The Roman Conspiracy Page 6

  Then I sang out, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Laurentius.”

  I didn’t recognize the voice from Volturcius’ house. And the name ‘Laurentius’ was not in the notes I had scribbled in the study. But there had been many conspirators, and not all of them had spoken up.

  “The Senator? And what brings you here so early this morning?”

  A nervous laugh. “Senator? No, it’s me, the baker, Laurentius. It’s me, the baker.”

  The baker? The morning bread? He would get a shock if we opened the doors now: two guards ready to kill and one bedraggled young man. But could I trust his claim? Or would Catiline’s assassins be trying to pass for bakers?

  I stepped to the doors and peered out the observation hole. I could see, though not too well, but not be seen. In the street, to my surprise, stood a kindly looking, small, middle-aged man. He was holding a basket of pastries under his arm, and he was smiling uneasily, glancing from side to side. It was indeed a baker.

  Then a hairy hand reached around to clamp the little man’s mouth shut. Another hand, grasping a knife, thrust a blade deep into the baker’s throat. Blood poured down his shirt, splashing the pastries, and he fell, gurgling. Behind him I caught the golden glint of a gladiator’s polished helmet.

  Closer to the door, but out of my line of sight, someone coughed slightly and said, in a tired, almost languid tone, “Hello. Would you let us in? We have come to wish the Consul a good morning.”

  Siege and Speech

  ow, I am not trying to boast about what happened. I would be the first one to admit, if you asked me in private, that I didn’t do much that morning. But when I saw the baker’s body fall and I heard them saying “Hello” on the other side of that front door, the blood rushed up to my brain and it hit me: “Aulus, now you find out if you’re a Roman like your father. Are you going to faint, or are you going to stand there and keep on talking?”

  There were only the two guards with me. They had their axes, and also the heavy javelins that soldiers use. Of course, they didn’t know what had happened outside the door. I stepped back from the door to join them and whispered, “Get your weapons ready.” But I was indeed afraid. I had come to Rome hoping I might, after all, see gladiators in the Arena. I never dreamed I would be fighting them myself.

  Behind us in the house I could hear Tullia calling out to her men to watch the side door. She was stationing men at the back of the house. But where were the others she had promised – the reinforcements? How long could the wooden bolt hope to keep these Visitors’ out?

  It was up to me to speak. I spoke. “Let me wish you a good morning, gentlemen. May I ask who we have the pleasure of welcoming this morning?”

  Two men gave their names: a Senator and a Roman knight, the same ones who had volunteered at Volturcius’ house. There was a note of impatience in their voices.

  “And you’re here to speak with Marcus Tullius Cicero, I understand?” That was the best I could think of. Surely they would grasp that I was stalling?

  “That’s right, just like we said. Don’t be rude now. Let us in, and fetch your master.”

  “May I ask how many have come with you? We would like to offer you some small refreshment.” I was running out of ideas. It was the height of rudeness to keep a Senator waiting in the street.

  “Just ourselves and our secretaries, naturally. Political business. Now, when will you open this door, slave?”

  At that moment Tullia rushed up. She had four more guards with her. I drew my finger across my throat to show that I was speaking to the would-be murderers. But she was never one to back off.

  “This is Tullia, the Consul’s daughter,” she called out. “I am sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen. We are somewhat slow this morning. Surely you wouldn’t like to embarrass a young woman who is fixing her hair?”

  I grabbed a javelin from one of the guards. Our little farce could not last long.

  “We can wait inside, madam. It’s cold out here.”

  “I assure you,” she answered, “it is just as cold in here.”

  “Then we won’t wait at all!” the Roman knight shouted, losing his temper. He barked an order and straightaway the iron doors groaned as the weight of five gladiators slammed against them.

  “This is outrageous!” shouted Tullía. “This is the Consul’s house!” She was red with anger, her fists clenched. I pulled her back as the doors heaved again. The wooden bolt was about to give way. The guards growled and clenched their teeth, raising their axes. And then, with the third slam of the gladiators’ bodies against the hapless bolt, the wood split with a resounding crack and the doors flew open.

