The Catiline Conspiracy (17 page)

The
flamen
, his attendants and the vestals left the dais and mounted the
Rostra
. A space was made for the
flamen
at the front of the platform. He stepped into the space and beside him stood the master of the herald's guild. The master herald, in his long, white robe and bearing his wand of office, stood ready to repeat the
flamen's
words so that all could hear. This master had earned his position by possessing the loudest voice ever heard in Rome.

The
Flamen Martialis
spoke the ritual formula and the herald repeated it: "MARS IS HAPPY!"

With that, we stormed the altar. Clodius got there first and snatched at the head, but I caught him in the back with my shoulder and he lunged across the altar and only got an armful of wheat cakes. Shoving his flailing legs aside, I wrapped my arms around the noble head and lifted it from the altar. Whirling, I made a dash in the direction of the Subura. Two men jumped in front of me but I swung the head to right and left, knocking them aside. I ran through the breach I had made. Now a dozen Suburans fought their way in front of me and struggled to clear my way to our home territory.

The Forum was in an uproar. The press was so great that only those closest to me could see where I was, but people on rooftops and balconies and monuments pointed me out for the benefit of those who thirsted for my blood.

We got across the pavement and into a street leading toward the Subura, but gained no security thereby. The Via Sacrans were on the rooftops and they began to shower us with roof tiles. One struck me on top of the head, almost knocking me to my knees. White light flashed in my eyes and I almost dropped the head. My newly lacerated scalp began to bleed profusely, soaking the scarf bound around my brow and running into my eyes. My defenders snatched up boards and tore loose shutters to use as shields from the ex tempore missiles.

I saw one tile make it through the rude shields and drop the bearded Thorius to the pavement. So Catilina's men were at my side, as promised. I wondered where Titus Milo might be. It was his men I wanted with me should things get rough.

As we passed an intersection of two
itenera
, a mob of Via Sacrans bulled into us and my bodyguard dissolved into a score of individual fights. Arms grabbed me from behind and then Clodius was in front of me, trying to wrestle the head from my grasp. His grip was uncertain, because by this time I was covered with oil, honey, blood, both my own and the horse's, along with other fluids, all of them discouraging to a firm grasp. Besides these, I was liberally dusted with crumbs and barley meal. I kicked out mightily, catching him in the testicles most satisfyingly. As he fell, I struck to the rear with an elbow, heard an explosion of breath, and the arms around me loosened. I broke free and dashed for an alley, kicking Clodius in the face as I passed, just for good measure.

A few steps down the alley I turned into another. This alley curved to the left, then turned into a flight of stairs leading up to a shrine of Quirinus. I had lost pursuit, but likewise I had lost my protection. In fact, I was lost generally and I stopped to get my bearings. There was a small fountain beside the shrine and I took the opportunity to wash some of the blood from my face. My whole body screamed with pain but I maintained a stoic silence. Any sound from me was sure to draw Clodius.

I knocked on the nearest door and, somewhat to my surprise, it opened. The man who gaped at me was a bearded foreigner in a long, striped robe. This was excellent luck. Any citizen would have been attending the festival.

"Excuse me," I said, "I am the
Quaestor
Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger. Could you direct me toward the Subura?"

He gathered his composure and bowed. "Certainly my lord. If you will just go back down those stairs and turn right--"

"I am afraid I cannot. There are men back there who might kill me, or at least take this." I held up the head, which now seemed to weigh twice as much as it had when I lifted it from the altar. "Is there an alternative route?"

He thought for a moment. "If you will come into my poor house, there is a back door that opens on a street leading in that direction." He bowed again and gestured for me to enter.

"I would hate to drip on your floor," I said.

"It is nothing. Please, my lord, come in." I could scarcely refuse such hospitality and entered. As I did, I saw an interior door close softly, a veiled woman disappearing behind it. The room was humble but not shabby, and was scrupulously clean.

"If my lord will come this way." The man led me into another room containing a desk and a cabinet of scrolls, and then into a kitchen.

