The Catiline Conspiracy (7 page)

"Decius!" she said, when I approached her. "How good to see you again!" She offered me her cheek, which I kissed, amazed to find that it bore no makeup. Her complexion was adornment enough. She held me by the shoulders at arm's length. "You are even handsomer than you were last week, although I shouldn't say it, having a son near your age."

"Please," I said, taking her hand, "say it as often as you like. And you exaggerate the disparity in our years, since young Decimus is surely no more than seven years old."

She laughed her wonderful, honking laugh. "How good of you to say that!" With a fingertip she traced the ragged scar that decorates my face. "You never told me how you got that. Most men brag about their scars."

"Spanish spear," I said. "That was when I served with Metellus Pius, during Sertorius's insurrection. I don't brag about it because I acquired it very foolishly. It embarrasses me to this day."

"It's good to find a Roman who doesn't think getting cut up is a fine idea." She surveyed the room. "Isn't this a delightful gathering?"

"After spending my days at the treasury, a gathering of cobblers would look inviting." I tried to sound petulant, an attitude that does not come naturally to me.

"Oh, that sort of work doesn't suit you, Decius?" She sounded honestly solicitous.

I shrugged. "Everybody knows it's the job given to the
quaestores
who lack influence in high places."

Her eyebrows went up. "With
your
family?"

"That's just the problem. There are so many of us that one more Metellus at the bottom of the political ladder scarcely rates a pat on the back. If you want to know the truth, the old men of the family think the high offices are theirs by right and they don't want to see any ambitious young kinsman coming along to challenge them."

She flashed me a brief, calculating look, then took a cup from a passing slave to cover it. "And I suppose you've gotten yourself into debt fulfilling your duties?" This seemed an odd comment, but it sounded promising. I had only borrowed from my father, but many penurious politicians ruined themselves trying to support the requirements and dignity of office.

"Head over heels," I told her. "Paving the high roads isn't cheap, I've found. I'm not certain I'll even be able to run for
aedile
with all the cost that entails."

"But surely," she said, "you've been offered a good posting when you leave office, someplace where there are opportunities for a bright, wellborn man? Many a
proquaestor
or
legatus
comes home rich and ready to stand for the higher offices even if he wasn't born wealthy." She watched me closely.

"That's what I was hoping, but nothing's been offered me so far, and it will be many years before a profitable war comes along. Pompey's cronies have all the good postings sewn up." I thought I might be laying it on too thick and changed the subject. "But who knows? Something may well turn up. Now, Sempronia, who is here aside from the usual hangers-on?"

"Let me see..." She scanned the room. "There is young Catullus. He's recently arrived in the city from Verona."

"The poet?" I said, having heard the name. He was supposed to be the leading light of the "new poets." I preferred the old ones.

"Yes, you must meet him." She took my arm and dragged me over to the young man's side. I was amazed to see that he could not have been older than nineteen or twenty. Sempronia made the introductions. He was slightly diffident, still obviously a little overwhelmed at being in the high life of the great city and trying to cover it with a confident pose bordering on arrogance. "I hear great things about your work," I said. "Meaning you haven't read them. Just as well, I feel that my best work is ahead of me. I am embarrassed to look at my earlier writing now."

"What are you working on now?" asked Sempronia, knowing that poets rarely like to talk about anything except their art.

"I am laboring over a series of love poems in the Alexandrian fashion. That is one reason why I was happy to be invited here tonight. I have always admired the Alexandrian school of Greek verse." The other reason was a chance for a free meal, I thought. I was not being disparaging in this, having been in the same position many, many times myself. Before we turned him over to his literary admirers, he asked me a question.

"Your pardon, but are you a relative of Metellus Celer, the
praetor
?"

"He is a cousin of my father, but that doesn't mean I know him well. Throw a rock into the
Curia
, and chances are good that you'll hit a Metellus." He laughed at the witticism, and I could see him filing it away for use in a political lampoon. That was all right with me. I had stolen it from an acquaintance.

"Why was he curious about Celer?" I asked Sempronia when we were alone in a garden. She leaned close and spoke conspiratorially.

"Didn't you know? He's in love with Clodia!"

"Really? She and Celer have only been married for eight months. Isn't it early for an intrigue?"

