The Roman Conspiracy Page 8

  “And speaking of genuine,” Tullia said, “we just have time to decide what we should wear.”

  “We?”

  “You and I, Aulus. We’re going to be the magician’s assistants, his slaves, at Volturcius’ house. The whole idea is to allow you to read that letter, remember?” She gave Homer an affectionate hug. “Surely you don’t think a magician this splendid would perform all by himself?”

  Trickery and Treason

  s Tullía, Homer, and I were carried in Fulvia’s sedan-chair to the house of Volturcius, I was filled with anxiety. We looked a strange crew by now: Homer in his get-up, and Tullía and I both wearing ribboned shirts and copious amounts of make-up. I had never seen her happier than when she applied the paint to my eyelids. But in the end we did look exotic, so I suppose it was worth it.

  If anything, Homer was more nervous than I was. He spent the whole ride running over some “magical” phrases he had once heard, and trying to get his astrological signs straight. “The Scales, yes,” he muttered, “and then the Scorpion. Also the Goat – or is it the Deer? Sir, Til never remember this nonsense!”

  “Don’t fret,” Tullia soothed him. “You’ll do fine, Homer. Just be careful that you don’t call Aulus ‘Sir,’ alright? And don’t call me ‘Madam.’ And you, Aulus, if you have to speak to him, he’s ‘Master’ or ‘My Lord.’ But neither you nor I should speak at all if we can help it.”

  “I won’t say anything,” I assured her, “especially if it means calling my own slave ‘My Lord.’”

  Soon – far too soon – we reached Volturcius’ front door in Sicklemaker Street. The bearers set the sedan-chair down, and we got out to find two torches blazing by the silent iron doors. There were no guards to be seen. The sedan-chair left us.

  As Homer’s “assistant,” I knocked boldly three times, and immediately the door swung open. In the light of the torches, little could be seen inside.

  “Greetings, most venerable Narmer,” for that was the name Fulvia’s friend had chosen for her imaginary magician when she had arranged the invitation. “I am pleased that you have come,” the quiet rasping voice continued. “You are welcome, in the name of all the gods.”

  It was Volturcius. He seemed to be alone. Homer stepped gravely forward, and we followed him.

  The hall was rather cleaner, tidier, and more richly decorated than I had expected, for I had seen only the messy study and the dismal kitchen corridor before. Glints of gold gleamed from the paintings, which depicted obscure Eastern myths. Incense floated in the air. And in the middle of the hall I at last laid eyes on my uncle’s killer.

  He was a thin man, older than Homer had described him. One felt that he was naturally shy; but there was an eagerness to his bows and the swing of his arm as he greeted Homer – “the friend of the planets,” he called him. And behind that eagerness I sensed a hidden cruelty, a secret pleasure in the frailty of human life. Remembering our purpose there, I suppressed an urge to kick him.

  As Volturcius led us toward the dining hall, we passed the ball court on our left – from the other side. It was dark and smelled dusty. Perhaps no one had played there since the conspirators’ secret meeting. Indeed, the house seemed empty as Tullía and I marching meekly behind Homer’s trailing robes.

  The absence of slaves was peculiar in a rich house, the more so since I knew Volturcius owned many of them. But far more startling was the presence of Volturcius’ one guest that evening. We found him lying on a couch beside the dinner table, humming gently, and helping himself to grapes. With an icy chill of terror, I recognized the red hair and beard, the colorfully patterned toga, and the blue tattoo that was sketched on his cheek. It was the Druid I had seen at Cicero’s table, whose singsong accent I had heard among Catiline’s most trusted associates, the man who had promised them ‘ten thousand warriors’ that night.

  Volturcius introduced him as a Celtic ambassador from the north of Italy – quite correct, as far as it went. Homer reclined on the couch facing him, Volturcius between them, and Tullia and I took our places cross-legged on the floor between Homer’s couch and the table. It felt awkward down there, where the slaves were supposed to sit. I could hardly believe I was Homer’s ‘slave’ that evening. Also, I was worried. I hung my head as low as I dared, for surely the Druid would recognize us, make-up or no make-up. Hadn’t he chatted with Tullía before? I could feel his gaze on me – a penetrating gaze, far more intelligent than Volturcius’. Moreover, the man was a sorcerer, and surely he would notice Homer’s total incompetence at magic.

