SPQR III: The Sacrilege

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Maps

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Glossary

  Also by John Maddox Roberts

  Copyright

  SPQR III

  THE SACRILEGE

  SPQR

  Senatus PopulusQue Romanus

  The Senate and People of Rom

  1

  I wonder sometimes if we can ever know what truly happened. Dead men do not write, so histories perforce are written by those who survived. Of those who survived, some experienced the events firsthand, while others only heard about them. Each who speaks or writes relates events not necessarily as they occurred, but rather as they should have occurred in order to make the teller, or his ancestors, or his political faction, look good.

  * * *

  Once, during one of my numerous periods of exile, I was confined to the beautiful but boring island of Rhodes. There is nothing to do on Rhodes except attend lectures at its many institutes of learning. I chose to attend a course of lectures on history because there was nothing else available that season save philosophy, which I avoided like any sensible man.

  The history lectures were delivered by a scholar named Antigonus, who enjoyed a great reputation in those days, although he is all but forgotten now. He devoted the whole of one lecture to this seeming mutability of historical fact. He gave, as example the case of the tyrannicides, Harmodius and Aristogiton, who lived in Athens five hundred years ago. At that time, Athens was ruled by Hippias and Hipparchus, the sons of the tyrant, Pisistratus. Now, it seems that Harmodius and Aristogiton raised a rebellion against the Pisistratids, but they only contrived to kill one of them, I forget which. The surviving and aggrieved brother had both put to death, with embellishments. The anti-Pisistratid party, with the two slain tyrannicides as its martyrs, then raised a successful rebellion and imposed its own enlightened ruler, either Cleisthenes or somebody else. Before you knew it, there were statues of the tyrannicides all over Greece and its colonies. My father had a splendid group, sculpted by Axias, in the garden of his country villa, brought back by an ancestor after we looted Corinth.

  But the facts, Antigonus explained, were quite different. Harmodius and Aristogiton were not idealistic young democrats with a hatred of tyrants. They were lovers. The Pisistratid who was killed had conceived a lust for the prettier of the two, who was not about to leave his boyfriend for some ugly old pederast, and so the assassination plot was hatched. It was only after the two were dead that the legend of the tyrannicides was created by the anti-Pisistratid party.

  The amazing thing was, everybody knew the true story at the time! They all just consented to believe the legend for propaganda purposes. Thus the legend became, in a term created by Antigonus, “political truth.” It was a very Greek story, and only a Greek could have come up with such a term.

  Antigonus went on to say that only those who directly experienced historical events knew what truly happened, and the rest of us could only perceive them as if through a dense fog, or as blind men tracing the lineaments of a statue with their fingertips. He said that there are sorcerers who, like Proteus in the tale of Ulysses, can summon the shades of the dead and cause them to speak to us, and that it may be only thus that we can ever arrive at a true knowledge of past events.

  I thought that made excellent sense at the time, but I have since come to doubt it. About the time I arrived at my present profound knowledge of human nature, the question occurred to me: Would men stop lying just because they are dead? I do not think so. Men of ambition are always concerned about how they shall be remembered after they are dead, and that very end would be defeated were they to start speaking the truth about themselves the moment they found themselves idling by the shores of the Styx, waiting for the ferryboat to come for its latest load of passengers.

  One need not go back to a pack of ancient Athenian boy-fanciers to find a warped tale of tyrannicide. Take the assassination of Julius Caesar. There is an official story, sanctioned by our First Citizen, which constitutes Antigonus’s “political truth.” I know quite another story, and I was there at the time, which our First Citizen was not. Doubtless there are many other versions, though, each shedding the finest light on the teller or his ancestors. If we had one of those necromantic sorcerers, and were he to raise before us the shade of the Divine Julius, and those of Cassius, Brutus, Casca and, say, five of the others (nine is a number very dear to the gods), then I think we should hear nine very different accounts of the events of that fateful ides of March. The fog of men’s self-love is as dense as any thrown up by time or distance.

  Enough. I shall write of the death of Caesar another time, if age, health and the First Citizen spare me. I write instead of an earlier time, seventeen years earlier, in fact, and of events not quite so celebrated, although they are remembered and certainly seemed momentous at the time.

  And you can put your trust in my words, because I was there and saw it all, and I have lived too long and seen too much to care what the living think of me. Much less do I worry about the opinion held of me after I am dead.

  * * *

  I was looking forward to a good year. I always surveyed each new year with optimism, and events almost always proved my outlook mistaken. This year was to be no exception. I was young, not yet quite twenty-nine, and it takes much to overcome the natural high spirits of the young. The wherewithal to crush my optimism was waiting, in great supply.

  Everything looked fair as I rode toward the city, though. One reason for my cheerfulness lay outside the walls: a huge encampment of soldiers, prisoners and loot. The loot alone covered acres of land, protected by sheds and awnings. Pompey was back from Asia, and these were the preparations for his triumph. Until the day of his triumph, Pompey could not enter the city, and that was the way I liked it. The anti-Pompeian faction in the Senate had blocked permission for the triumph so far. As far as I was concerned, he could wait out there until the gods called him unto themselves, an unlikely occurrence, whatever he might think.

