John Roberts - The Catiline Conspiracy

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."

I descended the steps of the temple, wincing at the pains that enveloped my body like a cloud. I might have persuaded Asklepiodes to lend me a litter and some slaves, but I was determined to walk lest I grow too stiff to move at all. I crossed the bridge to the riverbank. This was the old wooden bridge. The fine stone bridge that now stands there was built the next year by the Tribune Fabricius. In the city, the celebration was still in full roar. Applause greeted me wherever I showed my bandaged head, and red-dripping wineskins were held out to me by the score, but I only sipped at a few, just enough to ease my way to my house. I wanted a dear head that evening. It took a great effort of will, because I desired nothing more than to drink until my pains were forgotten and lose all my cares in the city's festal mood. I was weary of murders and intrigues and scheming politicians and generals.

Ladies wearing the brief tunic and feminine toga of the courtesan offered themselves to me freely, but my mind was so fixed upon a single woman that I was not even tempted. Infatuation is a terrible thing. Musicians wound through the streets playing flutes and cymbals, and behind them danced women in the fashion of Bacchantes; their hair unbound and dressed only in animal skins or flimsy chitons open down one side. This was a Greek custom frequently forbidden by the aediles or the Censors, but it had been a few years since the last censorship and the aediles had more important concerns, anyway. A vendor handed me a flat loaf wrapped around a heap of thin-sliced lamb, fried onions and olives, all of a delightful greasiness. This I devoured hungrily, for I had had nothing since breakfast and I knew I would have to drink with Catilina and his cronies or else be suspect. It was so good that, when another vendor offered me a broad fig-leaf heaped with grilled sausages. I accepted that too. These needed something to wash them down, so I next took a cup of unfermented apple juice at a stall, along with a handful of figs and dates.

Women rubbed themselves against me for luck and 1 did not complain. Men tried to do the same and I did complain. I was hero for a day, but for a day only. The Roman people are infinitely distractable, and I would be forgotten by the next day.

I reached home pleasantly stuffed and let my elderly house slaves fuss over me for a while. They might treat me like a hero for as much as two days, or perhaps even three, if I did nothing to offend them in the meantime. Cassandra wanted to strip the fine bandages from my head and try her favorite poultice on me, but I preferred to trust Asklepiodes's more professional treatment.

When the sun drew low to the west, I donned a decent tunic and opened my arms chest. Inside were my swords, my field armor and my parade armor, my daggers and my caesti. I took a sheathed pugio and thrust it beneath my tunic, under the girdle. Then I took up a caestus . I had won the boxing gloves in a long-ago game and I had stripped one of its complicated straps, leaving only the thick, bronze bar that went over the knuckles. With its half-inch, pyramidal spikes it was just the thing to give an assailant a truly memorable punch. I tested it to make sure the single strap was still snug against my palm and then tucked it beneath my tunic on the other side, where I could reach it easily with my left hand.

I did not fear trouble from Catilina or his men, but it was likely that Clodius and his men might be prowling the city and he was unstable enough to attack me on sight. I would have to watch out for Clodius until someone else should enrage him. That would not be long.

Clodius acquired enemies the way Caesar picked up votes.

Leaving word that I would return late, I left my house and entered the darkened streets. The revelry had quieted some, but not entirely, by any means. It is seldom truly quiet in the Subura, but by this time most of the roistering had moved indoors, although in the open squares and courts of some neighborhoods, tables had been erected and the dwellers of the local insulae sat back, picking their teeth contentedly. The day's sacrifices had provided plenty of meat and the harvest was in, so fruits and vegetables were plentiful and cheap. Fall was usually a good time in Rome, unless the harvest had been bad. Then it would become necessary to squeeze the provinces.

I reached Orestilla's house without encountering Publius or his myrmidons. The janitor let me in and I went into the atrium. A cheer went up at my arrival. Catilina rose and took my hand.

"Well done, Decius, well done!" His arm around my shoulders, he turned to face the others and gestured grandly. "Here is our hero, at last. We've been awaiting your arrival, Decius."

There were a dozen men present, and all of them rose from their seats to congratulate me. Some of them I knew already: Curius, Cethegus Sura, Laeca, the twin beards, Thorius and Valgius. The latter two showed the trophies of their vigorous efforts on my behalf that morning. Thorius sported a bandage around his head, although it was not as artistic as my own. Valgius had a pair of black eyes, nearly swollen shut. There was a bulky, balding man in the tunica laticlavia with the narrow red stripe; an eques. The rest bore no marks of distinction.