Half unconsciously, everyone there made some gesture to ward off evil, making apotropaic hand signs, fishing out phallic amulets, or reciting protective cantrips. Those lucky enough to be standing near an altar or statue of a god kissed their hands and pressed them to the sacred object. This we always do when that ill-starred year is mentioned, for it was in the consulship of Paullus and Varro that Hannibal met the greatest Roman army ever assembled and annihilated it at Cannae.
At that point a pair of lictors, their fasces shouldered, pushed their way through the crowd and stopped in front of me.
“Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger,” said one of them, “you are summoned to appear before the court of the praetor Marcus Juventius Laterensis at dawn tomorrow.” They looked a bit uncomfortable carrying out this commonplace duty. If I should be elected praetor they might be assigned to me, and they feared I would remember them with disfavor.
“Why wait?” I said. “Let’s go see him now.” I left my spot and began to walk toward the basilica with my whole crowd behind me. I couldn’t accomplish anything at court until my trial began, but I didn’t want to give Fulvius anymore free publicity at my expense.
One of Fulvius’s men, an ugly, scar-faced thug, pushed toward me. “Hey! You can’t—” He got that far when Hermes stepped up to him and punched him in the face. The boy could hit as hard as any professional boxer, and the man went down like a sacrificial ox. My father clouted another over the head with his cane, and the rest fell back before us.
Had something like this occurred just a few years before, there would have been real bloodshed, but Pompey had finally set the city in order, expelled the gangs that had made elections so uproarious, and restored a little of our dignity. In consequence, everybody was bored and ready for a fight.
It was a very short walk to the basilica where Juventius had his court. The lictors had to hold the mob back while we stormed in, interrupting some case he was hearing. Juventius looked up, his face furious.
“I will hear your case tomorrow! Get out of my court!” He was a hard-faced man of no real distinction. Like most, he had done no more than put in the requisite civil and military time and had spent enough on his games as aedile, and so he got his year in the curule chair. Of course, some would say the same of me.
“Tomorrow!” I yelled. “This malicious wretch has had who knows how many months to put his plot together, to rehearse his perjurious witnesses, to bribe and suborn the testimony he needs to prove his false accusations, and I have until tomorrow to prepare my case! Citizens!” I smote my breast dramatically and almost choked on my own cloud of chalk dust. “Is this justice?” I was shouting loud enough to be heard outside and sounds of a gratifying agreement came back to me.
“Lictors!” Juventius shouted. “Throw these trespassers out!” Since his lictors were outside trying to hold the crowd back, they were in something of a quandary.
“What’s all this unseemliness?” The voice was not terribly loud, but all disorder quieted instantly. Pompey entered the basilica, preceded by his twelve lictors. Technically, he was proconsul for Nearer and Farther Spain, but he also had an extraordinary oversight of the grain supply, so he remained in Italy to keep everyone from starving while his legates attended to both Spanish provinces. It was an unheard-of arrangement for a proconsul with full imperium to remain in Italy; but in this, as in everything else, Pompey was a law unto himself.
“Proconsul,” Juventius said, “I’ve summoned Metellus the Younger to appear before me tomorrow, and he has shown up instead today, interrupting court business.”
“You gave him short enough notice. Why should he do less for you?” Then he turned to me. “Decius, you’ve been provoked, but I’ll not have disorder in Roman courts. Go home and get your defense ready. I’m sure you’ll have a good one.”
“Naturally,” I said to him. “I have hundreds of witnesses to my activities, and they’re all on Cyprus! If I were, at great expense, to dispatch a fast cutter I could bring a few dozen here in about a month. At least I could if it were the sailing season, which it isn’t.”
“You’d better think of something,” Pompey advised, “because if your case is carried over into the next year, you can’t be elected praetor.”
He turned around, strode to the entrance, and bellowed, “This matter is to be settled tomorrow! I want you all to go about your business. There are to be no unlawful assemblies or disorderly demonstrations.”