  Suddenly they were inside – seven of them – the two Visitors’ with daggers, and five fighting champions in ferocious-looking armor. One was flourishing a net and a three-pronged pike, just as he would in the Arena; two of them wielded huge, heavy maces and wore masks with slits for eyes. The others, in shining golden helmets and breastplates, just had swords. In a pool of blood behind them lay their first victim, the poor baker, Laurentius.

  There was no more talk, but the standoff lasted a little longer as both sides sized each other up, staring like statues. “Back, traitors!” I cried, flourishing my javelin. The six guards and I had formed a ring about the door, but we were spread thin.

  The net-man was the first to make a move. With a flick of the wrist he sent the heavy net flying, right in the face of the biggest guard. The man swung his ax to knock it aside, but too late: he was entangled, and the net-man’s pike flashed in, jabbing the guard’s shoulder. To his left our next guard swung his ax against the net-man, but the Arena-fighter parried the blow with the shaft of his pike, wrenching the second guard off balance. They tumbled together, struggling

  “Now get them!” cried the Senator – an older man, neatly dressed but unshaven, whose voice I recognized from Volturcius’ house – and the next gladiator, one with a golden helmet, sprang to the gap in the circle where the first guard had fallen. Slashing his sword, he rounded on the guard to his right and sliced the man’s arm. The guard’s ax clattered to the marble floor.

  I didn’t hesitate. With all my strength I sent my heavy javelin whistling through the air, right on target. The point found the gap between the golden helmet and the breastplate. The gladiator shrieked and collapsed as the javelin pierced his neck. I reached quickly for another weapon.

  But the charge had stopped dead. The others stared with shock at their fallen comrade. Just then the net-man freed himself from the guard he was wrestling and bolted for the door. His comrades stood stock still. The momentum was all ours.

  “Drive them back!” I shouted, and our three remaining guards raised their axes.

  It was all but over, however. Mute, their feet shuffling cautiously across the marble floor, the others backed out the door. I caught the look of venomous hatred on the Senator’s face, but then he too was gone. The mace-wielding gladiators had not even swung their hideous weapons.

  The iron doors clanged shut again as the guards threw themselves against them. The guard with the bleeding arm kicked at the fallen gladiator, but it was pointless – the man was dead.

  “Spurinna! Aulus!” cried Tullia, throwing her arms around my neck. “You did it! I can’t believe it! You did it!” There were tears in her eyes, perhaps of amazement, for like me she must have felt it was all over for us.

  “What’s this? Daughter, who is this young man?” called a sleepy voice. It was Cicero, coming down the stairs. He wore a chain-mail shirt. “What do I hear about …” he began, but stopped when he saw the dead assassin, still anonymous in his gleaming golden helmet.

  “Father, oh Father! You should have seen it! Spurinna, he stopped them, right here in our hall! It was Catiline, Father, Catiline’s men. They came to kill you.”

  “Spurinna, it’s you!” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you. What’s this Tullia says? A dead man in my hall?” His mouth was open. But he controlled himself quic
kly. “Well now, there is not much time before my speech. Come to breakfast. You must tell me what has happened, what has eventuated, indeed exactly what has come to pass.”

  It was a long story. I had not slept, and Tullia kept interrupting, either to clarify points of fact or to congratulate me again. But I protested that it was nothing: her father was my Protector, after all. Cicero was grateful for the business with the assassins, certainly, but he was mostly interested in the other things I’d heard at Volturcius’ house. Breakfast was not long enough, and in the end he asked me to accompany him to his speech in his sedan-chair – he had even had new clothes cut for me while we ate.

  “Well,” Cicero concluded, leaning on a cushion as we were carried along, “you’ve only been in the city since yesterday, and I dare say it’s been exciting for you. And profitable for me. It is agreeable to be your Protector, Spurinna. The information about these plans to burn the city – burn Rome! – is remarkable, exceptional, extraordinary. And to think this man is still taking part in the councils of the Republic!”

  “Catiline, sir?”

