The Catiline Conspiracy

Chapter V

Over the next week, there were four more murders. All the victims were equites. Even for Rome, this was something unusual and the city was abuzz. One was bludgeoned, one had his throat cut, one was stabbed and the fourth was found floating in the Tiber, drowned. This last may have been accidental, but after five clear murders, nobody was ready to believe that.

The usual wild ideas made the rounds. Soothsayers offered murky revelations. But the city was not really alarmed. In fact, the general attitude was one of quiet satisfaction. The equites were not popular. They lacked the prestige of the nobiles and the senatorial class and they did not have the numbers of the commons. Too many people were in debt to them. They had wealth and comfort and thus were envied. There was still much hard feeling over the Praetor Otho's infamous action in reserving for the equites the fourteen rows of theater seats behind those traditionally reserved for the Senators and the Vestals. Overall, the general feeling in the city was that a few murders were just what that upstart class needed.

One of the murdered men, named Decimus Flavius, was a director of the Red faction in the circus. I decided to investigate him first, for no better reason than that the Caecilii were traditionally members of the Red faction, although the rest of the Metelli were Whites. Both of these factions were dwindling as the Blues and Greens came to dominate the races. The Greens had become the faction of the common man, while the Blues were the faction of the aristocratic optimates, their clients and supporters. Most of the equites were also Blues. These two factions would occupy facing sections of the circus and engage in great shouting matches before the races. Riots were still rare at that time, though.

The logical place to find out about Flavius was the Circus Maximus, and so on the morning after the murder was reported I made my way down from the Forum to the ancient Valley of Murcia between the Aventine and Palatine hills. Here was where Tarquin the Old had laid out Rome's racecourse when the city was still little more than a cluster of villages atop the seven hills. The place was so ancient that nobody could remember why its Temple of Consus was underground.

The Circus Maximus was the largest structure in Rome, a huge building complex housing everything necessary for getting four chariots, each with four horses and a charioteer, onto the sand in time for the race. This is not as simple as one might think. Horses were brought from as far away as Spain, Africa and Antioch. They were trained for a minimum of three years. The charioteers began their training in childhood and losses were high, so there had to be a steady supply of them. Chariots were made as light as possible to make them faster, so they had to be replaced constantly. Charioteers and horses needed a special diet. There were slaves to care for the chariots and harness, slaves to care for the charioteers, and immense numbers of slaves to care for the horses, cleaning out their stalls, seeing to their exercise, grooming them and doctoring them. There were even slaves who did nothing but talk to the horses to keep them contented and run alongside them on the way to the races, cheering them and raising their spirits.

Wherever Rome went, the circus went, and the factions maintained headquarters wherever there was a circus. It was not unusual for a single faction to maintain a stud of eight or ten thousand stallions to keep a single, small province supplied. In short, the circus was the largest institution in our empire. And the Circus Maximus was the largest such building in the world. Its lowest courses of seats were of stone, but the rest of the building was wooden. When filled to capacity with more than 200,000 spectators, the timber superstructure emitted the most alarming squeaks and groans, although it had never collapsed. There was always talk of building a permanent structure of stone, but no steps had been made in that direction. I think the populace just liked the rickety old place, even if it was the most significant fire hazard in the city. The arches beneath the stands constituted a minor forum, with shops and stalls selling everything from sausages to the services of inexpensive prostitutes. It was said in Rome that, should anything be stolen from you, all that you had to do was loiter around the Circus Maximus for a while and someone would offer to sell it to you. The citizenry had never conceived quite as much affection for the Circus Flaminius, which lay outside the old city walls. It was not as large and was only a little more than 150 years old.