  I knew I would have an active year. My father had been elected Censor, and that is an office with many duties. I expected him to assign me to the census of citizens, since that is tedious and demanding work, leaving him free to concentrate on purging the Senate of unworthy members, which was satisfying, and letting the public contracts, which was profitable.

  I did not care. I would be in Rome! I had spent the past year in Gaul, where the climate is disagreeable and people do not bathe. They do not eat well, and a thousand years of Roman civilization will never teach the Gauls to make decent wine. The gladiators were second-rate, and the only saving grace of the place was its wonderful charioteers and racing horses. The Circuses were mean and shabby by Roman standards, but the races were breathtaking. Also, my duties had lain principally with the army. I always had a most un-Roman dislike of military life. There had been no fighting, which was boring and unprofitable, and my duties had been principally as paymaster, which was humiliating. Soldiers always smirk when they see an officer
tricked out in parade armor counting out their wages one coin at a time and making them sign the ledger.

  All that was over, and my heart sang as I drew nearer the Ostian Gate. I could have taken a barge upriver from the port, but I felt like making an entrance, so I had borrowed a horse from the quaestor at Ostia, had my parade armor polished and bought new plumes for my helmet. It was a fine day, and I made a splendid sight as I rode in, acknowledging the gate guard’s salute.

  The city walls now stood well beyond the pomerium, and I could ride through this part of the town in full military splendor, accepting the admiring hails of my fellow citizens. The popularity of the military stood very high at that moment, as Roman arms had turned in a string of victories with rich loot. I halted and dismounted at the line of the old city wall, established by Romulus. To cross the pomerium in arms meant death.

  Ostentatiously, I removed and folded my red military cloak and tied it to my saddle. Careful of my new plumes, I removed my helmet and hung it from my saddle by the chin straps. Bystanders helped me out of my cuirass, embossed with muscles that Hercules would envy and much unlike those that adorned my body. I tucked my sword and its belt into a saddlebag and stood dressed in my gold-fringed military tunic and red leather caligae. These were permitted within the city proper. Taking my reins in hand, I stepped across the pomerium.

  The moment I crossed, I felt as if a weight far heavier than my armor had been lifted from me. I was a civilian again! I would have burst into song, had that not been too undignified. My step was so light that the hobnails on the soles of my caligae made little sound.

  I longed to go to my house and change clothes and go prowl the Forum and catch up on the latest city gossip. My spirit longed for it as a starving man longs for food. But duty demanded that I call upon my father first. I drank in all the sights and sounds and, yes, even smells as I made my way to his house. I find the stenches of Rome preferable to the perfumes of lesser cities.

  I rapped at the gate and the janitor called Narcissus, Father’s majordomo. The fat old man beamed and patted my shoulder.

  “Welcome home, Master Decius. It is good to see you back.” He snapped his fingers, a sound like the breaking of a great limb. A young slave came running. “Take Master Decius’s horse and belongings to his house. It is in the Subura.” He pronounced this last word with some disdain.

  The slave went pale. “But they’ll kill and eat me in the Subura!”

  “Just announce that these are the belongings of Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger,” I told him, “and no one will molest you.” The dwellers of the Subura couldn’t do enough for me since I had brought home the head of the October Horse. Looking doubtful, the boy took the animal’s reins and led him off.

  “Come,” said Narcissus, “the Censor is in his garden. I know how glad he will be to see you.”

  I sighed. “So do I.”

  We found the old man seated at a table heaped with scrolls, the winter sun gleaming from his bald head and casting into relief the great, horizontal scar that nearly halved his face. He was Decius Caecilius Metellus the Elder, but everyone called him Cut-Nose. He glanced up as I entered.

  “Back, eh?” he said as if I had just stepped out for a morning stroll.

  “As events would have it,” I said. “I rejoice to find you well.”

  He scowled. “How do you know I’m well? Just because I’m not dripping blood on the pavement? There are plenty of ways to die without showing it.”

  This alarmed me. “Are you ill? I—”

  “I’m healthy as a Thracian. Sit down.” He pointed a knobby finger at a bench opposite him. I sat.

  “Let’s see,” he said. “We have to find work for you. Keep you out of trouble for a change.”

  “As Censor, you have plenty of work for me, I’m sure,” I said.

  “No, I’ve enough assistants. Most of my colleagues have sons who need experience in public work. Even the scut work of the Censorship exceeds the competence of most of them.”

  “I rejoice to know you think I am worthy of better things,” I said.

  “As it happens, your services have already been requested. Celer is standing for next year’s Consulship, and he wants your aid in canvassing. I could hardly refuse him.”