  “Yes, Catiline. Indeed, Catiline. He will be among the Senators today, if I guess correctly. But not for long.” He looked out the side of the sedan-chair as it passed into the crowd, his bodyguards clearing a way through the streets so that we went much more swiftly than I had thought possible. Every eye was bent on us, it seemed, and Cicero waved with dignity, like a good politician, and the people called his name with approval, or offered him their free advice. Some caught sight of the chain mail he was wearing, and then they cursed these times of death and danger.

  “Not for long,” Cicero repeated, fiddling with the scroll of his speech. Then, decisively, he put the scroll aside. “Not much use for this now, is there, daughter? Time for that old Roman virtue, spontaneous eloquence.” He smiled at me. “Catiline’s ears will truly burn today,” he said, chuckling.

  Part of me wanted to ask Cicero what good a speech could do when they had just tried to murder him, but Tullia caught my eye. She seemed to take a grim pleasure at her father’s plan. She also refused to let go of my wrist for the whole ride.

  We reached the spot where the Senate was to meet, the Temple of Jupiter the Savior, and climbed out. It was uphill for the last hundred paces, but Cicero wished to walk it. Once we had emerged, I saw why. Not only was the sun shining in a perfect autumn sky of deep blue, but a dense crowd of people formed a human alley to the Temple, an avenue of togas. When Cicero appeared they went wild, chanting his name. Tullia and I slipped to the side.

  “Let’s take advantage of this,” she whispered, grabbing my hand. She led me up the slope and over to the Temple of Minerva, where a side wall faced the larger Temple of Jupiter. We climbed onto the narrow top of the wall. “Here we are,” she said. “And there’s hardly anyone here! This is the best spot for listening. Isn’t it more quiet? But don’t fall off, Aulus.”

  We sat there with our feet dangling over the side, the crowd beneath us. There was more cheering now as another figure made his way up, striding briskly. He was about Cicero’s age, but balding, and he was very tall.

  “That’s Julius Caesar,” said Tullia. “Handsome, isn’t he? But not a friend of ours, for now. He’s a mystery. Very popular, though” she added grudgingly.

  Other Senators in purple-striped togas arrived, one after the other, meeting with various levels of approval from the crowd. Last of all, a lonely figure approached, and the cheers subsided completely, except from one section where some younger men were gathered. He paused at the front steps of the temple, turning to survey the city and the mass of citizens, and I noted the pride in the way he carried himself, and the abrupt swing of his head.

  “That’s him,” said Tullia, lowering her voice involuntarily. “The one who sent the men this morning.”

  Catiline.

  He took the steps two at a time and vanished into the sacred precinct.

  “Does he look like you thought he would?” she asked.

  “Yes, he does,” I nodded.

  I looked over to take in the view Catiline had just surveyed. A strange way to be seeing the city – from the heights – for the first time. How had I become mixed up in all this? I could see three of Rome’s seven hills from our perch, rising like waves in the ocean of brown buildings, with the Roman Market there between, far below, its cobblestones gleaming in the sun and its temples like children’s dollhouses for the gods. To the north the river turned back and forth, lazily rippling past the world of wood and marble. For all the Romans claimed the Tiber as their friend, I doubted if the river would make much of the crisis of our days. Had it not seen every kind of politics already? In the distance the sky met the green land in a remote haze of white, and I imagined the gods themselves watching, waiting, and wondering what Cicero would say in Jupiter’s own temple that day. They at least were willing to pay attention, by all accounts.

  “Do you like the view?” said Tullia. “I’ll show you the Market later.”

  “Let the Consul speak,” a mighty voice proclaimed from where the Senate sat, and straightaway the murmurs of the gathered people ceased, for they could hear every word.

  There was a pause.

  “How long now …” came Cicero’s voice, quite different from the voice of the Cicero in the sedan-chair. Now it was the voice of the Consul, stern and uncompromising. “How long will you test our patience, Catiline? How far will your uncontrollable rashness go? Does it mean nothing to you that guards roam the streets, that this Senate frowns as one man upon you, that the people flock to hear its verdict?”