  Dinner was served, carried in by a single waiter. Oysters to start with, in the Thracian style, and then roast rabbit with a heavy fish sauce, and then grilled turbot. Volturcius ate greedily, stuffing the oysters one by one into his mouth and wiping the sauce on his napkin. The Druid also liked to eat. But Homer refused everything, though he did pass food down to us where we sat on the floor. That night his “slaves” dined rather well; the truth is, he hated oysters.

  “Forgive, most honored lord, my refusal of this feast,” he said to Volturcius. “But it is quite impossible. The action of the stomach, you see, has a bad effect upon the magic powers. Indeed,” he continued, “I may tell you that I have not touched food, nor tasted so much as water, for seven full days. For I value the truth, honored lord, and I prize the truth that we shall determine here tonight.”

  Of course, Homer had been drinking Cicero’s best wine for seven full days, but Volturcius didn’t know that, and he was exceedingly impressed. Clearly he could not imagine a human being rejecting fine food, and he seemed to think it was a sign of Homer’s special understanding with the gods. I began to wonder if Homer might actually pull this off.

  When dessert came, Homer kept bluffing. “The honeyed pears are delicious, I have no doubt,” he said. “But, lord, the planets are aligning as we speak, and I am a busy man, sir, a very busy man. There is a great demand for my wisdom in the city. Julius Caesar himself has been known to seek my wisdom.”

  “Venerable Narmer, I have heard of your powers, your wonders,” said Volturcius. “I am told that you know all the secret symbols of the East.”

  “Of the East, the South, the North, and also the West!” said Homer sternly. “And also somewhat of the South-East. For sixty years, my lord, I have delved into such matters. That is the secret of my remarkably youthful appearance,” he added. “But I have never found more divine knowledge than when I served with the Priests of Ra in Egypt. Except, of course, in the poems of Hesiod.”

  “Hesiod!” exclaimed Volturcius. “That old Greek poet? I always thought he was very boring.”

  “Hesiod, my lord, boring? Hesiod, boring!” Homer lifted both hands towards the ceiling. “By the seven waters of Tigris,” he exclaimed, “even I can only guess the depth of his divine insight. Though admittedly,” he added, “it is rare in this fallen age to meet anyone who can perceive it.”

  “It is fascinating, venerable Narmer. Fascinating. I would never have suspected! Yet perhaps we should, with your blessing, proceed with your séance?”

  “Yes, we must do so, immediately.”

  The waiter hastily cleared the table and withdrew. I peered at the Druid from my station, but he was merely staring curiously at the venerable Narmer. Certainly he did not know who I was, and he did not seem to notice Tullia. But I trembled to think of his professional opinion of a séance led by Homer.

  “First, Volturcius,” said my slave, “you must state the subject on which you wish to consult the spirit world.”

  “I … I will state it,” answered the murderer with some hesitation. “It concerns an enterprise, undertaken by myself and my friends. We have had some setbacks. The chief man in the enterprise has left, but we hope he will return soon, and then we will succeed. But he faces great challenges, and to assist him we hope certain other friends of ours” – he gave a nod to the Druid – “will come to our aid. And it falls to me to convince them to bring us that aid. I am going to ride, if the omens favor it, with
a message for them … a letter, for these new friends. A guarantee,” he ended.

  “Very well,” said Homer. “The subject has been stated.” He fished around in his robes for a pouch of leather, from which he produced the backgammon dice we had been using. He gave them a lucky squeeze. “Now, my lord, what do you wish to know?”

  “Whether our enterprise will succeed!” blurted out Volturcius. He was shaking with excitement. “And also, will the guarantee work? Will it convince our friends?”

  “Have you any astrological charts in the house?” asked Homer. “We must determine which of the gods we should consult.”

  Volturcius did indeed have charts, as I knew well. He sent the waiter up to his study, and the man returned with a sheaf of different charts under his arm, which he placed on the table in front of Homer’s couch.

  “Hmm, yes,” said Homer judiciously, looking through them. “Quite a variety, I see. Quite a mixed lot. Look, this one is most inaccurate, and this one is quite outdated.”

