The Roman Conspiracy Page 3
“My name is Aulus Lucinus Spurinna. I have come to visit my friend, Marcus Tullius Cicero. Is this his house?”
The two ax-men looked at me with amazement. Eventually one of them laughed and said, “Deliveries go round the back.”
I stood my ground, pausing long enough to restore my dignity. “Do they?” I asked. “But visitors like myself enter by the front door?”
“Look, my lad, you don’t understand. This is the Consul’s house.”
“Which Consul?” I asked. “Because if this is the house of Antonius, the other Consul of this year, I’ve lost my way. I am looking for the house of Marcus Tullius, who is the Consul and my Protector. My name is Aulus Lucinus, from Etruria.”
They paused, clearly trying to decide if I was crazy or very important – or both. At last one of them reached out and hammered on the door. A steward’s head appeared at once and, showing similar amazement, he asked me to come inside.
It seemed very dark in the house after the strong outdoor sun, and my eyes adjusted slowly. I was standing in a large entrance hall, twice as large as ours at home, with pictures in the modern style across the walls, busts in their niches, and very high ceilings propped on double rows of pillars. It was pleasantly cool, and quite silent. A wide fishpond lay in the open sun beyond the hall, with deeper shade behind it.
I made my bow to the house shrine and turned to the steward. I repeated my name boldly, but he was not so easily impressed as the guards. In fact, with some skepticism, he began to ask me my business. “It is far past morning, far past. Why weren’t you here this morning?” he asked. I had to repeat myself, which was irritating, and I may have announced 7 have just ridden in from Etruria a bit more loudly than I meant to, and we might have raised our voices – he with righteous indignation – but our exchange was cut short by the sound of women’s laughter and the approach of footsteps from the shadows behind the fishpond.
I looked up and saw a girl stepping briskly towards us. She was about my height and seemed about the same age, with raven-dark hair, large eyes, and a small mouth. She was wearing a light blue dress, with a veil now spread across her shoulders and down her arms. I had a feeling I was about to be thrown out.
“Now then, master steward, what is this? Shouldn’t you save your strength for the party?” she called in a clear voice. As she reached him I heard her mutter, “How often do you have to hear, steward, that this is a. political building?” But then she turned to me and inclined her head.
“Welcome, sir. I gather you know you are at Cicero’s house? I am his daughter, called Tullia.” And then, with the faintest eagerness: “Did I hear that correctly? You have just come to us from Etruria?”
I said yes, that I urgently needed her father’s advice, that we had terrible troubles, that we had unfortunately been delayed …
“I am sorry you have troubles,” she said sympathetically, “but you would not have seen him this morning anyway. He has been at Praeneste these last few days. He will be back tonight. Tomorrow is his speech to the Senate. I would love to learn more about your situation. We are very keen to have news from your region, but I’m terribly busy with this organizing. Perhaps you can come to the party tonight? It starts in …” she glanced at the sun “… by Hercules, in just four hours! Will you stay ’til then? I am not much company.”
“That would be wonderful!” I said. “I don’t mind waiting.”
“Let me get you something to read. Do you want someone to read to you, or will you read yourself?”
“I can manage, I think.”
“Just like me,” Tullia said, smiling. “Let me show you the library.”
“Library?”
“Yes, here it is.” She led me up some steps. “Do you like it? It’s my favorite room.”
I followed her in and caught my breath. A large room, absolutely stuffed with scrolls! There must have been a thousand, each neatly labeled in its slot, many glinting with gold knobs. I was speechless: I had never seen more than fifty in one place.
“They say it’s the largest Rome has ever known,” she said with soîne satisfaction. “My father has been collecting for years. Any preferences? Latin or Greek? Or Etruscan?” she asked mischievously, referring to our old language. I settled for a biography of an old Roman hero.
“Politics! That’s the style. I like you already,” Tullia said, and stepped out.