Meekly, the whole crowd did his bidding. Pompey was acting as if he were sovereign of the City. Since the City was well-supplied with his veterans in those days, he might as well have been.
“We’ll meet at my house this evening,” Father said. “Summon our highest-ranking supporters. We have some serious planning to do.”
2
BY THE TIME I GOT HOME, JULIA ALready knew most of the story. Her network of slaves, tradesmen, and the women of her social circle rivaled the espionage organization of any Eastern potentate. She met me in our atrium that afternoon with a harried expression and a formidable degree of preparation. She clapped her hands, and the household slaves bustled to do her bidding. A slave took my candidate’s toga as another toweled the chalk from my neck and arms.
“Come along,” Julia said. “We have a lot to discuss and not much time.” I followed her into the dining room where more slaves were already setting the table for us. I flopped onto a couch and somebody took my sandals.
“Eat,” Julia commanded. “You’re going to have a long night of plotting ahead of you at your father’s house.”
“You already know about that?” I reached for the wine, and she slapped my hand. I grabbed a roll instead.
“How should I not?” She mixed the wine with water. Far too much water. “They’ll want to organize a legal defense for you. Tell them they are wasting their time.”
“Why should I do that? Even perjured testimony has to be answered and countered. I don’t see how the man can hope to make his charges stick.”
Julia rolled her eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? He has no intention of bringing in a conviction! He just wants to keep you out of the election!”
“But why? He can’t hope to make his reputation on an abortive trial resulting in an acquittal.”
“That’s the question we have to answer.” She shoved a cup of the weak mixture into my hand. I dipped my bread into balsam-steeped oil and chewed.
“If he doesn’t benefit directly from my exclusion from office, then who does? That’s always Cicero’s question, isn’t it? ‘Who benefits?’ ”
“There is another question to ask: Are you the real target of this attack?”
“What do you mean?” I downed a couple of oysters and went after a roast chicken.
“His words, as reported to me, were that he would bring down ‘the great Caecilius Metellus.’ You are not the most distinguished of your family. He may be attacking the family through you.”
“If we were known Pompeians or Caesarians that would make sense, but we aren’t. The family supported Sulla and has gone its own way since his death.”
“There are those who may find that intolerable,” Julia said obscurely.
“How well do you know Fulvia? He’s her brother.”
“I’ve scarcely seen her these past few years, except when we both attended noblewomen’s ceremonies the Bona Dea festival and the rites of Ceres and so forth. When she was married to Clodius, she was tight with that circle, naturally. Now it looks as if she’ll marry Marcus Antonius, and Antonius has thrown in his lot with Caesar. So I can’t imagine that she’s put her brother up to this, evil bitch though she may be.”
“Do you think she’s all that bad?”
“Clodia’s a Vestal by comparison.” The notorious Clodia had retired to virtual seclusion since her brother’s death, thus robbing Rome of its favorite focus for scandal. As always, I grew uneasy when my wife mentioned Clodia. I had a checkered and somewhat unsavory past with that woman.
“Then who? The maj
or factions should be trying to court the Metelli, not to alienate them.” I attacked an unoffending but delicious rabbit, tore off its leg and dipped it in garum.
Julia thought about it for a while, then she seemed to get off the subject. “Who do you think your family will support? They can’t stay neutral forever. Sooner or later they’ll have to declare for Caesar or Pompey.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “For one thing, a year from now, Caesar or Pompey or both could be dead. Gaul is not a healthy place, as I can attest from experience. One stray arrow, one determined assassin, an unexpected German offensive—any number of things could spell an abrupt end for Caesar. For that matter, an ague or a disgruntled officer could do it. Recall if you will that half the Senate cooperated to send him to Gaul in hopes that he’d die there.
“As for Pompey, he’s at the age when men drop dead suddenly of natural causes. He’s put on weight and doesn’t get around like he used to.”
“You aren’t answering me.” Julia was as relentless as any lawyer.
