would talk politics.’
‘Only because politics is the air we breathe – I inhale a breath, and what else could come out? It may be otherwise in other cities, but not in the Republic, and not in our lifetimes. Call it politics, call it reality. The gangs exist for a reason. No one can get rid of them. Everyone fears them. A man bent on murder would find a way to use them. He’d only be following the example of a successful politician.’
‘You mean—’
‘I don’t mean any particular politician. They all use the gangs, or try to.’
‘But you mean Sulla.’
Cicero spoke the name first. I was surprised. I was impressed. At some point the conversation had slipped out of control. It was quickly turning seditious.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘If you insist: Sulla.’ I looked away. My eyes fell on the yellow curtain. I found myself gazing at it and into it, as if in the vagueness of the shapes beyond I could make out the images of an old nightmare. ‘Were you in Rome when the proscriptions began?’
Cicero nodded.
‘So was I. Then you know what it was like. Each day the new list of the proscribed would be posted in the Forum. And who were always first in line to read the names? No, not anyone who might have been on the list, because they were all cowering at home, or wisely barricaded in the countryside. First in line were the gangs and their leaders – because Sulla didn’t care who destroyed his enemies, or his imagined enemies, so long as they were destroyed. Show up with the head of a proscribed man slung over your shoulder, sign a receipt, and receive a bag of silver in exchange. To acquire that head, stop at nothing. Break down the doors of a citizen’s house. Beat his children, rape his wife – but leave his valuables in place, for once head and body are parted, the property of a proscribed Roman becomes the property of Sulla.’
‘Not exactly . . .’
‘I misspoke, of course. I meant to say that when an enemy of the state is beheaded, his estate is confiscated and becomes property of the state – meaning that it will be auctioned at the earliest convenient date at insanely low prices to Sulla’s friends.’
Even Cicero blanched at this. He concealed his agitation well, but I noticed his eyes shift for the briefest instant from side to side, as if he were wary of spies concealed among the scrolls. ‘You’re a man of strong opinions, Gordianus. The heat loosens your tongue. But what has any of this to do with the subject at hand?’
I had to laugh. ‘And what is the subject? I think I’ve forgotten.’
‘Arranging a murder,’ Cicero snapped, sounding for all the world like a teacher of oratory attempting to steer an unruly pupil back to the prescribed topic. ‘A murder of purely personal motive.’
‘Well, then, I’m only trying to point out how easy it is these days to find a willing assassin. And not only in the Subura. Look on any street corner – yes, even this one. I’d gladly wager that I could leave your door, walk around the block exactly once, and return with a newfound friend more than willing to murder my pleasure-loving, whoremongering, hypothetical father.’
‘You go too far, Gordianus. Had you been trained in rhetoric, you’d know the limits of hyperbole.’
‘I don’t exaggerate. The gangs have grown that bold. It’s Sulla’s fault and no one else’s. He made them his personal bounty hunters. He unleashed them to run wild across Rome, like packs of wolves. Until the proscriptions officially ended last year, the gangs had almost unlimited power to hunt and kill. So they bring in the head of an innocent man, a man who’s not on the list – so what? Accidents happen. Add his name to the list of the proscribed. The dead man becomes a retroactive enemy of the state. What matter if that means his family will be disinherited, his children ruined and reduced to paupers, fresh fodder for the gangs? It also means that some friend of Sulla’s will acquire a new house in
‘Only because politics is the air we breathe – I inhale a breath, and what else could come out? It may be otherwise in other cities, but not in the Republic, and not in our lifetimes. Call it politics, call it reality. The gangs exist for a reason. No one can get rid of them. Everyone fears them. A man bent on murder would find a way to use them. He’d only be following the example of a successful politician.’
‘You mean—’
‘I don’t mean any particular politician. They all use the gangs, or try to.’
‘But you mean Sulla.’
Cicero spoke the name first. I was surprised. I was impressed. At some point the conversation had slipped out of control. It was quickly turning seditious.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘If you insist: Sulla.’ I looked away. My eyes fell on the yellow curtain. I found myself gazing at it and into it, as if in the vagueness of the shapes beyond I could make out the images of an old nightmare. ‘Were you in Rome when the proscriptions began?’
Cicero nodded.
‘So was I. Then you know what it was like. Each day the new list of the proscribed would be posted in the Forum. And who were always first in line to read the names? No, not anyone who might have been on the list, because they were all cowering at home, or wisely barricaded in the countryside. First in line were the gangs and their leaders – because Sulla didn’t care who destroyed his enemies, or his imagined enemies, so long as they were destroyed. Show up with the head of a proscribed man slung over your shoulder, sign a receipt, and receive a bag of silver in exchange. To acquire that head, stop at nothing. Break down the doors of a citizen’s house. Beat his children, rape his wife – but leave his valuables in place, for once head and body are parted, the property of a proscribed Roman becomes the property of Sulla.’
‘Not exactly . . .’
‘I misspoke, of course. I meant to say that when an enemy of the state is beheaded, his estate is confiscated and becomes property of the state – meaning that it will be auctioned at the earliest convenient date at insanely low prices to Sulla’s friends.’
Even Cicero blanched at this. He concealed his agitation well, but I noticed his eyes shift for the briefest instant from side to side, as if he were wary of spies concealed among the scrolls. ‘You’re a man of strong opinions, Gordianus. The heat loosens your tongue. But what has any of this to do with the subject at hand?’
I had to laugh. ‘And what is the subject? I think I’ve forgotten.’
‘Arranging a murder,’ Cicero snapped, sounding for all the world like a teacher of oratory attempting to steer an unruly pupil back to the prescribed topic. ‘A murder of purely personal motive.’
‘Well, then, I’m only trying to point out how easy it is these days to find a willing assassin. And not only in the Subura. Look on any street corner – yes, even this one. I’d gladly wager that I could leave your door, walk around the block exactly once, and return with a newfound friend more than willing to murder my pleasure-loving, whoremongering, hypothetical father.’
‘You go too far, Gordianus. Had you been trained in rhetoric, you’d know the limits of hyperbole.’
‘I don’t exaggerate. The gangs have grown that bold. It’s Sulla’s fault and no one else’s. He made them his personal bounty hunters. He unleashed them to run wild across Rome, like packs of wolves. Until the proscriptions officially ended last year, the gangs had almost unlimited power to hunt and kill. So they bring in the head of an innocent man, a man who’s not on the list – so what? Accidents happen. Add his name to the list of the proscribed. The dead man becomes a retroactive enemy of the state. What matter if that means his family will be disinherited, his children ruined and reduced to paupers, fresh fodder for the gangs? It also means that some friend of Sulla’s will acquire a new house in
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