John Roberts - The Catiline Conspiracy

Most Romans manage to live out their lives blithely ignorant of these things, but I had to learn them as part of my job. Another part was that, as a quaestor, I was expected to contribute to the paving of the high roads out of my own purse. It was a sort of poll-fee for entering the life of politics. What it meant was that I had to borrow heavily from my father, who at least wouldn't charge me usurious interest.

Even with all this, I truly had little to do at the Temple of Saturn. My days were passed amid boredom, watching the slaves and freedmen laboriously adding and subtracting. I signed for contributions and disbursements. The days passed without variety: mornings at the temple, afternoons at the baths, evenings I usually had dinner at someone's home. As an official, even a lowly one, I was much in demand as a guest.

On a morning in fall, I went to the temple in a better frame of mind than usual. The year was waning, soon I would be out of office. Some other poor office holder could take over the drudgery of the dim rooms beneath the temple. By virtue of having held this office I would be a Senator, with a purple stripe on my tunic and the privilege of sitting in the Curia listening to speeches and pretending to have influence. Perhaps I would seek an appointment as legate in one of the provinces. I always detested having to be absent from Rome, but I was ready for a change of scenery after my dismal quaestorship and it was idle to seek higher office without a consistent military record.

With these pleasant thoughts in mind, I walked from my house toward the Forum. I was not halfway to my destination when I saw a small crowd blocking my path. There is a way that people stand, grouped in a sort of elongated oval and looking downward, often on tiptoe and over one another's shoulders, that tells you they are gawking at a body. This seemed odd to me, because there had not been any large gang fights since the elections. A man in the tunic of a vigile saw me and came running.

" Quaestor, there has been a murder. Will you take charge here until we can inform a praetor?"

"Certainly," I said, delighted at this break in routine. "Any idea who the victim is?"

"Well, no, sir," the man said. "We were afraid to touch him. Not that I'm afraid of ghosts or dead men's curses, but some of the men are." It was typical. We kill people enthusiastically all over the world, and we are entertained by violent death in the amphitheater, but Romans are afraid to touch dead bodies.

"Then go to the Temple of Libitina and have a priest and some attendants sent to perform the rites. We can't just leave a body lying in the street until a relative or owner comes to claim it."

"Won't be any owner, Quaestor," the vigile said. "Look at him."

The crowd parted at my approach and I saw the body. The disarrayed toga covered the head, but enough of the tunic was uncovered to reveal the purple stripe that ran from collar to hem. It was not the broad stripe of a Senator, but the narrow one of an eques. It lay facedown, one hand protruding from beneath the folds of cloth to display a number of weighty gold rings glinting in the growing light of morning. In the middle of the back, a dagger pierced toga and body. A broad circle of blood surrounded the blade, marring the whiteness of the toga.

"You vigiles," I called to the men who stood around, their fire-buckets dangling from their hands, "keep this crowd back and keep the street clear enough for people to pass." They did as I said.

I squatted by the body, careful to keep my toga clear of the filthy street and especially careful not to touch the corpse. It was not that I was afraid of ghosts or curses, but if I touched it I would be ritually unclean and then I could not enter the temple without a lot of tedious cleansing ceremonies.

The handle of the dagger was curiously carved, but in the still-dim light I could tell no more about it. I promised myself a closer look later. I could tell nothing about the dead man except his rank, and I would know nothing further until the libitinarii arrived to turn him over. I was almost disappointed that the purple stripe of the tunic was not wider. There were a few Senators I would not have minded seeing in this condition. Even worse luck, it could not be a patrician, because then I could have amused myself by hoping it would be Clodius's face I would see.

Within a few minutes, a lictor cleared a way through the crowd, the people parting magically before his fasces.

Behind him was a Senator I recognised. It was Caius Octavius, who had been appointed a Iudex Quaestionis for that year. I stood when he arrived.

"The Praetor Rufus has sent me to report to him on this matter," he said. "I don't suppose there were any witnesses?"

"Are there ever?" I answered.

"Who is he?"

"That is what I would like to know," I said, then: "We may know soon. Here come the corpse-takers."

Down the street came the one sight guaranteed to make Romans stand back: the libitinarii, preceded by their priest with his long-handled mallet. With their long, red tunics, their high buskins, their pointed Etruscan beards, wide-brimmed felt hats and high, pointed false ears they are the ghastliest sight anyone could ask for so early in the morning. People jumped back with their thumbs protruding from their clenched fists or fished out tiny phallus amulets and pointed them at the libitinarii.

Wordlessly, the priest stepped up to the body and touched it with his mallet, claiming it for the underworld goddess. An attendant carrying a box opened it and the priest began a long chant, from time to time taking liquids or powders from the box, sprinkling them on the corpse. When the lustrum was finished, the attendant closed the box.

"Turn him over," Octavius instructed. The attendants crouched by the corpse. One of them plucked out the dagger and nonchalantly tossed it to the pavement. Grasping the corpse beneath the shoulders and knees, they rolled it over.

I did not recognize the man. He appeared to be about fifty years old, with sandy, graying hair. His mouth and eyes were open, but his face bore no readable expression. I saw that the other hand was equally beringed.

"Does anyone here know him?" Octavius asked loudly. Amid muttering and shrugs a man came forward.

"That's Manius Oppius, sir. He lives… lived not far from here. I've delivered sandals to his house a number of times. My shop's down there on the corner."

"Good. You can lead these men to his house. His family will want to claim his body." He turned to me. "Oppius. Aren't they bankers?"

"I believe so," I said. There was a commotion a little way up the street. An important man was coming, followed by a great mob of friends, clients and retainers.

"What now?" Octavius said with annoyance. Then his face registered alarm. "Oh, no! Stop him!" Then I saw who was in the lead and ran to block his way. It was Caius Julius Caesar. He smiled, puzzled, when he saw me.

"Good morning, Decius Caecilius. What is happening here?"

"There has been a murder, Caius Julius. Somebody stabbed an eques named Oppius. There is blood."

Caesar looked concerned. "Oppius? Not Caius Oppius, surely."

"A sandalmaker here says his name is Manius. The Iudex Octavius has taken over."

"I don't know any Manius Oppius, but Caius is friend of mine. I will make inquiries. Thank you for warning me, Decius. This could have been a terrible misfortune for the city." He drew a fold of his toga over his head as if he were offering sacrifice and he held a great fold of it draped over his arm, hiding his face from the body on the ground as he went on past, followed by his entourage. It was necessary but, being Caesar, he turned it into a broad, actor's gesture.

A few weeks before, the old pontifex maximus had finally died. To the immense amusement of the whole city, Caesar had been elected to his place. The man known for the frequency as well as the diversity of his debaucheries had become the high priest of the Roman state. One of the restrictions of the office was that the pontifex maximus could not look upon human blood.