“It depends on who frightens them the most. They’ve spent decades scared of Pompey and his soldiers, and they’ve opposed him most of the time. Now they’re getting apprehensive of Caesar. He has an unprecedentedly large and happy army, and for several years he’s been virtual king of Gaul and Illyricum. When the time comes, they’ll take sides against the one who gives them the biggest scare. They’ll back the weaker man.”
“When will they decide who frightens them most?”
“It depends on how Caesar and Pompey act. They’ll try to keep things peaceful as long as they can. If Pompey keeps his veterans in the south, and if Caesar lays down his imperium when his term expires, comes back to Rome and takes his place in the Senate, then my family will try to keep the peace and stay in the good graces of both of them.”
“Do you think that will happen?”
“I think it’s unlikely. Caesar has shown his contempt for the Senate too clearly. If he tries to do what Sertorius did and set himself up as an independent king, there will be civil war and Pompey will lead the campaign against him. If Pompey takes it into his head to call up his soldiers and capture southern Italy, my family will go to Caesar and beg him to crush Pompey.”
“And if Caesar returns to Rome but doesn’t lay down his imperium? If he brings his soldiers with him and camps outside the walls of Rome?”
“Then my family will side with Pompey. They always back the weaker man, the one they think they can control. I hope it doesn’t come to any of these ends, because then it will make no difference whom we back. It will mean the end of the Republic.”
“Perhaps it’s time,” Julia said.
“Never! If there is another civil war, whoever wins, Caesar or Pompey or another man, he will make himself dictator. And unlike Sulla, this one will not retire and restore the Republic. It will be monarchy, just like in the Orient. That would be unworthy of Rome.”
“We’re getting away from the subject,” Julia said. She would never say it, but the idea of her uncle as monarch didn’t bother her a bit. “I am going to look into this man Fulvius and his past. Someone is behind him and when we know who it is, we’ll know how to fight him.”
“Much as I detest Sallustius,” I told her, “I am almost ready to take his advice and offer the bastard a bribe to back off.”
“Whoever is behind him will have thought of that,” she said. “He’s been offered something better than money.”
“Better than money,” I pointed out, “there is only honor and public office, which he is unlikely to attain if he follows this course.”
“Men value different things,” she said. “Not everyone is a Roman of great family.”
“This is quite true,” I agreed. “We need to find out who this man is. We haven’t a great deal of time to do it in.”
She glanced at the slant of sunlight pouring through the triclinium door. “It’s not late yet. I think I’ll go pay Fulvia a call. She is still at the house of Clodius, I believe. She is so snubbed by women of quality that she’ll be eager to talk.”
“You be careful around that woman,” I told her. “Take along some of my clients, the ex-legionaries and brawlers.”
“A Caesar needs no bodyguard,” she said contemptuously. Julia always saw her status as Caesar’s niece as a sort of invisible armor protecting her wherever she went. I saw it more as an archer’s mark painted between her shoulder blades.
I ARRIVED AT MY FATHER’S HOUSE just as the sun was setting. Hermes was with me, and I had stopped by the houses of a few friends, men of high rank and good reputation, whose support I could count upon. There was already a goodly crowd outside the gate, servants, clients, and supporters of the important men already gathered within.
As I approached the gate a large litter arrived. It was Hortalus, who had grown too old, stout, and infirm to walk great distances. He was already dressed in his striped augur’s robe and carried the lituus: the crook-topped staff of that sacred office. With him was the eminent Appius Claudius Pulcher, a very distinguished soldier and administrator. He was standing for censor and was sure to be elected. This man was the elder brother of Clodius; but he was a man of entirely different character, and I had never had any but cordial relations with him.
Inside, a sizable chunk of Rome’s senatorial power was assembled. I qualify this because the real power was elsewhere, fighting Gauls and Parthians.
“Here’s Hortensius,” Metellus Scipio said, as we came in. “That was a good stab you got in today about the unspeakable year. Was it true?”