When I arrived at the circus, it was bustling with activity. There would be races in just a few days, and those who were to participate in the preliminary procession were rehearsing. The slaves who bore the images of the gods practiced hoisting the platforms to their shoulders and marching in step to the music of horn, lyre and flute. Small, gilded chariots drawn by tiny ponies bore images such as thunderbolts, owls, peacocks and so forth, the attributes of the gods. These charming vehicles were driven by children who, for some reason, had to have both parents living. These white-robed little boys put their ponies through their paces with great seriousness. The musicians set up a great din and wild-haired women with tambourines danced like maenads in honor of Bacchus. A group of men in plumed helmets and scarlet tunics, bearing spear and shield, went through a slow, solemn war dance while behind them a pack of men dressed as satyrs, with goat tails attached to their rumps and huge, red phalluses to their loins, performed a bawdy parody of the same dance. All that was missing was the crowd in the stands.

On the sand, horses were being exercised, allowing them to grow accustomed to the racecourse and its immense environs. I walked along the whole length of the course, beside the spina, which had not yet acquired the crowd of statues that graces it now. At each end were the spikes tipped with seven gilded eggs marking each of the seven laps of a race, one egg being removed to mark each lap. This was before the water-spitting dolphins were added to aid the spectators in keeping track of how fast they were losing their money.

The sand, specially imported from Africa, was continually raked smooth after each batch of chariots rattled by. I was gladdened to see that the sand was its accustomed tan. When Caesar was aedile, he had spread green-tinted sand in the circuses, the color of his faction. He had achieved this remarkable effect by mixing pulverized copper ore with the sand. Past the spina, and careful not to be trampled by the practicing charioteers, I crossed the track and passed out through the open end of the great stadium where the starting gates stood open.

Beyond these gates was the stable area, almost as large as the circus itself. Since White and Red were the oldest factions, their stables and headquarters were nearest the circus. Red headquarters was a six-story building the size of a tenement built directly above their brick stables. The stables themselves were three-storied; two above ground and one below, connected by ramps broad enough for a pair of four-horse chariots to pass. The timber and plaster building above was painted, naturally enough, red. Outside were statues of famous horses from the stables, and the facade was decorated with plaques bearing the names of hundreds of others, listing the victories of each. The smell of horses was overwhelming, but it was more agreeable than many scents the city had to offer.

The office of the directors took up most of the second floor of the timber structure. It was spacious and rather luxuriously appointed, for a place of business. Entering this building was like stepping into another world. There were shrines to gods I had never seen before, and the walls bore enigmatic inscriptions and decorations, all having to do with the rites of the racing guild. Slave, freedmen and freemen, they all belonged to the guild and took part in its rituals. Within the guild, the various specialists had their own subguilds, shrines and even temples. That of the charioteers was especially fine and they got the most splendid, as well as the most frequent, funerals.

As I entered the office, slaves were setting up a crudely carved statue of a woman seated sideways on a horse, holding a key. The man supervising the work wore the clothes of an eques and noticed my interest.

"Epona," he said. "A Gallic horse-goddess. Some of our breeders in transalpine Gaul sent her as a gift."

"What is the key for?" I asked.

"It's a stable key, I think." He turned to me and introduced himself. "I am Helvidius Priscus, one of the directors of the Reds. How may I be of service to the Senate and People?"

I have often noticed this quality in Romans; an ability to recognize a public official. As a mere quaestor I had no lictors and no insignia of office and I dressed like a private citizen, but this man knew that I was some sort of official. I did not flatter myself that he remembered my face from the election. In that great mob it would take a twenty-foot statue of Jupiter to register a memorable impression. I was elected because I had announced my name in candidacy and the clients of the Metelli outnumber any other voting bloc. The lower offices are our birthright. The higher ones we have to fight for like everyone else.

"I am here to inquire into the murder of Decimus Flavius. I am Decius Metellus."

"The quaestor! Welcome, sir, you honor our establishment. I apologize for the clutter and rush, but we are getting ready for the next races, as well as picking the stallions to run in the festival of the October Horse. Please, come this way." I followed him into a broad room, one wall of which was mostly open to a balcony overlooking the circus gates. In the wide esplanade between, grooms from every nation walked their horses, talking to them in languages the beasts understood.

