John Roberts - The Catiline Conspiracy

Asklepiodes had a fair number of friends and many professional colleagues, but the city was being swept by one of its frequent gusts of superstition, and the rumor had gotten around that, with so many murders in the city, it might be bad luck to attend the obsequies of the slain. As a result, poor Asklepiodes was laid out in an atrium of the temple with few attendants except for his own slaves. Among the few visitors I recognized Thorius, his jaw still in a sling, sent there to confirm that I had indeed murdered my creditor. As he left he winked at me, the little swine.

Asklepiodes had been washed and laid out on his bier, with lamps burning at its four quarters. His skin was gray and there was a shocking wound in his throat. This was carrying fakery to an amazing extreme. Surreptitiously, I touched his face. His skin was cold. I took a wrist. There was no pulse. He was really dead.

I was shaken more thoroughly than at any time since this whole insane business had begun. Who had murdered him? For a few disordered moments I entertained the thought that I had done it myself. Perhaps I was as crazy as the rest of them. One of the physician's slaves came up to me and handed me a note. I unfolded the papyrus and read.

The Quaestor Metellus is requested to attend the office of the physician Asklepiodes on the sixth hour on a matter touching the physician's will.

"Who wrote this?" I asked. The slave shrugged. None of his assistants spoke Latin, or so he claimed.

I passed the day in a state of agitation. In fact, that had been my invariable state for some time. I kept checking the sundials as the shadows crept slowly across them. When it looked as if the sixth hour might be approaching, I hurried off to the island.

When I arrived the atrium was vacant, the body having been removed to await the arrival of the Greek's city patron, who would have the duty of seeing to his burial. A slave conducted me into Asklepiodes's office, which was empty. As I sat the slave shut the door behind me and, far too late, it occurred to me that this was a trap. Somebody had murdered Asklepiodes, and I was next. I leapt to my feet, my hand going to my dagger, as another door opened. I would sell my life dearly if need be.

"Please, Decius, you needn't stand for me," Asklepiodes said. "I pray you resume your seat."

I sat, or rather collapsed into the chair. "I saw you this morning," I said. "You were irrefutably dead."

"And if you thought so, knowing that we were planning to perpetrate a fraud, how much more convincing must it have looked to those who suspected no such thing?"

I knew what he wanted me to ask and I struggled against the temptation while he sat there, smiling smugly, all bland Greek superiority. At last I could stand it no longer.

"How did you do it?"

"Through skill, artistry, and, I doubt not, some aid from the god who is my patron. A decoction of hemlock, belladonna and wormwood, taken in a minutely measured quantity, brings on a near-cessation of the vital signs, convincing to any but the most astute of physicians, of which I must say in all modesty I am the only specimen in Rome."

"It could bring about a complete cessation, I would think. Wasn't it hemlock that Socrates was executed with?"

"It is a matter for delicate judgment, but it has been used in the past to simulate death when such a subterfuge seemed desirable. I tested it first on a slave, a man of my own age, physique and general state of health, The results were wholly satisfactory; three hours of deathlike coma followed by a quick recovery and no aftereffects."

"And the wound?" I asked, searching his neck for marks.

"A most excellent effect, was it not? I obtained the skin of an unborn lamb, such as is used to make the finest parchment. This I trimmed to proper shape and used to cover my neck. The skin is all but transparent, and the cosmetic I applied to exposed areas to simulate a deathlike pallor contributed to the illusion. I had the skin stitched up at the back of my neck, and the edges where it met with my actual flesh were covered by my hair, my beard or my clothes. The slit over my throat I packed with thin strips of calf's liver to simulate a most ghastly wound. Was it not convincing?"

"It was a masterpiece," I said sincerely. I had gotten over my fright and now was all admiration. "How did you manage an illusion so elaborate on such short notice?"

Asklepiodes preened. Like all Greeks, he throve on praise. "I have been called upon before this, to simulate wounds. Your Italian mimes, who perform on the stage without masks, sometimes wish to add an extra note of realism. And certain gentlemen of high rank who must remain nameless, who wished to avoid military service, have called upon this particular skill of mine."

"Asklepiodes, you shock me!" I said.

"Mine is but the skill," he said, "and theirs the guilty conscience. Just remember me when your superiors plan your participation in some particularly suicidal military adventure."

"A man dedicated as I am to serving the Senate and People of Rome could never stoop to such perfidy," I said piously. He just sat there, smiling his superior Greek smile, knowing that I would do exactly as he advised should it come to that. I was not about to get killed winning glory for the likes of Crassus or Pompey.

"In any case," he said, "you may now rest assured that you are as respectable a murderer as any in the conspiracy. My congratulations."

"I thank you," I said, rising. "Within a few days this business should be over and you will be able to reveal yourself and enjoy the looks on everyone's faces."

"That I look forward to with great anticipation."

"In the meantime, enjoy your solitude, catch up on your writing, and I hope you will suffer no disagreeable aftereffects from your brush with the fatal hemlock."

"It was quite refreshing, really. I may employ it in therapy." He rose to see me to the door.

"Then don't tell anyone what's in it," I advised.

"I seldom do. Good day, Decius Caecilius, and good luck."

I left the island feeling better than I had in many days. With the shadow of Asklepiodes's ostensible murder lifted, everything else looked much better as well. I was well in with the conspirators, and I felt that my official backing was far more secure now that I had conferred with Cicero. And the political situation was not quite so murky. I was still not certain exactly who was involved, but it was clear that Catilina actually had a halfway credible plan of action and was backed by one or more of the great players of the day. The rest of us were, to use my cousin Felicia's metaphor, knucklebones.

In my happy mood I extended the metaphor. Not all knucklebones are honest. They may look like the others but, like dice, they may be loaded. I knew that I was one of the loaded knucklebones. Were there others? Some had at least had their corners shaved. Fulvia was an informer and by extension Curius had become Cicero's tool.

And what of Bestia, the tribune-elect? In those days, the tribunes were elected by the Consilium Plebis, a profoundly undiscriminating body of citizens. Of the elective bodies, it was the most fertile field for a demagogue and far too many of our tribunes were uncultivated, self-seeking knaves and scoundrels. It had become the quickest route to real power and was thus avidly sought by men such as Clodius and Milo. Cato had sought the tribunate as a way to frustrate the activities of political enemies. My kinsman Nepos, recently seen in the company of Bestia, had won a tribunate to use as a platform from which to push Pompey's fortunes and career, as if such a thing was needed. It made sense that a tribune would be in league with Catilina. A tribune was in an excellent position to whip up the urban mob into a rage against the current government, something a haughty patrician like Catilina could scarcely do. Yet, I had been disturbed by the tone of insinuation I had detected in Bestia. He had not seemed mad or self-deluded like the others, merely amused and superior.