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 agod 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.
*
Marcus Livius Drusus, who had bee
n consul two years before, celebrated his triumph halfway through the second week of January. Assigned the province of Macedonia for his governorship in the year he was consul and lucky enough to have his command prorogued, he pursued a highly successful border war against the Scordisci, a tribe of clever and well-organized Celts who perpetually harassed Roman Macedonia. But in Marcus Livius Drusus they encountered a man of exceptional ability, and went down heavily. The result had been more beneficial than usual for Rome; Drusus was lucky enough to capture one of the largest Scordisci strongholds and find secreted within it a considerable part of the Scordisci wealth. Most governors of Macedonia celebrated triumphs at the ends of their terms, but everyone agreed Marcus Livius Drusus deserved the honor more than most.
Prince Massiva was the guest of the consul Spurius Postumius Albinus at the festivities, and so was given a superb seat inside the Circus Maximus, from which vantage point he watched the long triumphal parade pass through the Circus, marveling as he discovered at first hand what he had always been told, that the Romans had real showmanship, knew better than any other people the art of staging a spectacle. His Greek of course was excellent, so he had understood his pretriumphal briefing, and was up from his seat ready to go before the last of Drusus’s legions were out the Capena end of the vast arena. The whole consular party exited through a private door into the Forum Boarium, hurried up the Steps of Cacus onto the Palatine, and redoubled its pace. Steering the straightest course possible, twelve lictors led the way through almost deserted alleys, the hobnailed soles of their winter boots grinding against the cobblestones.
Ten minutes after leaving their seats in the Circus Maximus, Spurius Albinus’s party clattered down the Vestal Steps into the Forum Romanum, heading for the temple of Castor and Pollux. Here, on the platform at the top of the steps of this imposing edifice, both consuls were to seat themselves and their guests to watch the parade come down the Via Sacra from the Velia toward the Capitol; in order to avoid insulting the triumphator, they had to be in position when the parade appeared.