Roman Blood by Steven Saylor Page B

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."
    " N o t exactly . . ."
    40

    "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. " A n d 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."
    " Y o u 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 un-leashed 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 the city."
    Cicero looked as if a bad tooth were worrying him. He raised his hand to silence me. I raised my own hand to stave him off.
    " I ' m only now reaching my point. You see, it wasn't only the rich and powerful who suffered during the proscriptions, and still suffer. Once Pandora's box is opened, no one can close it. Crime becomes habit. The unthinkable becomes commonplace. You don't see it from here, where 41

    you live. This street is too narrow, too quiet. No weeds grow through the paving stones that run by your door. Oh, no doubt, in the worst of it, you had a few neighbors dragged from their homes in the middle of the night. Perhaps you have a view of the Forum from the roof, and on a clear day you might have counted the new heads added to the pikes.
    "But I see a different Rome, Cicero, that other Rome that Sulla has left to posterity. They say he plans to retire soon, leaving behind him a new constitution to strengthen the upper classes and put the people in their place. And what is that place, but the crime-ridden Rome that Sulla bequeaths to us? My Rome, Cicero. A Rome that breeds in shadow, that moves at night, that breathes the very air of vice without the disguises of politics or wealth. After all, that's why you've called me here,