There was a broad table in the room, heaped with scrolls and sheets of papyrus. There were stacks of bronze plates upon which were inscribed the pedigrees of horses, some of them going back centuries. Around the table were seated several equites, a few freedmen secretaries, and a distinguished man who wore the strange, spindle-topped cap and other insignia of a flamen. This, as it turned out, was Lucius Cornelius Lentulus Niger, the Flamen Martialis. He was here in his capacity as high priest of Mars to oversee the choosing of the horses to run in the race of the October Horse. It was rare to encounter a flamen away from his home except when he was performing his sacerdotal functions because the flamines were so surrounded by ritual taboos that life was difficult for them. The highest priesthood of them all, Flamen Dialis, had been vacant for twenty-four years because nobody wanted it.

"Decimus Flavius was a most energetic director of the company," said one of the equites. "It came as a great shock to us all when he was so foully murdered."

"Under what circumstances was he found?" I asked.

"A cleaner found him over there in the circus," said Priscus. "He left here yesterday evening, just before dark. His home is just on the other side of the circus and he usually walked home that way."

"Would you be so good as to summon the cleaner?" I requested. A slave was dispatched to find the man. "Was the murder weapon left at the scene?"

"Yes, it's right here," said one of the directors. He reached into a box and rummaged among scraps of papyrus, ribbons and broken wax seals, and withdrew a knife, handing it to me. It was an unusual weapon, with a blade about eight inches long, straight for most of its length, then curving abruptly near the tip, doubling back to form a hook. It was keen on both edges. Someone had wiped the blade clean. There was no cross guard and the grip was of plain horn.

"This is a charioteer's knife, is it not?" I asked. Since a charioteer's reins are knotted around his waist, he has only a few seconds to cut himself loose after being thrown. Thus he may avoid being dragged to death or dashed against the arena wall or against the spina. If he succeeds in this, he need only fear being trampled by the other horses.

"It is," Priscus affirmed.

"Might he have been killed by a charioteer, then?" I asked.

"Charioteers only carry these knives when they are racing," said a director. "A dresser tucks one in the driver's body bindings just before he gets into his chariot."

"There are hundreds of them in our supply rooms," Priscus said. "But there must be thousands out in the city. The race enthusiasts beg them from victorious drivers and carry them for luck. They bribe track attendants to get them knives that charioteers have successfully freed themselves with. You know how superstitious those people are." This seemed to be another dead end as far as the murder weapon was concerned.

"Do any of you know if Flavius was in the business of lending money at interest?"

"I know that he was not," Priscus said. "At least, not in recent years. He made his fortune breeding horses, and here at the circus. He lost heavily after Lucullus's cutting the debt of the Asian cities, and swore he'd never lend money again." Thus was my theory that moneylenders were being systematically eradicated further undercut.

The cleaner arrived and, thanking the directors, I excused myself. I kept the knife and tucked it into my tunic belt. I was acquiring quite a collection of these sinister souvenirs. Its shape was highly specialized, which made it seem an odd choice for a murder weapon. A straight dagger or a sica made far more sense. Perhaps this murder had been unplanned.

"It was over here, master." The slave was a middle-aged man with a Bruttian accent. The Bruttians are worthless people, as all Romans know. Bruttium surrendered to Hannibal without a fight. They make adequate slaves, though. "I was taking some trash to this heap that's going to be hauled away sometime around Saturnalia."

We were walking beneath the wooden arcades of the circus. The great structure above us creaked and groaned as the morning sun warmed it. Despite that, the gloom belowstairs was deep. Some light came in through the arches, but the nearby buildings allowed little light to reach them. We turned from the main arcade into a short tunnel that ended at a great heap of trash of the sort that only a circus accumulates: broken spokes and other wreckage of the flimsy racing chariots, wax tablets recording bets flung down and smashed by enraged losers, polishing rags discarded by handlers, straw packing left by vendors and a multitude of other trash, probably a year's worth of it.