"Well, you know Clodia." Indeed I did, all too well. She was a woman about whom I had decidedly mixed feelings. "Actually," Sempronia went on, "I think he just worships her from afar, writes love lyrics to her, that sort of thing. She's flattered, as who wouldn't be?"

"But you think it's nothing more than that?" I said, cursing myself for even caring. She shot me another evaluating glance.

"Dear Clodia hasn't let marriage interfere with her social activities," she said, "she's as wild as ever. But since she has married, she has been extremely discreet where men are concerned. I think she is being faithful, within her limits."

Well, how could I blame a sensitive young poet for being in love with Clodia? I certainly had been, at one time. We were strolling by a rather graceful shrine to Isis when we encountered a man surrounded by the Egyptian staff, including Lisas. He wore the tunic of an
eques
, but they treated him with the fawning deference usually reserved for kings. He saw Sempronia, smiled, and walked from his circle of Egyptians, who parted for him as if he were preceded by a hundred lictors. He was a tall, fine-looking man of middle years whose clothes were of a quality I could only envy, although he wore no jewelry except for the plain gold ring of his rank. This, I learned, was Caius Rabirius Postumus, a famous banker and son of that elderly, distinguished Senator whom Caesar had tried to prosecute for a crime almost forty years past. I now understood the deference of the Egyptians. Although I had never met him, it was known that Postumus had lent huge sums to Auletes.

"Decius Caecilius," he said after we had exchanged the usual pleasantries, "did I not hear that you discovered the body of my friend Oppius this morning?"

"I merely happened by. He was your friend?"

"We had a number of business dealings. He was a part of the banking community. I was terribly shocked when I heard of the murder."

"Did he have enemies?" I asked him.

"Just the ones that bankers always have. He was a quiet family man, no political ambitions or intrigues I ever heard about."

"Then it was probably a debtor," I said.

"That would make little sense," Postumus said. "He had heirs, business associates, others who will surely assume any outstanding accounts. Believe me, if the death of a creditor canceled debts, none of us bankers would be alive tomorrow. Not all debtors are as reasonable as King Ptolemy."

"How is that?" Sempronia asked.

"He has named me minister of finance to the kingdom."

"He can use one," I noted. "I have never been able to understand how the king of the richest nation in the world can be so poor."

"It's amazing, isn't it?" he agreed. "Perhaps it's because Egypt hasn't been a true nation since the days of the pharaohs, hundreds of years ago. Nothing but conquerors since then. The Macedonians are just the most recent."

"There hasn't been a worthwhile Macedonian since Alexander," I opined, the wine sharpening my wit. "And he didn't amount to much. What does it take to beat Greeks and Persians, after all? Still, they were perfectly good barbarians while they were up in their mountains. A couple of generations after Alexander, what are they? Lunatics and drunkards, growing more degenerate with each inbred generation."

"Shame on you two!" Sempronia said. "Speaking that way about the man whose wine you are drinking."

"When Alexander was romping all the way to India," I said, "Rome was a little Italian town fighting other Italian towns. Now we're master of the world, and we didn't need any boyish god-king to accomplish it, either."

She took my arm and steered me toward the dining room. "It's time to get some food into you, Decius. I believe I hear dinner being announced."

That sounded good to me. All this learned discourse had sharpened my appetite. The rest of the evening passed pleasantly, but something nibbled at the edges of my admittedly sodden consciousness like a mouse nibbling a crust of bread. It was something Postumus had said, but I could not bring it into full clarity. The party was too full of attractions to let it bother me for long.

I woke the next morning with a ringing head and a mouth that told me the final course in last night's banquet must have been Egyptian mummy. My aged slaves, Cato (no relation to the Senator) and Cassandra, were not sympathetic. They never were when it came to my excesses, and I could not explain to them that I had only been pursuing my public duties.

We have a tradition of allowing ourselves to be tyrannized and bullied by old domestics. It is certain that I got no respect from these two. Having raised me from infancy, they had no illusions about me. They stoutly refused to accept manumission. They could no more have fended for themselves than a pair of old plow-oxen, but as long as they could make my life miserable, they had a purpose.

