1. First Man in Rome Page 10

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  The lot which gave the province of Roman Africa to Spurius Postumius Albinus was drawn on New Year's Day; not twenty-four hours later, he nailed his colors to the mast, and they were the colors of Prince Massiva of Numidia. Spurius Albinus had a brother, Aulus, ten years younger than himself, newly admitted to the Senate, and eager to make a name. So while Spurius Albinus lobbied strenuously yet behind the scenes for his new client Prince Massiva, it fell to Aulus Albinus to escort Prince Massiva through all the most important public places of the city, introducing him to every Roman of note, and whispering to Massiva's agents what sort of gift would be appropriate to send to every Roman of note Massiva met. Like most members of the Numidian royal house, Massiva was a well-set-up and good-looking Semite with a brain between his ears, capable of exerting charm, and lavish in the distribution of largesse. His chief advantage lay not in the undeniable legitimacy of his claim, but rather in the Roman delight of a divided camp; there was no thrill in a united Senate, no spice in a series of unanimous votes, no reputations to be made in amicable co-operation. At the end of the first week of the New Year, Aulus Albinus formally presented the case of Prince Massiva to the House, and, on his behalf, claimed the throne of Numidia for the legitimate branch. It was Aulus Albinus' s maiden speech, and a good one. Every Caecilius Metellus sat up and listened, then applauded at the end of it, and Marcus Aemilius Scaurus was delighted to speak in support of Massiva's petition. This, he said, was the answer to the vexed question as to what to do about Numidia get it back on the right path with a lawful king at the reins, not a desperate pretender whose bloodline was not good enough to unite the whole country behind him, and who had established his tenure of the throne by murder and bribery. Before Spurius Albinus dismissed the meeting, the Senate was making noises indicating it was very ready to vote in favor of dismissing the present King, and replacing him with Massiva. "We're up to our necks in boiling water," said Bomilcar to Jugurtha. "All of a sudden I'm not being invited to dine anywhere, and our agents can't find any ears prepared to listen." "When is the Senate going to vote?" asked the King, his voice calm and steady. "The fourteenth day before the Kalends of February is the next meeting scheduled for the House that is seven days from tomorrow, sire." The King straightened his shoulders. "It will go against me, won't it?" "Yes, sire," said Bomilcar. "In that case, it is pointless my trying to continue to do things the Roman way." Jugurtha was visibly growing in size, an awful majesty swelling him now that had been kept hidden since he came with Lucius Cassius to Italy. "From now on, I will do things my way the Numidian way." The rain had cleared, a cold sun shone; Jugurtha's bones longed for the warmer winds of Numidia, his body longed for the friendly and unavaricious comfort of his harem, his mind longed for the ruthless logic of Numidian plain dealing. Time to go home! Time to start recruiting and training an army, for the Romans were never going to let go. He paced up and down the colonnade flanking the gigantic peristyle-garden, then beckoned to Bomilcar and strode with him to the center of the open air, by the loudly splashing fountain. "Not even a bird can hear us," he said then. Bomilcar stiffened, prepared himself. "Massiva must go," said the King. "Here? In Rome?" "Yes, and within the next seven days. If Massiva is not dead before the Senate takes its vote, our task will be that much harder. With Massiva dead, there can be no vote. It will buy us time." "I'll kill him myself," said Bomilcar. But Jugurtha shook his head violently. "No! No! The assassin must be a Roman," he said. "Your job is to find the Roman assassin who will kill Massiva for us." Bomilcar stared, aghast. "My lord king, we're in a foreign country! We don' t know where or how, let alone who!" "Ask one of our agents. Surely there's one we can trust," said Jugurtha. That was more concrete; Bomilcar worked at it for some moments, nipping at the short hairs of his beard beneath his bottom lip with strong teeth. "Agelastus," he said at last. "Marcus Servilius Agelastus, the man who never smiles. His father is Roman, he was born and bred here. But his heart is with his Numidian mother, of that I'm sure." "I leave it to you. Do it," said the King, and walked away down the path.