"He was right here," the slave said, pointing to a large, dark stain at the foot of the trash heap. It seemed an odd place for a prosperous eques to die. The others seemed to have been murdered in places that made some sense. Might he have been killed outside, in the arcade, and dragged in here? But there was no trail of blood, as there surely would have been in such a case. He must have been killed right on that spot. Perhaps he had been waylaid outside and forced into this tunnel.

"Who works in this area at night?" I asked the slave.

"Nobody. When it's not a race day, the circus is empty by late afternoon. We slaves must be in our barracks by dusk and there is no cause for freemen to be here. Maybe a few whores are here after dark."

I knew it would be worse than useless to canvass the area, asking if anyone had happened to notice a murder being committed. Few people are out of their homes after dark in the fall, and those who are seldom like to cooperate with the authorities.

I dismissed the slave and stood there for a while, pondering. My perplexity only deepened. I turned and walked out of the short tunnel and all but collided with a pair of young men, both of whom were bearded.

My hand slid beneath my toga and I gripped the handle of the charioteer's dagger. They stared at me, as astonished as I was. Then a woman pushed in front of them. In the poor light I had not noticed her standing behind the two.

"Is it Decius Metellus?" The light was poor but I knew the voice.

"Aurelia?" I said. It was she. Even in her heavy wool stola and in dim light, her luxuriant form was unmistakable. She had drawn her palla over her head, and I could not make out her expression.

"Decius, how odd to meet you here! Let me introduce my companions, Marcus Thorius and Quintus Valgius. They are friends of my stepfather. Gentlemen, this is Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, quaestor of the treasury." There was a slight edge to her voice as she addressed the two, as if reminding them to be on their best behavior.

"I am always happy to encounter you," I assured her, "any time and under any circumstances. Gentlemen, good day to you." They nodded rather churlishly. Both seemed to be about twenty years old. With their identical stubbled scalps and bushy beards they looked like a pair of Greek wrestling instructors.

"What brings you to the circus on a dull morning, Decius?" she asked.

"One of those murders that the city is so enthralled with," I said. "I had to come down here to make some inquiries. The victim was a director of the Reds. I came here to see the murder site."

"Oh, was it here?" she said, peering past me into the dark tunnel.

"There's nothing to see," I said. "Just a rather large but ordinary bloodstain. What brings you here?"

"We came to see Silverwing exercise," she said. "Paris will be racing him for the Whites in the next races. Quintus knows everything about the White stables."

"Silverwing has raced as inside trace horse for six years," Valgius said. "He has won 237 races." He recited this with a fanatical gleam in his eye. I knew the type. He would know the records and pedigrees of hundreds of horses. I have always loved the races, but there are limits. People like Valgius could be as boring as Cato.

"Would you care to join us?" Aurelia asked. The two men looked sour-faced but I was a long way from caring what they thought.

"Most certainly," I said. I fell in beside her as we walked toward one of the galleries that gave access to the stands.

"What do you think, Quaestor?" Thorius asked. "About the murder, I mean?"

I shrugged. "Probably just another murder and robbery. I think he was knocked on the head when he walked home and was dragged back there and had his throat cut. That's where all the blood is."

"Doesn't it seem to you that a lot of equites are being murdered lately?" Aurelia asked.

"Who has more money?" I replied. "There's little gain to be had in robbing a poor man. Anyway, I'm not here to investigate the murder, just to clear up some questions about the man. Treasury business." I told the lie on a sudden impulse, and it seemed to me that a little of the tension left the shoulders of the two hirsute youths.