“Oh, yes,” Hortalus said. “I never lie about legal precedents. I wish that sort of opening came my way more often in court.”
“I’ve been wondering about that,” I said. “Aside from the fact that Fulvius steals the words of better men, where was he likely to have learned them?”
“Aulus Sulpicius Galba is the great scholar of the jurisprudence of that era,” said Hortalus. “He used to make all his students memorize the orations of Billienus.”
“Used to?” I said.
“He retired from Roman practice at least twenty years ago. We rarely see him here now. Last I heard he was teaching law in Baiae and has been elected duumvir of the town.”
“If I could be the most important man in Baiae,” I said, “I wouldn’t be in Rome either. Well, that much makes sense. Fulvius is from Baiae, so he must have studied law there under Galba.”
“Nobody here knows much about Fulvius,” Father said. “He’s been in the City only a few months at most.”
“Appius,” said Creticus, who held a huge goblet of wine, “not to dredge up any family scandals, but do you know anything about him? He is a relative of yours by marriage.”
“I never heard of him before today,” Appius Claudius said. “I had little to do with my brother his last few years and even less with his wife. This brother of hers never approached me for patronage and wouldn’t have got it if he had.”
I took a cup from a passing slave. The wine was, mercifully, not as heavily watered as Julia served it.
“Marcus Cato can’t be here tonight,” Scipio said, “but he’s agreed to begin tomorrow’s proceedings with an oration concerning conditions on Cyprus. He saw to the Roman annexation of the island, and he briefed Decius before he went out there. We’ve yet to locate any citizens who were there during Decius’s activities against the pirates, and we’re unlikely to anytime soon. We have, however, a great many important men ready to testify to his splendid character.”
“He’ll have more, swearing what an utter, degenerate criminal and pervert I am,” I pointed out.
“What’s more, his witnesses will be more believable,” Creticus said, raising a general laugh at my expense.
“Your aedileship was the most popular since Caesar’s,” Scipio pointed out. “The plebeians will be solidly behind you.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “but virtually all my fines and prosecutions were leveled against crooked contractors, dishonest entre
preneurs, violators of the business and building codes, all of them equites. Guess who will be on the jury.”
“Equites, of course,” Father replied. “In Sulla’s day, a senator was tried before his peers.” I could have pointed out the injustice of that policy, but at that moment I was entirely in agreement with the bloody old butcher.
“Perhaps,” I said, “we’re approaching this from the wrong direction.” I sketched the possibility Julia had raised. Of course, I pretended that it had been my idea.
“I don’t believe that his odd phrasing escaped any of us who were there,” Hortalus said. “ ‘The mighty Caecilius Metellus’ indeed! I, too, am inclined to think that this represents an attack on the whole gens Caecilia.”
“I agree,” Father said. “Has anyone any better idea?” None had. “Very well. The fact remains that the form this attack has taken is a personal one against my son. As such we must address it, and we have three days to clear this matter up so that we can get Decius the younger elected praetor.”
“Now,” Creticus said, “we need to discuss the various underhanded ways we can counter this exceedingly underhanded offensive. Scipio, will Pompey intervene for us?”
Scipio’s daughter, widow of Publius Crassus who had died at Carrhae, had married Pompey, a man somewhat older than her father. The old boy was quite besotted with her, and when his father-in-law was prosecuted Pompey called the jury together at his own house and asked personally for an acquittal. Scipio was immediately cleared of all charges and carried from the Forum on the shoulders of the men who were to have tried him.
“That won’t work twice,” Scipio said. “He earned enough resentment last time. To do it again, for a member of the same family, could turn the whole Senate against him.”
“How about a bribe?” Father asked. He saw my mouth open and pointed a bony finger at my face. “None of your delicate scruples now, Son. This is politics at its dirtiest, and bribing the fellow may turn out to be the easiest, simplest, and, in the long run, cheapest way to go. How much of your pirate loot remains?”
SPQR X: A Point of Law Page 3