The Catiline Conspiracy

Chapter VII

That year, we held the festival of the October Horse in the Forum. In other years, it was usually held in the Campus Martius, but the augurs had seen signs that were unfavorable to the Campus Martins. Mars wanted the festival held within the city walls this year. In earliest times, the festival had always been in the Forum, but in those days the Forum had been an open field. With its present clutter of public buildings, temples, monuments and speakers' platforms it was a rough place to hold a horse race. But by that time the city was spilling out onto the Campus Martius as well, since it had grown too crowded for the old walls to contain any longer. The old mustering-field for the army was quickly growing as urbanized as the rest of the city.

Holding the race in the Forum was favorable to me in one respect: If it had been in the Campus Martins, the race would have been run in chariots. I was a competent rider, but a wretched charioteer. The chariot has been obsolete for centuries, except for races and ceremonial processions, so I never saw any point in acquiring the skill, although I had taken some lessons out of curiosity. Clodius, on the other hand, was known to practice regularly at the stables of the Greens (he had switched from Red to Green upon becoming a man of the people). It would have been unthinkably disgraceful for any wellborn man to race publicly, but many race-crazed young men practiced assiduously to learn a skill they would never be able to use.

To my further advantage was Clodius himself. He was a bit shorter than I, but of stocky build and he weighed a good many pounds more. Much would depend on the respective strength of the horses we drew. Since they would have been chosen from among the best race-horses of the stables, it was probable that their power would be nearly equal, giving me the advantage.

With half the Subura behind me, I entered the Forum amid thunderous cheers. The whole city seemed to be packed into the ancient city center, or on the balconies and atop the gates and rooftops overlooking it. People had climbed onto the monuments for a better view. Beside me were two other men who would ride for the Subura. They were both handlers for the Circus, expert riders.

Mars in those days was still an extramural god, and had no altar within the city except for a shrine in the house of the Pontifex Maximus, so a temporary altar had been erected in front of the Rostra , similar to the permanent altar on the Campus Martins. There stood the Flamen Martialis and his attendants, ready to conduct the ceremony. Behind the priest, on the Rostra, stood the magistrates of state and the other pontifices and flamines, the augurs, and a few privileged foreigners.

Approaching from the other end of the Forum I saw Publius Clodius and his two companions, backed by the dwellers of the Via Sacra. Like mine, most of his followers were young men, excited and ready for a brawl. Clodius was still a rather handsome young man, despite some marks I had put on his face and which were always a great joy for me to look upon. I was pleased to note that he had added a pound or two since I had last seen him. In keeping with the solemnity of the occasion, we didn't make faces at each other, but maintained an impassive, hieratic demeanor.

I stepped onto the low dais that had been erected for the altar and stood there with the other five riders. My father was there, along with the fathers of two of the other men. Since, by the well-known Roman legal fiction, we were still our fathers' property, the three fathers and the flamen had to go through a certain mummery temporarily releasing us to the service of the god. When that was done, my father came to me and said: "This is a damnably risky business, but they'll remember it in the tribal assemblies when it comes time for you to stand for the aedileship. Just be careful and let the others take the risks, as much as possible." Then he left the dais. Father had a wonderfully political way of looking at everything. Anything short of death was acceptable to him, so long as it helped you get elected.

Then the flamen's attendants stripped us of our tunics. This was an ancient practice, but the main reason for it was to ensure that we were not wearing armor or concealed weapons beneath our outer garments. Only a subligaculum was permitted, and even that was discreetly searched lest we be concealing some amulet or charm intended to put a curse on a rival. During this stage of the proceedings I was pleased to note that I looked far better thus unclad than Clodius, with his extra poundage. He was a powerful man, though, and not to be underestimated. I did not shine so well in comparison to the other four, all of whom were as well conditioned as any professional athlete.

As the others were being searched I looked out over the crowd. Besides the Suburans, I had other supporters. I saw Milo and a large group of his thugs. The enmity between Clodius and me was as the love of brothers compared to what lay between him and Milo. A number of Catilina's men were there as promised, including Valgius and Thorius, the bearded lovelies who had followed Aurelia. The sight of Valgius tickled something in my memory, but he also made me think of Aurelia, which was something I was doing too much of already. I looked up at the Capitol, where the new image of Jupiter was at last in place, and saw that the repairs to the wall where it had been moved in had been completed. The haruspices had said that the new Jupiter would warn us of dangers to the state. Then I heard the sound of trumpets and a reverent silence fell over the crowd. The ceremony had begun.