The gallery opened into the stands about twenty rows up, and directly above the loggia, where the giver of the games or the presiding magistrate in charge would sit on race days. A loose group of men stood there that morning, observing the horses and the charioteers as they practiced. It was a beautiful morning, and on the slopes of the Aventine above the Circus the beautiful Temple of Ceres gleamed as if carved from pure alabaster. Here and there were the shrines of other, even older deities. Now that we have all become imitation Greeks, we have forgotten that once our gods were purely Italian. They lingered here in the Valley of Murcia, once a myrtle-draped site of our harvest festivals, when the circus had been a mere dirt track. The sanctuaries of Seia, Segesta, Tutilina, and other half-forgotten goddesses of the harvest stood nearby. The goddess Murcia herself, for whom the valley was named, was already being confused with Venus, who was in turn being absorbed by the Greek Aphrodite. For a people in love with our religious ceremonies, we Romans are remarkably confused in our attitudes toward the gods.

"What a glorious morning!" Aurelia exclaimed, rousing from her usual half-somnolent abstraction. We descended the steps to the loggia and she strode to the marble railing and stood beside the statue of Victory that crowned one of its corners. Below, the chariots roared by, the charioteers garbed in their tunics of red, white, blue or green, their heads encased in close-fitting leather helmets, some of them wearing padded leather leg-guards, their bodies harnessed in the complicated system of leather straps and thongs intended to protect them in case of a fall and relieve the tremendous strain of the four-horse reins.

"Silverwing!" Valgius cried, pointing, his eyes gleaming like those of a man who has seen a vision.

Silverwing was, indeed, a beautiful animal. All racehorses are beautiful, but Silverwing stood out like a god even among these. He belonged to that rare, ancient breed of striped horses, now all but bred out of existence. He was deep gray, with white stripes, brightest on his shoulders and withers and from these he was named. That morning he was not pulling a chariot, but was instead being ridden by one of the Numidian handlers. With only the slight, brown man for a burden, the beast truly seemed to fly.

Near us two men argued in low but heated voices. One had his back to us, and the other I did not recognize. The other people on the loggia stood well away from them, as men do when they do not wish to be noticed by someone who is both angry and important. Aurelia, it seemed, was not so overawed.

"I need to talk to him," she said, walking over to the two men. Not wishing to give up her company so easily, I followed. The one with his back to us turned at her approach and I wished that I had not been so eager to stay with Aurelia. It was Marcus Licinius Crassus.

The anger swept from his face and he smiled. "Aurelia! You make the morning twice as beautiful." He bestowed a properly chaste kiss upon her cheek and looked at the rest of us. "Let me see, I know Decius Caecilius, of course, but I don't believe I've met your other companions." Aurelia introduced Thorius and Valgius. Crassus's blue eyes were as cold as always, but he displayed no particular hostility toward me. He introduced the man with whom he had been arguing, and who also had regained his composure.

"This is Quintus Fabius Sanga, who is here to see his horses run." I glanced at the man's sandal and saw the small, ivory crescent fixed at the ankle, the mark of a patrician. I took his proffered hand.

"My father has spoken of you," I told him. "He says that your estates in Gaul produce the finest horses in the world."

Sanga smiled. "I did business with Cut-Nose when he was proconsul. He has a sharp eye for horseflesh. He insisted on personally inspecting every horse bought for the auxilia." Farming and livestock raising are among the few businesses that patricians are allowed to practice, but nobody ever said you couldn't get rich that way. "If it weren't for the lupercalia, I'd be up in Gaul with my horses right now." The Fabian and Quintilian gens had charge of that very strange and ancient festival.

"But it is more than four months until lupercalia," I pointed out.

"But that would mean crossing the Alps or traveling by sea in January, and who wants to do that? Besides, some of my Gallic clients are here in the city and need my guidance." He looked out onto the track. "There are some of mine now." I looked to see a quadriga of four splendid Gallic bays thundering from the gates, cutting swiftly to the left to put the chariot in the best position next to the spina . It was beautifully done, but in a real race it was a dangerous maneuver, because all four charioteers would be trying for that position. More smash-ups happen during the initial scramble for the spina position than at any other time in a race. The charioteer was a handsome youth with long, yellow Gallic hair streaming from beneath his helmet. There was something familiar about him, but in the moment it took him to flash by us I could not pin it down. We all praised Sanga's horses and then Aurelia brought up her business with Crassus.