  Agelastus looked stunned. "Here? In Rome?" "Not only here, but within the next seven days," said Bomilcar. "Once the Senate votes for Massiva as it will! we'll have a civil war on our hands in Numidia. Jugurtha won't let go, you know that. Even if he were willing to let go, the Gaetuli wouldn't let him." "But I haven't the faintest idea how to find an assassin!" "Then do the job yourself." "I couldn't!" wailed Agelastus. "It has to be done! Surely in a city this size there are plenty of people willing to do murder for a good sum of money," Bomilcar persisted. "Of course there are! Half the proletariat, if the truth is known. But I don't mix in those circles, I don't know any of the proletarii! After all, I can't just approach the first seedy-looking fellow I see, clink a bag of gold at him, and ask him to kill a prince of Numidia!" moaned Agelastus. "Why not?" asked Bomilcar. "He might report me to the urban praetor, that's why!" "Show him the gold first, and I guarantee he won't. In this city, everyone has his price." "Maybe that is indeed so, Baron," said Agelastus, "but I for one am not prepared to put your theory to the test." And from that stand he would not be budged.

  Everyone said the Subura was Rome's sink, so to the Subura Bomilcar went, clad inconspicuously, and without a single slave to escort him. Like every visitor of note to Rome, he had been warned never to venture into the valley northeast of the Forum Romanum, and now he understood why. Not that the alleys of the Subura were any narrower than those of the Palatine, nor were the buildings as oppressively high as those on the Viminal and upper Esquiline. No, what distinguished the Subura at first experience was people, more people than Bomilcar had ever seen. They leaned out of a thousand thousand windows screeching at each other, they elbowed their way through presses of bodies so great all movement was slowed to a snail's pace, they behaved in every rude and aggressive manner known to the race of men, spat and pissed and emptied their slops anywhere they fancied they saw a space open up, were ready to pick a fight with anyone who so much as looked at them sideways. The second impression was of an all-prevailing squalor, an appalling stench. As he made his way from the civilized Argiletum to the Fauces Suburae, as the initial stretch of the main thoroughfare was known, Bomilcar was incapable of taking in anything beyond smell and dirt. Peeling and dilapidated, the very walls of the buildings oozed filth in runnels, as if the bricks and timber of which they were made had been mortared with filth. Why, he found himself wondering, hadn't they just let the whole district burn down last year, instead of fighting so hard to save it? Nothing and no one in the Subura was worth saving! Then as he penetrated deeper careful as he walked not to turn off the Subura Major, as the main street was now called, into any of the gaps between the buildings on either side, for he knew if he did, he might never find his way out again disgust was replaced by amazement. For he began to see the vitality and hardiness of the inhabitants, and experience a cheerfulness beyond his comprehension. The language he heard was a bizarre mixture of Latin and Greek and a little Aramaic, an argot which probably couldn't be understood by anyone who didn't live in the Subura, for certainly in his extensive wanderings around the rest of Rome, he had never heard its like. There were shops everywhere, foetid little snack bars all apparently doing a thriving trade there was obviously money around somewhere interspersed with bakeries, charcuteries, wine bars, and curious tiny shoplets which seemed (from what he could ascertain by peering into the gloom within) to sell every kind of thing from pieces of twine to cooking pots to lamps and tallow candles. However, clearly food was the best business to be in; at least two thirds of the shops were devoted to some aspect of the food trade. There were factories too: he could hear the thump of presses or the whir of grinding wheels or the clatter of looms, but these noises came from narrow doorways or from side alleys, and were hopelessly fused with what appeared to be tenement dwellings many storeys high. How did anyone ever survive here? Even the little squares at the major crossroads were solid people; the way they managed to do their washing in the