Down the Via Sacra came the Palatine Salii, the twelve young patricians who formed the brotherhood of the dancing priests of Mars. Dressed in scarlet tunics and wearing bronze helmets and breastplates of antique design, they performed a slow and solemn war dance to the music of the holy trumpets and wailing flutes. Each bore in his hand one of the sacred spears of Mars, and on his other arm he carried one of the ancilia, the strangely shaped bronze shields of Mars. This was their last ceremony of the year, and they would dance in all the holy places for four more days, at which time the holy shields, spears and trumpets would be purified and stored away in the regia and all worship of Mars would cease for the duration of winter, barring the outbreak of war.

Behind the Salii came the horses. These were spectacular beasts: three bays, a white, a black and a brown with black stripes on his haunches. Each horse had had a numeral painted on his brow, from one to six, in the order they had been chosen by the Flamen Martialis according to criteria known only to the pontifices. The horses halted before the altar, the handlers having their hands full with the nervous, temperamental animals. The Salii continued their dance, circling the horses three times, singing a song so ancient that only a few words of it were intelligible, even to the priests themselves. Everyone watched breathlessly, concerned that the dance should be performed properly. Above all it was important that the spears should not be allowed to clash against the shields, for that was the signal to summon Mars to aid us in battle. He would be very angry to find that there was no war going on. But the dance was performed flawlessly and the Salii came to a halt before the dais.

Now one of the Vestal virgins took a helmet from the head of one of the dancers and gave it to the flamen. One of the attendants placed five knucklebones inside These were not real knucklebones, but bronze replicas, each the size of a child's fist and brilliantly polished. One by one, we riders took the helmet from the flamen, shook it, and cast the knucklebones onto the dais. We were assigned horses according to the score each of us threw.

Mine was three, the white. This seemed lucky to me. I had always liked white horses because, I suppose, everyone likes white horses. Clodius drew one of the bays. My two side-men got the black and another of the bays. Although the race was supposed to be between the horses, these men would actually be trying to prevent Clodius and his men from fouling me. Clodius's men would have the same task.

A handler boosted me onto my white. The horses wore no saddles and we could control them only with rope halters, for metal bits were forbidden. A vestal handed each of us a whip that had been plaited of new leather and horsehair within the Atrium Vestae, thus ensuring that none of them were envenomed.

The horses were lined up so closely that my knees touched the knees of the riders to either side. One of them was Clodius, who was on my left. This was a stroke of bad luck. He spoke to me, too quietly for anyone else to hear.

"I hope you have your mourners hired, Metellus. You'll be dead before nightfall."

I could tell that the years since our last serious encounter had done nothing to sweeten his disposition.

"You'd better not try anything," I warned him. "I have archers stationed on top of the Curia." The fool actually looked.

Then the handlers released our reins and darted out of the way. The horses trembled with eagerness to start, restrained only by a chalk-whitened rope stretched at breast height a few feet in front of them, held taut by two slaves. My nerves were stretched as tight by the wait and the silence. All eyes were on the Flamen Martialis. He nodded, and the attendants of the Salii blew a long blast on the sacred trumpets. The crowd erupted.

As our horses lunged forward, Clodius lashed at my eyes with his whip. I had been expecting it and I ducked, but the whip caught my brow and scalp, cutting deep. This was why I had been distressed to find Clodius on ray immediate left. It gave him full freedom to use his whip against me with his right hand, while I would have to reach across my body to get at him.

Clodius pulled ahead as we pounded down the narrow track marked out by ropes, the screaming crowd packed behind the ropes urging us on. My white was infuriated at the bay for passing him and as we dashed past the Basilica Aemilia, he snaked out his neck and bit the bay's haunch. Clodius almost lost his seat as the bay squealed and jerked. My white put on a burst of speed and I slashed Clodius with my whip as I passed him, leaning far over to do it. This was not a good thing to do, because at that moment one of Clodius's men gained my right rear and slashed me across the back. The force of the blow and the sudden, unexpected pain almost pitched me headforemost. If the fall to the hard pavement did not kill me the trampling by the horses behind surely would have. I squeezed with my knees and clung to my horse's neck to stay on, and I could hear Clodius's laugh as he dashed past.

One of my side-men got his whip around the neck of the lout who had lashed me from behind and jerked him from his mount. The crowd cheered frantically at this adroit move. In this race, the riders were free to attack each other, but not one another's horses. That would have been sacrilege.