Homer’s Secret
he scroll kept me busy for about an hour, but by the time the hero of the tale was receiving the warm thanks of the Senate and the Roman People, I was having trouble paying attention. Not that it was hard to read: it was written in a clean, patient hand, with wide margins on smooth papyrus; but I was so full of excitement and nervous energy that I soon found myself lying on the couch with the bookroll in my hand, looking at the inlaid ceiling.
Anything, good or bad, seemed possible. I pictured Cicero greeting me with joy and promising immediate assistance. Or laughing at how young I was, how unworthy of help. Or blandly refusing to get involved. Or somehow noticing I was a boy who never learned his Greek grammar very well in school. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew the steward was at the door, hoping I was well, and adding that it was the ninth hour since dawn and my presence was cordially requested at the dinner party.
“The party, of course,” I said, standing up and rearranging my toga.
He led me back downstairs, but not to the hall this time. The guests were gathering in the private garden at the back. It was a shady, spacious spot, with a wide, round pool in which gleaming red and green fish darted to and fro. There was a heavy scent of thyme, and soft music was just audible in the background of many conversations. There must have been fifty people there, young and old. The women’s gowns were of every possible color, while on many of the men’s white togas there blazed the single purple stripe of a Senator. And to think I had been so proud of my simple toga of manhood!
Tullia saw me standing on the edge of the crowd and called out. She was sitting on one of the marble benches with two of her friends, and I hurried over, trying not to step on any Senators’ togas.
“Spurinna!” she said. “Here you are at last. I must choose you a less interesting tale to read next time. I have just been describing your encounter with the steward in the hall. May I introduce you? Here is Marrucinus, and this is my best friend, Fulvia.”
I bowed to them both, embarrassed that my encounter with the steward should be my introduction, but Marrucinus smiled sympathetically and Fulvia just raised her eyebrows at me and said, “So the steward strikes again.” Not to be outdone, Marrucinus coughed and tried to put it into verse:
“Hell’s guardian dog will never have looked drearier
Than when he finds your steward’s his superior!”
We laughed, except for Fulvia who was instantly ready to follow up with her own couplet, but Tullia cut her off.
“No more verse, Fulvia, or we’ll never get to … Wait a second! Marrucinus, were you just comparing my house to hell? By implication?”
Fortunately for Marrucinus, just then the music stopped and the note of a horn announced dinner. Our group dissolved, for Fulvia was seated at a different table from ours, it seemed, and for a moment I was terrified that Tullia wouldn’t be at mine – there were five tables. But a slave took my elbow and showed me to my place at a small table in the far corner of the large and (to my eyes) luxurious dining hall. Tullia lay down at the same one, just to my left.
There were only two guests to a side, which gave us six places – the side facing the center of the room was left open for the waiters bringing food. I spread my napkin in front of me on the couch and washed my fingers when the waiter brought the bowl. I was glad to see the first course arriving. It was spiced egg yolks. I had six; I was famished.
Once I’d satisfied my first hunger, I looked up to see who else was there. On my right was a pretty girl who introduced herself as the daughter of So-and-So the Judge; to my left, in order, were Tulli
a, Marrucinus, Marrucinus’ wife (they were newly married, both being sixteen), and then a handsome but somewhat stupid-looking young man who was already talking about hunting wild pigs, his favorite sport.
I stayed quiet at first, after being introduced. I found I didn’t know some of their expressions: I learned that I would have to say “Marky” when I meant the Roman Market; that Rome was never “Rome,” it was just “the city;” and that even when addressing people I knew well I should use their last name. I wasn’t “Aulus” any more, for instance, but “Spurinna.”
Before long I found the courage to join in, deploying these expressions straight away and as often as possible. The wine was going round again, with a respectable amount of water mixed in. I nearly found myself drawn into an account of the last pig hunt I had been on – “got the beast myself with a throw of the javelin, right between the tusks.” I was boring the Judge’s daughter into a mild trance. And I was losing Tullia’s attention, so I steered the conversation her way.