fountain basins and carry pitchers of water home astounded him. Cirta of which city he as a Numidian was inordinately proud he at last admitted was no more than a big village compared to Rome. Even Alexandria, he suspected, might have its work cut out to produce an ants' nest like the Subura. However, there were places in which men gathered to sit and drink and pass the time of day. These seemed to be confined to major crossroads, but even of that he couldn't be sure, unwilling as he was to leave the main street. Everything kept happening very suddenly, in snatches of scenes that opened up before him and closed in a fresh throng of people, from a man beating a laden ass to a woman beating a laden child. But the dim interiors of the crossroads taverns he didn't know what else to call them were oases of relative peace. A big man in the pink of health, Bomilcar finally decided he would find out nothing more illuminating until he ventured inside one. After all, he had come to the Subura to find a Roman assassin, which meant he must find a venue where he could strike up a conversation with some of the local populace. He left the Subura Major to walk up the Vicus Patricii, a main street leading onto the Viminal Hill, and found a crossroads tavern at the base of a triangular open space where the Subura Minor merged into the Vicus Patricii; the size of the shrine and the fountain told him this was a very important compitum, intersection. As he dipped his head to pass under the low lintel of the door, every face inside and there must have been fifty of them lifted and turned toward him, suddenly stony. The buzz of talk died. "I beg your pardon," Bomilcar said, bearing unafraid, eyes busy trying to find the face belonging to the leader. Ah! There in the far left back corner! For as the initial shock of seeing a completely foreign-looking stranger enter wore off, the rest were turning to look at this one face the face of the leader. A Roman rather than a Greek face, the property of a man of small size and perhaps thirty-five years. Bomilcar swung to look directly at him and addressed the rest of his remarks to him, wishing his Latin were fluent enough to speak in the native tongue, but forced to use Greek instead. "I beg your pardon," he said again, "I seem to be guilty of trespass. I was looking for a tavern where I might be seated to drink a cup of wine. It's thirsty work, walking." "This, friend, is a private club," said the leader in atrocious but understandable Greek. "Are there no public taverns?" Bomilcar asked. "Not in the Subura, friend. You're out of your ken. Go back to the Via Nova." "Yes, I know the Via Nova, but I'm a stranger in Rome, and I always think one cannot get the real flavor of a city unless one goes into its most crowded quarter," said Bomilcar, steering a middle course between touristy fatuousness and foreign ignorance. The leader was eyeing him up and down, shrewdly calculating. "Thirsty as all that, are you, friend?" he asked. Gratefully Bomilcar seized upon the gambit. "Thirsty enough to buy everyone here a drink," he said. The leader pushed the man sitting next to him off his stool, and patted it. "Well, if my honorable colleagues agree, we could make you an honorary member. Take the weight off your feet, friend." His head turned casually. "All in favor of making this gent an honorary member, say aye?'' "Aye!" came the chorus. Bomilcar looked in vain for counter or vendor, drew a secret breath, and put his purse on the table so that one or two silver denarii spilled out of its mouth; either they would murder him for its contents, or he was indeed an honorary member. "May I?" he asked the leader. "Bromidus, get the gent and the members a nice big flagon," said the leader to the minion he had unseated to make room for Bomilcar. "Wine bar we use is right next door," he explained. The purse spilled a few more denarii. "Is that enough?" "To buy one round, friend, it's plenty." Out chinked more coins. "How about several rounds?" A collective sigh went up; everyone visibly relaxed. The minion Bromidus picked up the coins and disappeared out the door followed by three eager helpers, while Bomilcar held out his right hand to the leader. "My name is Juba," he said. "Lucius Decumius," said the leader, shaking hands vigorously. "Juba! What sort of name is that?" "It's Moorish. I'm from Mauretania." "Maura–what? Where's it?" "In Africa." "Africa?" Clearly Bomilcar could as easily have said the Land of the Hyperboreans; it would have meant as much or as little to Lucius Decumius. "A long way from Rome," the honorary member explained. "A place far to the west of Carthage." "Oh, Carthage* Why didn't you say so in the first place?" Lucius Decumius turned to stare into this interesting visitor's face intently. "I didn't think Scipio Aemilianus left any of you lot alive," he said. "He didn't. Mauretania isn't Carthage, it's far to the west of Carthage. Both of them are in Africa, is all," said Bomilcar patiently. "What used to be Carthage is now the Roman African province. Where this year's consul is going you know, Spurius Postumius Albinus." Lucius Decumius shrugged. "Consuls? They come and they go, friend, they come and they go. Makes no difference to the Subura, they