  My heart leapt. This would be far more exciting than the Censor’s office. Quintus Caecilius Metellus Celer was a kinsman, and he had been my commander in Gaul. He had returned early to campaign for the Consulship, leaving his peaceful province to be governed by his legate.

  “I shall be most happy to serve him,” I said. “And as for staying out of trouble, that should be no great problem with Clodius out of Rome.”

  “Publius Clodius is still in Rome,” Father said.

  “What?” I said, aghast. “Months ago, I had word that he’d won his quaestorship and had been assigned to Sicily! Why is he still here?” The mutual detestation of Pompey and Crassus was as the love of brothers compared to what lay between Clodius and me.

  “He has delayed his departure and I don’t know why,” Father said, still scowling. Scowling was something he did well, and often. “Whatever his reason, you are to keep out of his way. He has amassed a real power base here in Rome. That is how decadent the times have become.” He was always going on about the disgraceful condition of the times. I personally do not think the times have ever been anything but decadent. It didn’t look as if he was going to offer me dinner, so I rose.

  “I’ll go home and change, and then I’ll call on Celer. With your permission, I shall take my leave.”

  “Just a minute,” Father said. “There was something I was going to give you. What was it? Oh, yes.” He signaled and a slave presented himself. “In the cabinet in the atrium,” Father said, “in the drawer below the death masks, you will find a package. Fetch it.” The slave ran off and was back within seconds. “Take it,” Father told me.

  Mystified, I took the parcel, wrapped in the finest paper. I stripped off the wrapping and found a rolled-up garment. I shook it out and found that it was a white tunic, severely plain except for the broad purple stripe running from neck to hem. The tunic was the sort worn by every Roman male, but the purple stripe could be worn only by a Senator.

  “I gave you your first sword, so I thought I might as well give you this,” Father said. “Hortalus and I could think of no pressing reason to keep you out, so we enrolled you among the Senators last month.”

  To my mortification, my eyes began to film with tears. Father rescued me from disgrace in his usual fashion.

  “Don’t let it go to your head. Any fool can be a Senator. You’ll find that most of your fellow Senators are fools or villains, or both. Now attend me well.” He held up an admonitory finger. “You are to sit well to the back of the Senate chamber. You are not to make speeches until you have achieved some distinction. You are always to vote with the family, and you are to raise your voice only to cheer for a point made by our family or one of our adherents. Above all, you are to stay out of trouble, Clodius or no Clodius. Now, you have my leave to go.” He returned his attention to his scrolls.

  I left. Father could steal the sunlight from a summer day, but that was just his manner. I was happy with my new tunic. I had already ordered several made in anticipation of admission to the Senate, but it meant something to receive this one from my father. His stern instructions were no more that I had expected. Barbarians think that every Roman Senator is a veritable god, but we know better. With or without a purple stripe, I was still a mere son. I made my way through the noontime bustle of the city and soon stood before the familiar street door of my house. Before I could even rap on its surface, the door flew open and there stood my elderly manservant, Cato, and his equally aged wife, Cassandra.

  “Welcome home, Senator!” he cried, causing every head in the street to rotate. Cassandra blubbered as if she’d just received news of my death. Nobody can beat a house slave for sentimentality. It struck me that this was the first time I had been addressed with my new
title, and I decided that I liked the sound of it.

  I embraced Cassandra and she wept with redoubled fury. “I am so ashamed, master! That boy came by with your horse and belongings less than an hour ago, and I haven’t had time to set the house to rights. It’s disgraceful.”

  “I’m sure it is immaculate,” I said, knowing they always kept my house so. They were too old to do anything else. “The horse isn’t mine. Where is it?”

  “I told the boy to leave it at the freedman’s stable down the street.”

  “Good,” I said. The stable hired out litters and slaves to carry them, but there were stalls for a few horses and mules. I would go there later and arrange for a rider to take the beast back to Ostia. “The rest of my belongings should arrive sometime soon. I left them with a freighter.” I caught sight of someone hanging back in the shadows to the rear of the atrium, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. “Who is this?” I asked.

  “Your father sent him a few days ago,” Cato answered. “He thought you’d be needing a body servant to dog your heels, now you’re a Senator. He’s from the house of your uncle Lucius.”

  I sighed. In my family, we did not just go out and buy slaves in the market. That would have been unthinkably vulgar. We only employed slaves born within the family. This sounds terribly well-bred, but it meant severe disadvantages. Instead of going out and choosing a slave who had just the combination of skills and qualities you wanted, you got whatever some relative wanted to fob off on you. I knew that before long I would discover why Uncle Lucius wanted to be rid of this one.

  “Come here, boy, let’s have a look at you.” The lad complied. He appeared to be about sixteen, of moderate growth and wiry. His face was narrow and foxy, with a long, thin nose that provided far too little distance between his eyes, which were an alarming shade of green. His dense, curly hair grew to a sharp peak over his brow. His whole look was shifty and villainous, with a touch of surly arrogance. I liked him instantly. “Name?”