"Where do you hail from?" I asked. He seemed vaguely eastern.

"Jerusalem." I knew little of the place except that Pompey had sacked it a couple of years previously. Gesturing for me to stand back, he opened the kitchen door and looked out into the street on the other side, turning his head to see both ways. Then he turned to me. "The street is deserted. If you go to the right, uphill, you should reach the Subura in a few minutes' walk."

"This has been most kind of you," I said, stepping out into the street. "If I can ever do you a favor, please feel free to call upon me."

"My lord is too generous," he said, bowing again.

"And your name?" I inquired.

"Amos, son of Eleazar, a humble accountant for the House of Simon, importers."

"Well, perhaps I'll be able to do you a good turn someday. I might be elected
Praetor Peregrinus
. If, that is, I can reach the Subura alive."

"I wish my lord the best of fortune," he said, bowing again and closing the door, a most polite and accommodating foreigner.

By now I had regained my breath and I set off up the street at a fast trot. My arms were aching from holding the horse's head, which must have weighed more than thirty pounds. I had my bearings now, and knew that if I could just avoid the
Via Sacra
mob for a few minutes longer, I would be safe in the Subura. In the distance, I could still hear the rampaging mobs in full uproar.

As I passed an intersecting street someone saw me and pointed. "There he is!" I began to sprint. A few paces behind me, my pursuers poured into the street, screaming, cursing me and shouting encouragements to one another. I caught a glitter from something metallic. I had thought myself near exhaustion, but this caused my heels to grow wings like the sandals of Mercury. These were Clodius's personal followers, and they had their daggers out.

The street abruptly narrowed and became a short flight of steps. I climbed them, my breath sounding like a blacksmith's bellows. At the top of the steps I turned right into an
itenera
that I knew led directly into the Square of Vulcan, which was firmly within the Subura.

Something hit my shoulder and I felt a burning pain and saw something glittering fly past me to clatter on the cobbles. One of my pursuers had thrown his knife and managed to cut my shoulder. I dared not look back. Then I saw men in front of me and was sure I was done for. I clutched the horse's head tightly to my chest, lowered my own head, and charged directly toward them. To my unutterable relief, they stood aside for me. They were Milo's men.

When I was past them, I paused to look back. There were only about ten of Milo's men, and they were armed only with staves and short clubs, but they were all burly ex-gladiators, unafraid of a little sharp steel. I was never so happy to see a pack of thugs in my life. The sound of skulls cracking beneath the hardwood clubs was as the poetry of Homer to my ears. The street began to grow littered with fallen men and dropped weapons.

I turned to trot toward the square when a scream from above made me pause and look up. Something large was descending upon me from an overhead balcony. I had a quick impression of a face that was a mask of blood, a mouth twisted into a grimace of fury and demented eyes. Even in flight, Clodius was unmistakable.

He landed on me like a stone from a catapult, driving me to the ground and forcing the breath from my lungs. Clodius grabbed the horse's head and twisted it from my arms, standing and raising it aloft, screaming a victory cry like some Homeric hero who has slain an enemy and stripped him of his armor.

If Clodius had run then, he might have gotten away with it, but the fool had to pause and kick me for a while. The first few got through my dazed defense, but then he spun to run away and I lurched forward from my kneeling position and tried to tackle him. I did not manage to get both knees but my arms wrapped around one leg. As he tugged and stumbled to get away, my slimy coating made me slide down his leg until I held only his ankle. My hands and arms were terribly weary and I knew I could not hang on much longer, for he was kicking back at me violently. My jaw muscles, however, were quite unfatigued. As he tried to kick back at my face, I sank my teeth into his heel, which was unprotected by his sandal. He screeched and tried to twist away, but I held on grimly. At last I was able to grip his other ankle and brought him down.

The instant he hit the cobbles, I scrambled atop him, pummeling away. He raised his hands to defend his patrician face and I got both arms around the horse's head and stood, wrenching it away from him. He tried to get to his feet, but I raised the head and brought it down sharply on his skull, twice. Clodius collapsed into an inert heap. This time, I did not pause to kick him as I leapt over him. Look what that had done for Clodius.

