the Forum I saw Publius Clodius and his two companions, backed by the dwellers of the
Via Sacra
. Like mine, most of his followers were young men, excited and ready for a brawl. Clodius was still a rather handsome young man, despite some marks I had put on his face and which were always a great joy for me to look upon. I was pleased to note that he had added a pound or two since I had last seen him. In keeping with the solemnity of the occasion, we didn't make faces at each other, but maintained an impassive, hieratic demeanor.

I stepped onto the low dais that had been erected for the altar and stood there with the other five riders. My father was there, along with the fathers of two of the other men. Since, by the well-known Roman legal fiction, we were still our fathers' property, the three fathers and the
flamen
had to go through a certain mummery temporarily releasing us to the service of the god. When that was done, my father came to me and said: "This is a damnably risky business, but they'll remember it in the tribal assemblies when it comes time for you to stand for the aedileship. Just be careful and let the others take the risks, as much as possible." Then he left the dais. Father had a wonderfully political way of looking at everything. Anything short of death was acceptable to him, so long as it helped you get elected.

Then the
flamen's
attendants stripped us of our tunics. This was an ancient practice, but the main reason for it was to ensure that we were not wearing armor or concealed weapons beneath our outer garments. Only a
subligaculum
was permitted, and even that was discreetly searched lest we be concealing some amulet or charm intended to put a curse on a rival. During this stage of the proceedings I was pleased to note that I looked far better thus unclad than Clodius, with his extra poundage. He was a powerful man, though, and not to be underestimated. I did not shine so well in comparison to the other four, all of whom were as well conditioned as any professional athlete.

As the others were being searched I looked out over the crowd. Besides the Suburans, I had other supporters. I saw Milo and a large group of his thugs. The enmity between Clodius and me was as the love of brothers compared to what lay between him and Milo. A number of Catilina's men were there as promised, including Valgius and Thorius, the bearded lovelies who had followed Aurelia. The sight of Valgius tickled something in my memory, but he also made me think of Aurelia, which was something I was doing too much of already. I looked up at the Capitol, where the new image of Jupiter was at last in place, and saw that the repairs to the wall where it had been moved in had been completed. The
haruspices
had said that the new Jupiter would warn us of dangers to the state. Then I heard the sound of trumpets and a reverent silence fell over the crowd. The ceremony had begun.

Down the
Via Sacra
came the Palatine
Salii
, the twelve young patricians who formed the brotherhood of the dancing priests of Mars. Dressed in scarlet tunics and wearing bronze helmets and breastplates of antique design, they performed a slow and solemn war dance to the music of the holy trumpets and wailing flutes. Each bore in his hand one of the sacred spears of Mars, and on his other arm he carried one of the
ancilia
, the strangely shaped bronze shields of Mars. This was their last ceremony of the year, and they would dance in all the holy places for four more days, at which time the holy shields, spears and trumpets would be purified and stored away in the
regia
and all worship of Mars would cease for the duration of winter, barring the outbreak of war.

Behind the
Salii
came the horses. These were spectacular beasts: three bays, a white, a black and a brown with black stripes on his haunches. Each horse had had a numeral painted on his brow, from one to six, in the order they had been chosen by the
Flamen Martialis
according to criteria known only to the
pontifices
. The horses halted before the altar, the handlers having their hands full with the nervous, temperamental animals. The
Salii
continued their dance, circling the horses three times, singing a song so ancient that only a few words of it were intelligible, even to the priests themselves. Everyone watched breathlessly, concerned that the dance should be performed properly. Above all it was important that the spears should not be allowed to clash against the shields, for that was the signal to summon Mars to aid us in battle. He would be very angry to find that there was no war going on. But the dance was performed flawlessly and the
Salii
came to a halt before the dais.

Now one of the Vestal virgins took a helmet from the head of one of the dancers and gave it to the
flamen
. One of the attendants placed five knucklebones inside These were not real knucklebones, but bronze replicas, each the size of a child's fist and brilliantly polished. One by one, we riders took the helmet from the
flamen
, shook it, and cast the knucklebones onto the dais. We were assigned horses according to the score each of us threw.

Mine was three, the white. This seemed lucky to me. I had always liked white horses because, I suppose, everyone likes white horses. Clodius drew one of the bays. My two side-men got the black and another of the bays. Although the race was supposed to be between the horses, these men would actually be trying to prevent Clodius and his men from fouling me. Clodius's men would have the same task.

A handler boosted me onto my white. The horses wore no saddles and we could control them only with rope halters, for metal bits were forbidden. A vestal handed each of us a whip that had been plaited of new leather and horsehair within the
Atrium Vestae
, thus ensuring that none of them were envenomed.

The horses were lined up so closely that my knees touched the knees of the riders to either side. One of them was Clodius, who was on my left. This was a stroke of bad luck. He spoke to me, too quietly for anyone else to hear.

"I hope you have your mourners hired, Metellus. You'll be dead before nightfall."

I could tell that the years since our last serious encounter had done nothing to sweeten his disposition.

"You'd better not try anything," I warned him. "I have archers stationed on top of the
Curia
." The fool actually looked.

Then the handlers released our reins and darted out of the way. The horses trembled with eagerness to start, restrained only by a chalk-whitened rope stretched at breast height a few feet in front of them, held taut by two slaves. My nerves were stretched as tight by the wait and the silence. All eyes were on the
Flamen Martialis
. He nodded, and the attendants of the
Salii
blew a long blast on the sacred trumpets. The crowd erupted.

As our horses lunged forward, Clodius lashed at my eyes with his whip. I had been expecting it and I ducked, but the whip caught my brow and scalp, cutting deep. This was why I had been distressed to find Clodius on ray immediate left. It gave him full freedom to use his whip against me with his right hand, while I would have to reach across my body to get at him.