don't live hereabouts, you comprehend. But just so long as you admit Rome's the top dog in the world, friend, you're welcome in the Subura. So are the consuls." "Believe me, I know Rome is the top dog in the world," said Bomilcar with feeling. "My master King Bocchus of Mauretania has sent me to Rome to ask the Senate to make him a Friend and Ally of the Roman People." "Well, what do you know?" Lucius Decumius remarked idly. Bromidus came back staggering under the weight of a huge flagon, followed by three others similarly burdened, and proceeded to dispense liquid refreshments to all; he started with Decumius, who gave him a wallop on his thigh that hurt. "Here, idiot, got no manners?" he demanded. "Serve the gent who paid for it first, or I'll have your guts." Bomilcar got a brimming beaker within seconds, and lifted it in a toast. "Here's to the best place and the best friends I've found so-far in Rome," he said, and drank the awful vintage with feigned relish. Ye gods, they must have steel intestines! Bowls of food also appeared, pickled vinegary gherkins and onions and walnuts, sticks of celery and slivers of carrots, a stinking mess of tiny salted fish that disappeared in a trice. None of it could Bomilcar eat. "Here's to you, Juba, old friend!" said Decumius. "Juba!" the rest chorused, in high good humor. Within half an hour Bomilcar knew more about the workingman's Rome than he had ever dreamed of knowing, and found it fascinating; that he knew far less about the workingman's Numidia did not occur to him. All the members of the club worked, he discovered, learning that on each successive day a different group of men would use the club's facilities; most of them seemed to get every eighth day off work. About a quarter of the men in the room wore the little conical beanies on the backs of their heads that denoted they were freedmen, freed slaves; to his surprise, Bomilcar ascertained that some of the others were actually still slaves, yet nonetheless appeared to stand in the same stead as the rest of the members, worked in the same sorts of jobs for the same pay and the same hours and the same days off which seemed very strange to him, but obviously was normal in the eyes of everyone else. And Bomilcar began to understand the real difference between a slave and a freeman: a freeman could come and go and choose his place and kind of work as he wanted, whereas a slave belonged to his employer, was his employer's property, so could not dictate his own life. Quite different from slavery in Numidia. But then, he reflected fairly, for he was a fair man, every nation has its different rules and regulations about slaves, no two the same. Unlike the ordinary members, Lucius Decumius was a permanent fixture. "I'm the club custodian," he said, sober as when he had sipped his first mouthful. "What sort of club is it exactly?" Bomilcar asked, trying to eke out his drink as long as he could. "I don't suppose you would know," said Lucius Decumius. "This, friend, is a crossroads club. A proper sodality, a sort of a college, really. Registered with the aediles and the urban praetor, blessed by the Pontifex Maximus. Crossroads clubs go back to the kings, before there was a republic. There's a lot of power in places where big roads cross. The proper compita, I'm talking about, not your little piddlyarse crossings of lanes and alleys. Yes, there's a lot of power in the crossroads. I mean imagine you were a god and you looked down on Rome you'd be a bit muddled if you wanted to chuck a thunderbolt or a dollop of plague, wouldn't you? If you go up onto the Capitol you'll get a good idea of what I mean a heap of red roofs as close together as the tiles in a mosaic. But if you
look hard, you can always see the gaps where the big roads cross, the compita like we've got outside these here premises. So if you were a god, that's where you'd chuck your thunderbolt or your dollop of plague, right? Only us Romans are clever, friend. Real clever. The kings worked out that we'd have to protect ourselves at the crossroads. So the crossroads were put under the protection of the Lares, shrines were built to the Lares at every crossroads even before there were fountains. Didn't you notice the shrine against the wall of the club outside? The little tower thingy?" "I did," said Bomilcar, growing confused. "Who exactly are the Lares? More than one god?'' "Oh, there's Lares everywhere hundreds thousands," said Decumius vaguely. "Rome's full of Lares. So's Italy, they say, though I've never been to Italy. I don't know any soldiers, so I can't say if the Lares go overseas with the legions too. But they're certainly here, everywhere they're needed. And it's up to us the crossroads clubs to take good care of our Lares. We keep the shrine in order and the offerings coming, we