I was running like a man made of half-melted wax when I reached the Square of Vulcan. Somebody saw me and raised the cry. Soon I was surrounded by my neighbors, enduring slaps on my back as we walked to the Guildsmen's Hall, the building where the neighborhood guilds held their meetings and banquets. There, the still-beautiful head was washed in a trough and was fastened to a spike atop the pediment over the portico of the hall. The Subura had regained its luck and the rejoicing was deafening. At least, that was what I was told later. I passed out during the head washing.

I awoke looking up at a grave, bearded old gentlemen who leaned on a staff. The staff was wound with a serpent and the old man was about twenty feet tall and made of marble. I was in the Temple of Aesculapius, on the island in the Tiber. Now a much smaller man appeared above me, one whose face I knew.

"Asklepiodes!" I said, or rather croaked. "I thought you were in Capua."

"There will be no more games for a few months, so my services were not much in demand. I took leave to come here and work in the temple. You are not badly hurt, and I took advantage of your unconscious state to do most of the necessary stitching. Your face escaped damage, but your scalp was not so lucky. You will not appear comely to gods regarding you from above for some time to come. The shoulder wound was nasty, but the stitches took care of that. The whip injury is just the sort of thing that most slaves have to put up with, and they seldom complain. Can you sit?"

With a little help from one of his Egyptian slaves, I was able to sit on my pallet. A wave of dizziness washed over me, but it was quickly gone. There were many pallets in the temple, but few patients. The beds would fill in the evening, when the ill and injured would come to the temple to sleep, in hopes that the god would send them a dream to aid in their cure.

I found that I was naked, but I had been washed well by the slaves. Except for numerous unsightly bruises, I looked as if I had just returned from the baths. "I would appreciate the loan of something to wear home."

"Certainly." He checked the bandaging of my scalp and made sure that all was to his satisfaction. His slaves were the most artistic bandagers who ever dressed my wounds. "You have not consulted me on a murder in a long time," the physician chided.

"It is not for lack of homicides," I assured him. "It's just that the latest string of killings have been damnably crude and unimaginative, with no subtlety about them." I found myself relating to him the story of the murders since I had encountered the body of Oppius.

Asklepiodes was a very eccentric physician, who actually did his own cutting and stitching. As physician to the gladiators of the Statilian and other schools, he had acquired a knowledge of every sort of weapon-inflicted wound, and I had consulted him on murders before. He could glance at a wound and say what sort of weapon had made it, whether a blade's edge had been straight or curved, whether the killer was right- or left-handed, whether he was taller or shorter than the victim, whether the victim had been standing, sitting or lying down when he received his deathblow. Asklepiodes had developed this sophistry into a sort of sub-branch of medical philosophy that had no name. He was named for the Greek god of medicine, Asklepios, which is how the Greeks name Aesculapius. Greeks can never pronounce anything correctly.

"The art of murder in Rome seems to have reached a new low of amateurism," Asklepiodes commented.

"Cheer up," I said. "Somebody may die interestingly yet. If so, I shall not hesitate to call upon you."

A slave brought a tunic that was almost my size and I drew it over my head, wincing at the stiffness of all my movements. I tried out all my limbs and they all seemed to work. The pain was so diffuse that I seemed to hurt everywhere equally.

"What time of day is it?" I asked. It seemed like several days since I had mounted the October Horse.

"About midafternoon," Asklepiodes said.

"Good. I have a dinner engagement and I need to get home to change clothes."

"In your condition," the physician said, "I should devote the evening to repose."

"A matter of duty," I said. "It is connected with the murders. At least, so runs my theory. There is also a lady of high birth and great beauty involved." I have found that one can discuss these things with a physician.

"After a day of such exertion your mind is still fixed not only upon duty and danger, but upon love. This is truly heroic, my friend! Incredibly foolish, of course, but much to be admired."