  “Outdated?”

  “Yes. I mean, not outdated, but innovative, far too innovative. What times we live in! But this one here will do well.” He chose a brightly colored chart. “My assistant will roll the dice. No, not the boy, the girl. An unlucky lad, when it comes to these dice,” he explained to Volturcius.

  Tullia took the dice and rolled them, with a graceful toss, over the chart.

  “Let me see, let me see,” Homer mused, peering down. “Yes, as I suspected, it is Saturn who will reveal your fate. Saturn, the Father of the King of the Gods, the ten times venerable Son of the Sky, the Overthrown and Overthrower, who:

  Worked never deed of violence, nor stole

  Whatever ’neath the Titans was her role?”

  Those lines at least I recognized. Homer often quoted them. I looked over at Tullia, who was frowning, but Volturcius was too entranced to notice that Hesiod had been dragged in again.

  “Yes, Saturn!” he exclaimed, repeating all of the titles Homer had provided, and even the quotation.

  “Now we must have the letter, the guarantee,” Homer declared with confidence. “My other assistant will read it aloud to the heavenly spirits.”

  There was a pause.

  “The letter?” asked Volturcius. “Must you touch it?” He looked over at the Druid, frowning. The Druid frowned back. “I have not even let my friend here touch it,” Volturcius explained. “You see, venerable Narmer, I have sworn it will not leave my grasp. I have sworn!” He produced it from the inside of his toga – a large, expensive papyrus sheet. But he could not bring himself to part with it just yet.

  “Ah, yes, you have sworn,” said Homer. “But have we not all sworn oaths, in the folly of youth? When I was young, Volturcius – but that was long ago – I worried about such things. Yes, indeed I did, for days on end. But do not forget that we must also obey the will of heaven! And if the gods will help you, they must know your aim. They must hear your letter!”

  Another pause followed. Volturcius was struggling with himself. At last, with great reluctance, his hand reached across the table and deposited the letter in my lap. I heard him mutter, “Overthrower and Overthrown” in despair.

  “Excellent, we are making progress,” said Homer, as much to me as to Volturcius. “Now read, slave.”

  I read out the letter in a clear voice. It ran as follows:

  “We, the undersigned, do hereby swear eternal and everlasting friendship with the Celtic tribe of the Allobroges.

  We do so with the understanding that they shall bring to our assistance, as loyal allies, ten thousand warriors of foot and eight hundred of horse soldiers, who will combine with the army of the Consul of Rome, Catiline, to overthrow the illegitimate and tyrannical power now in possession of the city; and the Celtic soldiers will take the field no later than the last day of November.

  For our part, we swear, by all the gods, and by Jupiter especially, king of the gods, the following:

  First, the Celtic soldiers shall have their own commanders.

  Second, any money or property taken from the city shall be divided fairly between Romans and Celts.

  Third, the lands inhabited by the Celtic tribe of the Allobroges shall be theirs, and theirs alone, for all the generations to come, and shall not be subject to Roman tax-gatherers, and they shall never have to worship any gods except their own.”

  The letter itself looked most impressive: it was no ordinary document. The sheet had been scraped with pumice stone, and the edges marked neatly with expensive purple dye: a letter not so much to be read as to be treasured. At the bottom were twenty signatures and personal seals in wax. My hand was shaking by the time I read out the last Senator’s name: I was holding in my hand the ultimate proof of Catiline’s conspiracy.

  Homer, however, had begun to sing softly as I read the document. Now his voice swelled to a chant; but he was chanting total gibberish. I don’t think he knew himself what language it was supposed to be. It was almost hypnotic. At last he gave three throaty cries and shouted, “If you disapprove of this venture, O Saturn, then show us a sign!”

  We all tensed; but absolutely nothing happened.

  “It is done!” Homer shouted again, with evident relief. “The mighty Saturn, Overthrower and Overthrown, approves of your plan entirely!”

  “He does?” cried Volturcius. “He likes the plan? But … but what of the timing? Does he approve the timing?”

  “What’s that?” asked Homer.

  “The timing, venerable Narmer. When should I go? I am supposed to leave with the Celts tomorrow evening!”