"That's what you get, master!" Cato shouted cheerily, throwing open the shutter and letting in a horrid, searing beam of morning sunlight, the vengeance of Apollo. "That's what you get for being out to all hours, carousing with those foreigners, then coming home to wake your poor old retainers that have given up their whole lives to your service and acting as if they didn't deserve a little rest."

"Peace, Cato," I croaked. "I am going to die soon, and then what will you do?
Go back to my father? If he could stand to have you around, he wouldn't have
given you to me in the first place." Suppressing a groan, I lurched to my feet,
steadying myself on the little writing-table by my bed. Something unfamiliar
shifted on it and I saw that it was a roll of something white. Then I remembered accepting my guest-gift before leaving the previous night's banquet. Lisas, knowing that I was a public official with much correspondence to carry out, had given me a truly useful gift. It was a great scroll of the very finest Egyptian papyrus. For a fat Alexandrian pervert, Lisas was a most thoughtful man.

"Are my clients outside?" I asked.

"Already gone, master," Cato said, "and it's been ages since you paid your morning call on your father."

"He does not require that duty while I am in office," I reminded him.

"Yes, but today is a market day," Cato reminded me. "Official business is forbidden, and it should be only good manners to pay your
salutatio
when you don't have to go to the temple. Too late now, though."

"A market day?" I said, cheering up a little. That meant a chance to prowl the city and see what I might turn up. Rome was the mistress of the world, but it was still, in most aspects, a small Italian hill-town. It thrived on gossip and market days were relished almost as much as public holidays. I splashed water in my face, threw on my third-best toga and left my house, not bothering with breakfast, which I could not have faced.

At that time, markets were still held in the
forum boarium
, the ancient cattle-market. It was in full roar when I arrived, with farmers' stalls everywhere. The larger livestock were no longer sold there, but poultry, rabbits and pigs were slaughtered on the spot for customers, and they were raising their usual clamor. The farming season had been exceptional, so that even this late in the year the stalls were heaped with fresh produce.

Besides the farmers, all manner of small merchants and mountebanks had set up shop. I availed myself of one of these, a public barber. While he scraped my bristled face smooth, I watched the bustling scene. The fortune-tellers' booths were well attended. Fortunetellers were expelled from the city regularly, but they always came back. Near the barber's stool, an old woman sat on the ground, selling herbs and philters from a display laid out on a blanket.

"Look at those two," the barber said. I followed the direction of his nod and saw a pair of young men going into a fortune-teller's booth. Both wore full beards, a fashion ordinarily affected only by barbarians and philosophers, but enjoying something of a vogue among the city youth.

"Disgusting to see Roman youths bearded up like so many Gauls. Bad for business, too," he added.

"Gauls wear mustaches, not beards," I said. "Anyway, at that age, they're just enthralled with being
able
to raise a beard."

"They're all troublemakers," the barber asserted stoutly. "Those bearded ones are the brawlers and drunks. They come of decent families, mind you. You can tell that by the quality of their clothes. But then, that's why they wear the beards, so they won't look respectable."

I paid the barber and made my way among the stalls, being careful where I stepped. Since the barber called it to my attention, it seemed that I could not look anywhere without seeing bearded young men. There were not really that many of them, but once a thing impinges itself on my consciousness, I tend to seek it out without conscious volition. It was unlikely to be a sign of mourning, for none of the youths wore the shabby clothes one wears while mourning, going unshaven and unshorn in the process.

Among the stalls of the craftsmen I found what I was looking for: a cutlery merchant. I did not want one who sold only his own wares, but one who traveled, buying and selling the wares of others. The one I found sold edged implements from a number of display cases, the sort that stand up, with doors that swing wide and are themselves lined with racks. These cases glittered with kitchen knives, butcher's cleavers, scissors and shears, awls, sickles and pruning knives and other farm implements, and a few daggers and short swords.

"Are you looking for anything in particular, sir?" the merchant asked. "I have some elegant military weaponry still packed away. A gentleman of your evident rank must spend time with the legions. I have swords decorated with gold and silver and parade pieces inlaid with carved amber, some with hilts of ivory. This is a largely rustic crowd, so I did not take them out. However, if you are interested, my slave can--"

"Actually," I interrupted, "I was wondering if you could tell me anything about this." I took out the snake-hilted dagger and handed it to him. His look of disappointment was so piercing that I thought it best to brighten his day.