keep the fountain clean, we move broken-down wagons, dead bodies mostly animals and we shift the rubble when a building falls down. And around the New Year we have this big party, the Compitalia it's called. It only happened a couple of days ago, that's why we're so short on money for wine. We spend our funds and it takes time to save more." "I see," said Bomilcar, who honestly didn't; the old Roman gods were an insoluble mystery to him. "Do you have to fund the party entirely among yourselves?" "Yes and no," said Lucius Decumius, scratching his armpit. ' 'We get some money from the urban praetor toward it, enough for a few pigs to roast depends on who's urban praetor. Some are real generous. Other years they're so stingy their shit don't stink." The conversation veered to curious questions about life in Carthage; it was impossible to get it through their heads that any other place in Africa existed, for their grasp of history and geography seemed to consist of what they gleaned from their visits to the Forum Romanum, not so far from their clubhouse in distance, but a remote place nonetheless. When they did visit the Forum Romanum, it was apparently because political unrest lent it interest and imparted a circusy flavor to Rome's governing center. Their view of Rome's political life was therefore somewhat skewed; its high point seemed to have been during the troubles culminating in the death of Gaius Sempronius Gracchus. Finally the moment arrived. The members had all grown so used to his presence they didn't notice him, and they were besides fuddled from too much wine. Whereas Lucius Decumius was still sober, his alert inquisitive eyes never leaving Bomilcar's face. Not mere chance that this Juba fellow was here among his inferiors; he was after something. "Lucius Decumius," said Bomilcar, leaning his head so close to the Roman that only the Roman could hear, "I have a problem, and I'm hoping you'll be able to tell me how to go about solving it." "Yes, friend?" "My master, King Bocchus, is very rich." "I'd expect he's rich, him being a king." "What worries King Bocchus is his prospect of remaining a king," said Bomilcar slowly. "He's got a problem." "Same problem as yours, friend?" "Exactly the same." "How can I help?" Decumius plucked an onion out of the bowl of assorted pickles on the table and chewed at it reflectively. "In Africa the answer would be simple. The King would simply give an order, and the man who constitutes our problem would be executed.'' Bomilcar stopped, wondering how long it would be before Decumius caught on. "Aha! So the problem's got a name, has he?" "That's right. Massiva." "Sounds a bit more Latin than Juba," Decumius said. "Massiva is a Numidian, not a Mauretanian." The lees of his wine seemed to fascinate Bomilcar, who stirred them into swirls with his finger. "The difficulty is, Massiva is living here in Rome. And making trouble for us." "I can see where Rome makes it difficult," said Decumius, in a tone which lent his remark several different meanings. Bomilcar looked at the little man, startled; here was a brain of subtlety as well as acuity. He took a deep breath. "My share of the problem is made more perilous because I'm a stranger in Rome," he said. "You see, I have to find a Roman who is willing to kill Prince Massiva. Here. In Rome." Lucius Decumius didn't so much as blink. "Well, that's not hard," he said. "It's not?" "Money'll buy you anything in Rome, friend." "Then can you tell me where to go?" asked Bomilcar. "Seek no further, friend, seek no further," said Decumius, swallowing the last of his onion. "I'd cut the throats of half the Senate for the chance to eat oysters instead of onions. How much does the job pay, like?" "How many denarii are in this purse?" Bomilcar emptied it upon the table. "Not enough to kill for." "What about the same amount in gold?" Decumius slapped his thigh hard. "Now you're talking! You have got yourself a deal, friend." Bomilcar's head was spinning, but not from the wine, which he had been surreptitiously pouring on the floor for the last hour. "Half tomorrow, and half after the job is done," he said, pushing the coins back into the maw of the purse. A stained hand with filthy nails arrested him. "Leave this here as evidence of good faith, friend. And come back tomorrow. Only wait outside by the shrine. We'll go to my flat to talk." Bomilcar got up. "I'll be here, Lucius Decumius." As they walked to the door he stopped to look down into the club custodian's ill-shaven face. "Have you ever killed anyone?" he asked. Up went Decumius's right forefinger against the right side of his nose. "A nod is as good as a wink to a blind barber, friend," he said. "In the Subura a man don't boast." Satisfied, Bomilcar smiled at Decumius and walked off into the congestion of the Subura Minor.