"Marcus Licinius, I belong to the college of priestesses of Ceres. Our temple"-she pointed at the beautiful structure on the hill-"is in need of repair. Will you undertake the needed restorations?" It was customary for rich men to do these things.

"Haven't the market fines been sufficient this year?" he asked. The plebeian aediles had their offices in the temple, and the fines they collected in the markets were supposed to pay for its upkeep.

"I'm afraid not. The mundus shows signs of collapsing. It could bring down the whole temple."

"That does sound serious," he admitted. The mundus was very important to us because it was the only passageway into the underworld. There are others in Italy, but only one in Rome. All those offerings and messages had to reach the underworld gods and our dead somehow, so we couldn't just let our mundus collapse.

"Restorations are so tedious and complicated," Crassus said. "Perhaps I should just build you a new temple." He was not joking. Crassus used to say that a man could not claim to be rich unless he could raise, equip and pay an army out of his own purse. He was that rich.

"Absolutely not!" Aurelia exclaimed. "We want to keep our old temple. Restorations only, if you please, Marcus Licinius." In this I heartily concurred. I hated the way people were always tearing down our ancient temples so they could build something modern and carve their name all over the pediment in letters three feet high. Not that the Temple of Ceres was all that ancient. It was a bit under four and a half centuries old, making it respectably venerable. At least, when the great Temple of Jupiter had burned twenty years before, Sulla had had the good taste to restore it to its original design and condition. They don't make tyrants like Sulla anymore.

"Then it shall be done. Report to your sisters that I will send my architect and building manager to make a preliminary survey and report tomorrow."

She clapped her hands delightedly. "Thank you, Marcus Licinius! The goddess thanks you. Now, you must do me the further favor of accepting an invitation to a reception I am giving for the Parthian ambassador tomorrow evening."

"I accept with great pleasure," Crassus said.

"You must come too, Decius," she said. Attending any sort of event with Crassus was far from my idea of a pleasant evening, but I was willing to endure it for a chance to spend more time with Aurelia.

"You may depend on it," I told her. "I haven't met the Parthian ambassador yet."

"He is a savage, but barbarians are far more amusing than most Roman politicians," she said.

"I couldn't agree more," Crassus put in.

"Excellent. At my mother's house tomorrow, then." Catilina and Orestilla had been married by the casual practice of usus. Once, patricians had only married by confarreatio, but marriage customs had broken down in the previous generation. Divorce was far easier with usus and it allowed the woman to keep her property.

I took my leave and hastened away, anxious to be out of Crassus's sight. There was much that was puzzling about this latest murder, and I did not want to go investigate one of the others just yet, so I walked down to the to the great pound beyond the starting gates where the horses were walked to cool them after running. I got there just as the young Gaul was descending from his chariot. The attendants loosened the reins from his waist and he pulled off his leather helmet, letting his extravagant hair fly free. Except for his downy mustache, a facial disfigurement I have always considered an abomination, he was an extremely handsome youth, and now I remembered where I had seen him before. He was one of the party of Allobroges who had been hanging about the city for months, complaining of Roman extortion and rapacious publicani squeezing them for tax debt.

"That was splendid driving," I told him as he was stripping off his leg-pads. He looked up and flashed a big-toothed smile.

"Thank you. My patron's horses only understand Gallic. These Italians and Numidians and Greeks can never get the best out of them. I saw you up on the loggia speaking with my patron." Now I remembered that Fabius Sanga was of the branch of the Fabii who were surnamed Allobrogicus. An ancestor of his had soundly thrashed their ancestors and that family of Fabians had thereby become the hereditary patrons of the Allobroges. The worse you beat Gauls and Germans, the more loyal they are to you. At least they are sincere about it. Asiatics, once defeated, kiss your sandals and protest loyalty, then do something treacherous.