The horses themselves were under no such compulsion, and just as I regained my seat and dashed the blood from my eyes, my side-man on the black and Clodius's man on the striped horse drew up on my left. There was not sufficient room for two horses there and the animals attacked one another with teeth and hooves. Men and horses went down in a tangle of thrashing limbs, flailing hooves and hissing whips.

I caught up with Clodius as we rounded the monument to a Consul of four hundred years before. It was greatly in need of repair and was demolished a few years later because nobody would pay for its restoration. The family was long extinct. As we made the turn he cut too close and his horse's haunch caught the corner of the monument, breaking loose some old repair work and causing the beast to stumble. At this I surged past him, striking out with my whip, but without success.

Now I was rushing back toward the altar. I looked behind me just in time to cut in front of Clodius, who was getting close. (The other remaining rider was behind him.) The three riderless horses had regained their feet and rejoined the race like the spirited animals they were. My white was running his heart out, even though this was a far shorter race than he was used to. Once around the Forum is nothing like seven times around the spina at the Circus, pulling a chariot.

Foam from the white's mouth mixed with the blood on my face as we dashed back over the starting line. The crowd cheered frantically as I pulled up and dismounted. I patted the beast's flank as a handler took charge of him. All the cheering was for the horse, naturally. This was not an athletic contest and I would receive neither crown nor palm.

At least my Suburans cheered me. A woman tossed me a scarf and I bound it around my head to stop the blood from running into my eyes. My back burned as if someone had laid a hot iron across it. Handlers were catching the three riderless animals. I walked, somewhat stiffly, to the dais. Clodius was already there, having no serious injuries to be tended. He glared at me and I grinned back. He was not through yet, as I well knew. This had been only the first stage of the day's ordeal.

The crowd quieted somewhat as we assembled. The two riders who had taken the worst falls were not seriously injured and managed to hobble to the dais, bloodied but proud. Then the white horse I had ridden to victory was led up. The people sang the ancient chant to the October Horse and showered him with honey cakes and dried petals of the summer's flowers.

The handlers walked the October Horse onto the dais while the flamen and his attendants intoned their prayers. The flamen Stroked the horse's head from ears to muzzle and the beast ducked his head in a nod, a propitious sign. A vestal handed scarves to the riders and we covered our heads with these as the men in the crowd did the same with their togas and the women with their pallas.

When the flamen's prayer was done he nodded to an attendant who struck the horse on the brow with a long-handled hammer. The beast stood planted to the spot, stunned, as the flamen cut his throat with the sacrificial knife that he must always carry with him. The blood was caught in two vessels, one of which would go to the Temple of Vesta to be used in the lustrations of the coming year, the other to be poured out over the hearth of the Regia, where once the kings of Rome had lived and where the Pontifex Maximus now dwelled.

I was saddened to see the great horse die, as I always was at these sacrifices, but especially this time, for he had borne me so magnificently. But then, if there is no sadness, of what value is the sacrifice? How could the god take pleasure in an offering for which the givers felt only indifference? I never saw much point in sacrificing pigeons and other such inferior victims, but the sacrifice of the October Horse has always marked for me one of the noblest links between the Roman people and their gods. And why should a fine racehorse want to grow old and feeble? Better to perish this way, and join the herd of the gods. Woe to the people when we forget these duties owed to our gods.

As the blood was collected, the flamen continued the prayer to Mars. An attendant held the written service before him so that he should not stumble over the archaic words and behind him a flute-player trilled so that no unseemly sound or word from the multitude should distract the flamen. Any slightest flaw in the performance of the ritual, and the entire ceremony would have to be repeated from the beginning.

When the blood collecting was done, the flamen went to the great corpse and with a few deft, well-practiced cuts of the sacrificial knife, he severed the head and held it aloft, still dripping. The assembled multitude clapped three times, cheered three times, and repeated the ritual laugh three times. Reverently, the flamen placed the head upon the altar, then sprinkled it with barley meal and poured over it fresh-pressed oil mixed with honey. Then, in a rite peculiar to the October Horse, the flamen and the vestals piled cakes baked that day from fine wheat around and atop the noble head. Then the flamen stepped back, clapped three times and laughed three times. A collective sigh went up from the multitude and they uncovered their heads, satisfied that all due honor had been paid the October Horse and that Mars must now be contented, ready to undertake his four-month absence from the city.

Now the tension began to rise again. The solemn ritual was done with. The final, climactic phase of the festival was at hand. The fun was about to begin. I was keyed up and ready for it, but I had seldom felt myself to be in so much danger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And your name?" I inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"About midafternoon," Asklepiodes said.

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

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

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

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