“You have to get up into the hills to find the big pigs,” I said. “And that’s a problem these days, at least in Etruria. Terrible trouble we’ve been having in our region.”
Tullia’s eyes swung round at the mention of Etruria. “I’m glad you brought that up,” she said. “I have been dying to ask what is going on there. It could be important, you know. My father never forgets that Rome is more than just the city.”
“Well, it’s the threat to our tenants that brought me here,” I said, and I told her the story of the feud between our farmers and the old soldiers, and of my uncle’s murder. “It wouldn’t be such a threat, I think, if they didn’t have the leader they have. He’s an old sergeant named Manlius. He stirs them up, always talking about redrawing the land.”
“Manlius?” Tullia exclaimed. “Manlius, you said? He’s the leader? You’ve had news of him?”
“News?” I replied. “Well, just six days ago he was shouting at me with his face as close to mine as yours is right now.” I gave a quick account of our exchange, when Manlius had made his threats to take over the valley and enslave us. When I finished, Tullia paused and drew in her breath before replying.
“That was very dangerous, Spurinna. You don’t know how dangerous. You say the old soldiers with him were armed? By Hercules!” At last she smiled. “Well, that’s the old Roman courage of the countryside, the quality they’re always praising in speeches. I didn’t know it really existed.”
“That’s nothing,” I said. “What you’ll never believe is what my slave pointed out to me as we were traveling.” I told her about the fortress-like army camp that Homer had spotted on the road, large enough for many, many more men than Manlius had with him at our house. She wasn’t surprised at all, however, and didn’t answer my questions about it. Soon she got up from her couch.
“Would you mind rising before the third course comes? It’s peacock, but I would like to introduce you to my father.”
She led me over to the host’s table, and I had my first look at Cicero. He was a very ordinary looking man, with a round head and graying hair. He was in quiet conversation with a grave, ancient gentleman who wore robes of purple and gold – signs that in some remote period he had celebrated a Triumph over Rome’s enemies. The others at the table gave the impression of austere self-control, though you could tell they were trying to overhear the Consul’s words.
Tullia waited for her father to finish speaking, and then whispered something. He sat up, found me, and his eyes were immediately alert.
“Lucinus Spurinna. Of course, of course. I was grieved when your father died. And now your uncle has also departed? I am sorry to hear it. No, no letters from him, I would remember.” His face clouded. But he came straight to the point. “My daughter tells me you have seen Manlius’ camp, spoken with him, and come to us with word of his activities,” he said. As I would later discover, Cicero tended to speak in units of three.
I bowed deeply. I confirmed my story, and answered his direct questions about the state of affairs in our valley and the feeling in Etruria. “We may know little of city politics, sir, but we know we are against Manlius, and we know we side with our Protector.”
He smiled slightly at that. “And I with you, my young friend. But I must be frank. The Republic is in no mild danger, no insignificant peril, no trivial jeopardy. It is not Manlius who will lead Manlius’ army. But I can say no more tonight. And if you would like to know more about politics in the city after all, come tomorrow to hear my speech to the Senate. Of course you can’t come in, but my voice” – he betrayed a hint of self-satisfaction – “will be audible through the windows. Tullia will be glad to take you, I have no doubt.”
I bowed deeply again. He thanked me for the information, and turned back to his guests.
I looked around for Tullia to lead me back to our table. To my surprise, she had edged over to speak with the strangest person at her father’s table – a tall man of great bulk, not a Roman. He had a beard, a huge one that reached down to his waist, and red hair, and he was dressed very strangely. His toga (if that was the right word) was of a colorful pattern, and he wore a heavy silver star on his shoulder. Strangest of all, an elaborate tattoo of a stag decorated his cheek, in blue. There was no doubt about it, the man was a Celtic priest, a Druid, from the north of Italy. I had only heard of them, but they were said to be fantastic sorcerers. He spoke in a quiet sing-song, with a musical accent. He was friendly with Tullia, but when she turned back to me I noticed he was glancing nervously at Cicero. He seemed wary of the Consul.