Clodius pulled ahead as we pounded down the narrow track marked out by ropes, the screaming crowd packed behind the ropes urging us on. My white was infuriated at the bay for passing him and as we dashed past the Basilica Aemilia, he snaked out his neck and bit the bay's haunch. Clodius almost lost his seat as the bay squealed and jerked. My white put on a burst of speed and I slashed Clodius with my whip as I passed him, leaning far over to do it. This was not a good thing to do, because at that moment one of Clodius's men gained my right rear and slashed me across the back. The force of the blow and the sudden, unexpected pain almost pitched me headforemost. If the fall to the hard pavement did not kill me the trampling by the horses behind surely would have. I squeezed with my knees and clung to my horse's neck to stay on, and I could hear Clodius's laugh as he dashed past.

One of my side-men got his whip around the neck of the lout who had lashed me from behind and jerked him from his mount. The crowd cheered frantically at this adroit move. In this race, the riders were free to attack each other, but not one another's horses. That would have been sacrilege.

The horses themselves were under no such compulsion, and just as I regained my seat and dashed the blood from my eyes, my side-man on the black and Clodius's man on the striped horse drew up on my left. There was not sufficient room for two horses there and the animals attacked one another with teeth and hooves. Men and horses went down in a tangle of thrashing limbs, flailing hooves and hissing whips.

I caught up with Clodius as we rounded the monument to a Consul of four hundred years before. It was greatly in need of repair and was demolished a few years later because nobody would pay for its restoration. The family was long extinct. As we made the turn he cut too close and his horse's haunch caught the corner of the monument, breaking loose some old repair work and causing the beast to stumble. At this I surged past him, striking out with my whip, but without success.

Now I was rushing back toward the altar. I looked behind me just in time to cut in front of Clodius, who was getting close. (The other remaining rider was behind him.) The three riderless horses had regained their feet and rejoined the race like the spirited animals they were. My white was running his heart out, even though this was a far shorter race than he was used to. Once around the Forum is nothing like seven times around the
spina
at the Circus, pulling a chariot.

Foam from the white's mouth mixed with the blood on my face as we dashed back over the starting line. The crowd cheered frantically as I pulled up and dismounted. I patted the beast's flank as a handler took charge of him. All the cheering was for the horse, naturally. This was not an athletic contest and I would receive neither crown nor palm.

At least my Suburans cheered me. A woman tossed me a scarf and I bound it around my head to stop the blood from running into my eyes. My back burned as if someone had laid a hot iron across it. Handlers were catching the three riderless animals. I walked, somewhat stiffly, to the dais. Clodius was already there, having no serious injuries to be tended. He glared at me and I grinned back. He was not through yet, as I well knew. This had been only the first stage of the day's ordeal.

The crowd quieted somewhat as we assembled. The two riders who had taken the worst falls were not seriously injured and managed to hobble to the dais, bloodied but proud. Then the white horse I had ridden to victory was led up. The people sang the ancient chant to the October Horse and showered him with honey cakes and dried petals of the summer's flowers.

The handlers walked the October Horse onto the dais while the
flamen
and his attendants intoned their prayers. The
flamen
Stroked the horse's head from ears to muzzle and the beast ducked his head in a nod, a propitious sign. A vestal handed scarves to the riders and we covered our heads with these as the men in the crowd did the same with their togas and the women with their
pallas
.

When the
flamen's
prayer was done he nodded to an attendant who struck the horse on the brow with a long-handled hammer. The beast stood planted to the spot, stunned, as the
flamen
cut his throat with the sacrificial knife that he must always carry with him. The blood was caught in two vessels, one of which would go to the Temple of Vesta to be used in the lustrations of the coming year, the other to be poured out over the hearth of the
Regia
, where once the kings of Rome had lived and where the
Pontifex Maximus
now dwelled.

I was saddened to see the great horse die, as I always was at these sacrifices, but especially this time, for he had borne me so magnificently. But then, if there is no sadness, of what value is the sacrifice? How could the god take pleasure in an offering for which the givers felt only indifference? I never saw much point in sacrificing pigeons and other such inferior victims, but the sacrifice of the October Horse has always marked for me one of the noblest links between the Roman people and their gods. And why should a fine racehorse want to grow old and feeble? Better to perish this way, and join the herd of the gods. Woe to the people when we forget these duties owed to our gods.

As the blood was collected, the
flamen
continued the prayer to Mars. An attendant held the written service before him so that he should not stumble over the archaic words and behind him a flute-player trilled so that no unseemly sound or word from the multitude should distract the
flamen
. Any slightest flaw in the performance of the ritual, and the entire ceremony would have to be repeated from the beginning.

When the blood collecting was done, the
flamen
went to the great corpse and with a few deft, well-practiced cuts of the sacrificial knife, he severed the head and held it aloft, still dripping. The assembled multitude clapped three times, cheered three times, and repeated the ritual laugh three times. Reverently, the
flamen
placed the head upon the altar, then sprinkled it with barley meal and poured over it fresh-pressed oil mixed with honey. Then, in a rite peculiar to the October Horse, the
flamen
and the vestals piled cakes baked that day from fine wheat around and atop the noble head. Then the
flamen
stepped back, clapped three times and laughed three times. A collective sigh went up from the multitude and they uncovered their heads, satisfied that all due honor had been paid the October Horse and that Mars must now be contented, ready to undertake his four-month absence from the city.

Now the tension began to rise again. The solemn ritual was done with. The final, climactic phase of the festival was at hand. The fun was about to begin. I was keyed up and ready for it, but I had seldom felt myself to be in so much danger.