  The crowd gave one great roar at this, and immediately grew quiet once again.

  “And yet, Catiline, you still live. You live, and every day brings greater proof of your treachery. Gentlemen of the Senate, I wish to be kind. I wish to be just. But at this moment I am willing, in front of everyone, to charge myself with laziness. After all, have we not had word that there are military camps – military camps! – in Etruria, built for an army that will march on Rome? Did I not predict in this Senate that Manlius would take up arms against us? Did I not state that you, Catiline, would seek to burn this eternal city to the ground? Yet though you may deserve death, Catiline, I will continue to be lazy, and you will continue to live, so long as there is a single man who dares to claim that you are innocent.”

  “Cicero, Cicero, Cicero!” chanted the crowd, and then returned to listening intently.

  “Come now, Catiline, and let us glance at your activities last night. Then you will see how much more vigilant I am for the safety of the Republic than you are for its destruction.”

  Tullia nudged me and whispered, “This is you coming up.”

  “I declare now, in this Senate, that you were in Sicklemaker Street last night, Catiline. To be precise, in the house of Volturcius, with a band of your fellow traitors. Do you dare to deny it? Then why are you silent? I will prove it, if you deny it! There and then you plotted the arrival of Manlius. There and then you chose the neighborhoods that you would burn. There and then you asked for volunteers to come pay me a visit with their swords this very morning. Yet I had word of this; we threw them back, we closed the door; your friends fled to find you.”

  “For shame, for shame!” chanted the crowd, shaking their fists. “Murderers, murderers of the Consul!”

  “Your plots are laid bare, Catiline,” the Consul continued. “Your hopes are empty. You have tried to ruin Rome. Now it is your reputation that lies in ruins. What do you have left? Shall I ask the Senate? No, for they are passing their verdict as we speak. Their silence is their verdict. Go forth freely, then, from the city you would like to burn. Manlius is waiting for you. Go forth, and liberate this city from the fear of you that is already burning it. Go forth and take your traitors, your accomplices, your conspirators with you. Make war upon your homeland from outside these sacred city walls, not inside them.”

  “No, no, don’t let him go! Take him now, destroy him!” shouted the crowd. />
  “Here is proof of my forbearance, Catiline. Here we are, the Consul asking the enemy of Rome simply – to go. For if I had you killed, Catiline, there would be some who would say that I was just removing you as a rival. But here is why you live. You will not confess among us here. But when you go to Manlius, and lead that traitorous army against the city we love – to burn, pillage, and ravage it – then we will have your confession. Go forth, Catiline, to your ruinous war. Take the field against us if you dare. Save this Republic, and destroy your fellow traitors.”

  “Send him out, show him the door!” came the calls from the crowd. “Exile, exile for Catiline!”

  “And you, Jupiter,” Cicero went on, turning (I imagined) to the mighty statue of the king of the gods inside the temple, “you whom we rightly call the savior of this city, you who specialize in murderers and slaughterers, it is you who will administer your justice to this man, to this Catiline, and punishment to his conspirators – both while they are still alive, and then for all eternity when they are dead.”

  It was a brilliant finish. The crowd went absolutely crazy. The tension had been building through the speech, and now they threw their purses in the air, chanting the Consul’s name, shouting for joy. People were joining hands, and some were dancing. The celebration grew and grew, the roar went on and on.

  Inside the temple there was applause and a more dignified cheer for Cicero. And then Catiline tried to speak – I could hear his voice, familiar from the night before, starting sentence after sentence in vain – but the Senate’s murmuring intensified, drowning him out. They were denouncing him, refusing to allow him to speak, urging him to leave the city, just as Cicero had said.

  At last Catiline appeared alone on the temple steps. The spectators fell silent, amazed at his boldness. But as he strode down the alley of the crowd, they began to growl, then to cry out, and before he reached his bodyguard they were cursing him with all their might, pelting him with eggs, and spitting on him. Yet they did not kill him, for they had heard Cicero’s decision. Catiline vanished into a sedan-chair and disappeared down into the streets, making for the city gates.