“Who was that?” I asked Tullia.
“One of the ambassadors. Oh, I forgot. You don’t know the news. Actually their story is much like yours, though on a larger scale,” she smiled.
Back at our table, I asked her what her father had meant about the Republic being in no mild danger.
“Have you heard the name of Catiline?” she asked.
“Yes, there was a young man I met on the road who mentioned him. He’s your father’s enemy?”
“I suppose so,” she answered. “He’s the man behind Manlius, if that’s enemy enough for you. He’s had problems politically, and they might become everyone’s problems soon. He makes speeches about canceling all debt, and some people love him for that. But it’s really because he’s deeply in debt himself. And he wants power. He wants it more than anything.”
“Is he here?” I asked.
“Here, in this house? Of course not. But he’s still in Rome. Half the people in this room are talking about him as we speak.”
“But we’re not?”
“I shouldn’t say more than I’ve said, for now. My father thinks I get too interested. ‘There rule, from palace cares remote and free,’ as the poet puts it.”
“You sound just like my slave!” I laughed. But I added hastily, “I mean, my uncle’s secretary, a Greek, named Homer. He’s always quoting …”
“Homer?” she asked.
“No, the other poet, what’s his name? Hesiod.”
“You named your Greek slave ‘Homer’ when he likes Hesiod?”
“We didn’t give him his name,” I answered. “He comes from Athens where he worked in the philosophical university. He says he regrets that his old master there loved practical jokes.”
At that moment, just as the final fruit was coming to our table, the steward appeared at Tullia’s elbow and said that there was a strange Greek at the front who was asking for Lucinus Spurinna and behaving inexplicably.
“That’s him!” I cried. “That must be Homer.”
“I want to meet this literary slave of yours,” Tullia said. “Let’s find him.”
We found Homer squatting on a large, tubular bag of sackcloth in the front hallway, with one of the ax-bearing guards standing over him. I embraced him and presented him to Tullia.
“It is a great honor” Homer said to her, bowing as far as he could but not rising from his seat on the bag.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Come out of the hall, then,” said Tullia, “and we’ll hear it.”
She led us off to a pantry near the kitchen, between the main hall and the dining room. Homer insisted on dragging his prize along himself – though it seemed very heavy – and planted himself right back on the bag when we had found a spot away from the guests. Not a quiet one, however. Waiters were bustling through continuously. Tullia and I each found a barrel to sit on. Homer looked exhausted. “It’s from dragging this thing up the hill, sir, but it’s nothing really.”
“This man would like a cup of wine,” said Tullia to a passing waiter.
“Thank you, madam. Yes, it’s quite good,” said Homer, when he took a sip. “Well, sir, madam,” he began, “here it is.”
He had spotted Volturcius in the square, abandoned me (that was not how he put it), and shadowed the man as far as his sedan-chair, which was waiting in an alley at the foot of the hill. “In an alley, sir, which you’ll agree was itself rather suspicious.” He had had a hard time keeping up with the sedan-chair bearers, what with the heat of the day, but they had not paid him the slightest attention.
“Not that we took the main streets, sir. It was all narrow lanes and so forth. And they led me straight to his house, though I had no idea where in the city we were ’til I found my way back.”
At Volturcius’ house, the sedan-chair had stopped, and Volturcius got out; but Homer was amazed to see a second man get out after him. “It was none other than Pantolemos, sir! Pantolemos, a man I knew from Athens! A philosopher, that is. They both went inside Volturcius’ house. I found out at the sausage-seller’s next door that they often went in together. But I couldn’t very well knock on the door, so I waited in the shade across the street. Volturcius stayed inside, but the first person to come out – this was just after noon, sir – was old Pantolemos. He went down the back alley. Not much of a philosopher, of course. No doubt he was hired as a sort of house philosopher here, thirsting after riches like all those Epicureans.”