"Have you raced in Rome before?" I asked him.

"Not yet. I've raced in the circus of Massilia and the one at Cartago Nova. My name is Amnorix, but I race as Polydoxus."

"I expect to hear great things of you. How do you happen to be with the Allobrogian party?"

"My uncle was chosen by the tribe to come here with the grievance party, and I got him to bring me along for a chance to race in the Circus Maximus."

"What do you think of it?" I asked.

"I've never seen anything so big, but the circuses in Gaul and Spain are built better, and they aren't cluttered with all this gear for the wild beast fights. It's the track that counts, though, and this one is well kept. The African sand is the best. But it's the stables here that are greatest. It seems like half the horses in the world must be here."

"This is the first circus ever built," I told him. "The circus has grown as Rome has grown. That's why it seems rather ramshackle and unplanned. Wait until you see it on a race day."

"Oh, I've attended the races here, although not from the sand. I would not have believed that so many people could be assembled in a single place. The noise is incredible." He laughed. "They are well behaved compared to a Gallic crowd, I must admit."

"You've never seen a good circus riot, then. Pray you never do." Now that we had established a sort of friendship between us, I decided to take advantage of it. "When I arrived, your patron and Crassus were arguing about something. Any idea what that was about?"

He frowned. "I don't know. Crassus has called on the patron several times, lately. Last time he was with that man Valgius. I saw him up on the loggia, too. They meet privately, but the patron always looks upset after Crassus has left."

This startled me. "Valgius? Are you sure he was with Crassus?"

"He was last time. He stayed out in the atrium with the rest of the clients while Crassus and the patron conferred. He would only talk about the circus, so I held some conversation with him, but he could not hide how much he despises Gauls."

"I don't much like him myself. Did you recognize the other bearded man, or the lady who was with me?"

"Never saw either of them before," he admitted. "She was very beautiful, in the Roman fashion."

"You see a lot, for a man flashing by in a chariot. I would have thought the quadriga would require all your attention."

"It was not as if I was racing," he said. Then his eyes narrowed. "You ask a lot of questions, sir."

"It is my duty. I am the Quaestor Decius Caecilius Metellus and I am on official business."

"Oh, I see. Is there any other way I may be of service?" Barbarians think that all Roman officials have infinite authority. This is because the ones who show up in their lands seem to act like gods.

"Was there anyone else with Crassus and Valgius?"

He thought for a moment. "No. But later, I think it was a day or two after, a man came up to us in the Forum. He spoke to my uncle and the elders. Then they were taken to the house of Decimus Brutus and we younger men were told to return to the house where we are quartered. That seemed strange to me."

"Do you know the name of this man?" I asked.

"Umbrenus. Publius Umbrenus. I heard that he is some sort of businessman who has interests in Gaul. I don't like all this secrecy. We came here to petition the Senate openly, not to conspire."

"I am glad to hear it. The politics of Rome can get very rough, and you people should not try to get involved. Keep your eyes open and if you see anything suspicious, let me know. I am to be found at the Temple of Saturn, most days."

"I shall do as you say," he said. He seemed to be an intelligent and well-spoken youth, for a barbarian. His accent was quite tolerable.

I hurried off to the Forum, where I knew my father was sure to be. He was already canvassing for the next year's censorship election. I found him standing in the comitium, just about equidistant between the Curia and the Rostra in the midst of a knot of men and speaking, no doubt, with nobility and rectitude. As I went closer I saw that most of the men were important officers of the centuriate assembly, men who would have great influence over the outcome of the upcoming elections. I saluted him as father and patron and he looked at me with his usual expression: annoyance.

"Why aren't you in the treasury?" he demanded.

"I've been out on official business," I said. "I need some advice involving your recent tenure of office in Gaul." The other men drew aside to let us speak privately.