  Homer seemed at a loss, as though his bag of tricks were empty at last. But he recovered.

  “I am afraid the, ah, timing, as you put it, or any question of time, cannot be determined, not without consulting the liver of a black sheep. A black male sheep,” he threw in, for good measure.

  My heart sank.

  “I have just the thing on hand!” cried Volturcius. He called for the waiter. “Waiter, tell the guards to fetch the black ram from the stable. The healthy one,” he added in an undertone. “And don’t forget the sacrificial knife.”

  I glanced at Homer. He darted a look of utter hopelessness at me. But we had both heard the word guards and realized we were now committed to sacrificing a sheep.

  “Wonderful, wonderful,” Homer announced, when the poor beast was led in. It looked heavily drugged. “My assistant will slaughter it, and I will read the liver.” He gave me a sharp kick in the ribs with his foot.

  Now, I had seen ceremonies like this before, though I had never conducted a sacrifice. I felt sorry for the black sheep as the guards, wearing chain-mail shirts and carrying daggers, now shoved it toward me. Taking the sacrificial knife, I gave the beast a merciful blow on the head with the hilt, knocking it unconscious, and then I took its life.

  Blood poured everywhere, across the table, the cushions, and Homer’s couch. My ribboned shirt was stained bright red. I saw a cruel gleam in Volturcius eye: he seemed to be enjoying the procedure. The Druid was pale with anxiety. He snatched the precious letter from the table just in time, before the blood could reach it.

  Now an even uglier moment was coming, for Homer had to open the beast’s belly. More blood, unfortunately; and then, dipping his hand into the guts, he pulled out something.

  “Aha,” he said. “If I judge correctly – and I have never been wrong – tomorrow evening is perfect for you, my lord. The gods …”

  “But that is not the liver!” cried Volturcius. “You must know, Narmer, you are holding the pancreas.”

  “Hm, yes, I see you understood my joke,” laughed Homer. “The pancreas indeed. Your piety is to be commended. But here” – and he reached in again with a look of disgust – “here we have the correct token. And, let me see, no, it seems you must postpone, sir. You must postpone your journey …”

  Even I could tell he had not found the liver. He was holding a piece of intestine.

  “That is not the liver either!”
cried Volturcius, rising. “What on earth are you doing, venerable Narmer? Have you forgotten your skills?”

  “Do you presume to tell me my profession?” shouted Homer. His pent-up rage at my uncle’s murderer was suddenly surfacing. And it was, perhaps, his only choice under the circumstances. “Do you, a mere mortal, dare to argue with the venerable Narmer? Will you insult the celestial powers? By the five – no, the seven – waters of Tigris, Volturcius, you have behaved badly! Very badly!”

  But they were staring at him with disbelief. Tullia and I leapt instantly to our feet. For in his rage Homer’s floppy hat had fallen off, and his beard was attached to just one ear – it was dangling to the right, exposing his chin.

  Volturcius shot him a shocked, horrified look that turned immediately to overpowering fury.

  “Guards!” he called. “Guards, seize him! Seize him!”

  Everyone moved at once. Tullia jumped over the couch, grabbing Homer by the neck, and they raced for the front door with Volturcius at their heels. He was in a frightening rage, screaming for “the head of the imposter, the head of the defiler! Bring me his head, do you hear me?”

  I could not follow them: I slipped in the pool of blood. The sacrificial knife went flying. But the guards were only concerned with Homer, so I was able to pick myself up and scramble deeper into the house.

  I had not gone five paces, however, when I realized the Druid was behind me.

  “Stop, boy! Stop now!” came his singsong voice. The rest was in Celtic. I guessed they were powerful curses, invoked upon my head in the name of his foreign gods.

  I rounded a corner at top speed, but saw I was only heading to the garden. Wheeling back, I almost collided with the great bulk of the tall Druid, who was coming straight for me. His hand snatched at the neck of my shirt, but I dodged it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw he still had the document, the letter, in his hand, but I did not pause to try to snatch it from his mighty grip.

  The corridor was pitch black, but I ran on. Then there was cool air on my left: I could see a short flight of stairs. I was down them before the Druid reached the top. I took the stairs three at a time.