"I am the
Quaestor
Decius Caecilius Metellus and I am investigating a murder. This is the murder weapon." Actually I had no authority whatever, but there was no need to tell him that.

"A murder!" He examined the dagger eagerly. People are always willing to lend you their expertise if they can feel important by doing so. He turned it over in his hands, admiring the discolorations left where the blood had been wiped off.

"Can you tell anything about it?" I asked impatiently.

"Well, it's African. You see this kind of heavy central spine on blades made there. And I've seen this kind of serpent carving before. They had some sort of serpent-god in Carthage, and they still make hilts like this around Utica and Thapsus."

"Do you see them very often?"

"Just the occasional souvenir brought back by a soldier. There were a lot of them brought back after the war with Jugurtha, but that's getting on toward fifty years ago, so you don't see many of those left. There's no demand for them here, since better knives are made here in Italy, and in Gaul."

"I thank you. This may turn out to be very valuable information."

He preened. "Always ready to be of service to the Senate and People, sir. Sure I can't interest you in a fine parade
gladius
? One worked with jet and coral, perhaps?"

"Thank you, but my arms have a few campaigns left in them."

"Well, sir, keep me in mind should you need any. And I hope you catch the murderer. Is it about that
eques
I heard about this morning?"

"Yes. A banker named Oppius."

He looked puzzled. "I thought it was a building contractor named Calenus."

I thanked him again and hurried away. All government offices were closed on a market day and free men did not have to work, but slave work went on as always. I decided that the quickest way to locate a contractor was through the great brick manufactory owned by the Afer family. It was located near the river, not a long walk from the
forum boarium
.

I felt the heat from the huge kilns while I was still a hundred paces away from the brickyards. A slave took me to an overseer who sat behind a table in an open shed, writing on wax tablets. He stood when I came in and identified myself. "How many I help you, sir?"

"Do you have dealings with a contractor named Calenus?"

"Certainly, sir. He is involved with a number of large public projects. We supply all his bricks within the urban area."

"I must locate his house. Can you tell me where it is?"

"I will lend you one of our messengers to guide you there, sir. Hector!" he bellowed.

"That would be most helpful," I assured him. The heroically named slave appeared, a boy of about twelve.

"Hector, guide this gentleman to the home of Sextus Calenus, and then come back without delay."

I followed the boy, who was obviously delighted to be away from the brickyards, if only for a short time. "It's simple to find Calenus's house, master," he assured me. "You start by the Ostian gate and head up the alley just off the fountain with the statue of Neptune. You follow that alley to the shrine of Mercury and then you go up the steps between the fuller's and the tavern with the picture of Hercules painted on the front. At the top of the steps, you go left along the little courtyard and you pass three doors and then go up some more stairs to where there's a mill turned by a blind donkey. Calenus's house is right next to the mill."

"Why don't you just guide me?" I said. Unlike the new, provincial cities we had built, Rome was an un-planned sprawl where it was difficult to find any given house without a guide. Once in a while, some reform-minded Senator would propose instituting a system for naming or numbering the streets, but Romans are far too conservative for anything so sensible. If you wanted someone to come to your house, you sent a slave to fetch him. If you could not afford a slave, it was unlikely that anyone would want to visit you anyway.

The house of Calenus was crowded when I got there. I gave the boy a copper as and he ran off happily, doubtless planning where he was going to spend it. I doubted that the overseer at the brickyard would see him anytime soon. I pushed through a crowd of household slaves until I found a group surrounding a body laid out in the atrium. The
designator
was there with his assistants, standing well back, by the walls of the room. They would prepare the body for burial when the initial viewing of the body was over. I saw that they had already dressed him in a new toga. He was a balding man of about fifty years and his face had been artfully set with an expression of serenity.

A group of young men--sons, I guessed--stood comforting a sobbing, middle-aged woman. Other women and slaves wept loudly and bitterly, but with none of the verve the professional mourners would show at the funeral. Among those who had come to view the body were several men in senatorial tunics. I looked for a familiar face and found one: a friend of my father's named Quintus Crispus. I caught his eye and he came to join me.

"Isn't this terrible, Decius?" he said. "Who would want to murder a man like Sextus Calenus? He hadn't an enemy in the world, that I ever heard of."