"Well, what is it?" Father asked, impatiently. He never liked to be interrupted while politicking.

"What do you know of a man named Publius Umbrenus?"

"Umbrenus?" He glanced at me sharply. "That's not advice. That's information."

"It involves official business on behalf of the Urban Praetor."

"Celer? What have you to do with him?" He looked disgusted, never much of an effort for him. "Don't tell me. You're out conspiracy-hunting again, aren't you?"

"I have done the state some small service in that capacity before, Father," I pointed out.

"And come close to being killed doing it."

"Now, Father," I chided, "a Roman is not supposed to fear death, only disgrace." His face grew red, so I appealed to his ever-dominant sense of duty. "There have been murders, Father."

"Eh? Of course there have been murders. What of it? When did a few equites more or less ever make any difference?"

"Quite aside from obvious criminal activity, I think a very real danger to the state is involved, and Celer concurs. Now, what do you know of Publius Umbrenus?"

"Well, you're a fool, but Celer isn't, so maybe there's something to this after all. Umbrenus is a publican who had sizable dealings in the Gallic communities: horses, slaves and other livestock, grain, that sort of thing. He belonged to a consortium of investors here in Rome and he was their traveling agent in Gaul. The last I heard, they were bankrupt. Like most, they were hurt when Lucullus cut the Asian debt, then they speculated heavily in grain and were wiped out when the Egyptian and African harvests were the best in years and the price of grain plunged. Served them right." Father detested capitalists. Like most aristocrats, he thought that only income from landed estate was honorable. As long as someone else is doing the farming it suits me too.

"Did he have dealings with the Allobroges?" I asked.

"He must have. They're the most powerful tribe in the North so he would have had to deal with them. What's this all about? No, don't tell me. Bring me hard evidence and keep your foolish suspicions to yourself. Now go be a nuisance somewhere else."

I visited the baths and returned to my house. There was to be little rest for me, though. Before long, I was interrupted in my letter writing when a delegation of my neighbors called on me. I received them in my atrium and feared the worst when I saw who it was: a collection of shopkeepers, guild officers and free artisans, the typical inhabitants of the extremely raffish district that was my home. Their spokesman was Quadratus Vibius, owner of a bronze foundry and president of a district funeral and burial society. By Subura standards, he was a pillar of the community.

" Quaestor Metellus," he said, "we your neighbors call upon you as the most distinguished resident of the Subura." It didn't take much to be the most distinguished resident of Rome's greatest slum.

"And I greet you as my friends and neighbors." This they were. I truly liked living in that slum.

"Sir, as you know, in a few days, on the ides of October, the whole city will be celebrating the festival of the October Horse. We would like for you to represent the Subura, as our leader in the contest after the race."

My heart sank. "Ah, gentlemen, my friends, I cannot tell you how deeply appreciative I am of the honor you do me. However, the press of office-"

"The dwellers of the Via Sacra won last year, sir," said a baker who lived down the street. "As a result, no one in the Subura's had good luck all year. We need our luck back."

"Truly. But the Subura wins most years, does it not? Because we are better people, as everyone knows. However, my duties-"

"Nobody'll think much of us if our quaestor doesn't lead us," said my tailor, a man who could make my old tunics look almost new. "You're a man destined for the highest office and the great army commands, sir. Who else should be our representative?"

I could feel my thread being stretched tight on the loom of the Fates. "But surely-"

"Sir," said a burly water-carrier, "the Via Sacra people are to be led by Publius Clodius this year."

"Clodius?" I choked out.

The waterman grinned. "Yes, sir. Clodius."

They had me trapped. If I backed down from a meeting with Clodius, I might as well leave the city for good and go to Rhodes or some such place and study philosophy.

"I shall, of course, be most honored to be your leader on the ides, and we shall return with the Subura's luck." At this they all cheered and pounded me on the back and dragged me out to a wineshop where we stuffed ourselves and I got drunk enough to look forward to the festival.