“Very little. After the monument and the new roof of the portico, clearing my debts, and my donation to the Treasury, there’s barely enough remaining to support my state as praetor.” The praetorship wasn’t as costly an office as the aedileship, but my expenses would still be heavy: compensation for my clients, who would attend me every court day; regular gifts for my lictors; and the lavish entertaining expected of an office holder.
“You shouldn’t have given so much to the Treasury,” Creticus said.
“We could all lend you a few talents to buy the man off,” Scipio suggested.
“He won’t be bought if it’s the family he’s after,” I pointed out. Once again I presented Julia’s suspicions as my own.
“So who can afford to outspend us?” Scipio asked. “Or place him in high office? The only likely suspects are Caesar and Pompey, and it makes little sense for either of them to do this.”
“There are other men of ambition,” said Appius Claudius. “Desperate men who can’t climb by constitutional means are apt to employ desperate tactics.”
“You mean like Catilina?” I said. “Some frustrated, would-be dictator currying favor among the malcontents and the dispossessed?”
“I am thinking more of the exiles,” he answered. “Gabinius would dearly love to come back to Rome and resume his career. You had a run-in with him on Cyprus, did you not?”
“Yes, early on,” I told him, “but we patched it up.”
“You are not his lifelong friend though,” Father said, “and no man is your friend where great ambition is concerned. I think we should consider Gabinius as a possibility. What about Curio?”
“The man’s a pauper!” Hortalus protested.
“So was Caesar until a few years ago,” Creticus said. “Curio’s standing for Tribune of the People, he has a slate of proposed legislation that’s as ambitious as anything since the brothers Gracchi—”
“And,” Scipio put in, “he’s suddenly presenting himself as the enemy of the optimates. Just a month ago he was solidly in our camp.”
I could see that my family had been discussing Curio quite a bit already. I barely knew Caius Scribonius Curio, who was a wellborn, high-living young man of little accomplishment, although he was said to be extremely intelligent and a fine speaker.
“If he’s elected tribune,” Father said, “he’ll be in a strong position to push Fulvius’s career. Let’s consider him a possibility.”
It went on like this for some time, one name after another being brought forth for consideration. There were a lot of names to consider, too. A family as politically important as mine had as many enemies as friends. And not everyone at the gathering possessed as logical a brain as mine. Some names were raised simply because the raiser disliked the man, or he was known for some especially unusual vice, or he practiced a suspect religion. Someone even brought up the name of Vatinius, an eccentric senator who was fond of wearing a black toga even when he wasn’t in mourning. It was some sort of Pythagorean practice. Otherwise, the man was harmless.
By midnight we had run through just about all the legal and political possibilities except for assassination. I think that was omitted only because the problem wasn’t quite that serious. I could always stand for election again the next year, annoying though that might be.
“Well,” Hortalus said, lurching to his feet, “I’m off. I am going to the house of Claudius Marcellus, where we shall watch the skies from his excellent garden. All of you take my advice and get some sleep. We really can’t formulate our defense until we know more about this upstart, Flavius. This time tomorrow we will know all we need to about that man.”
“Let me accompany you,” I said. “The streets are black, and the night is moonless. My men brought plenty of torches, and they’re all veterans.”
“A good idea,” Father said. “When you’ve seen our friend to his destination, get some rest and we’ll all meet at dawn on the basilica steps.”
Outside, I got Hermes and my men arranged, some in front of Hortalus’s litter, some behind. Just because the great gangs had been broken up did not mean that the streets of Rome were perfectly safe, especially on a moonless night. My men were armed, discreetly, with weapons beneath their cloaks. So was I.
“Come join us in the litter, Decius,” Hortalus said, as he and Appius Claudius got in. “There’s room for three.”
Nothing loath, I climbed in. At that time it was considered rather effeminate for a man of military age to use a litter. They were supposed to be conveyances for wellborn women, the sick, and the elderly. But I wasn’t about to stumble around in Rome’s filthy, benighted streets if something better was offered. The bearers groaned at the extra weight when they hoisted us.
“Are you going to the house of Claudius Marcellus, too?” I asked Appius Claudius. I knew the two Claudian families were related, but distantly.
“No,” he said, “I’ve been staying as a guest at Quintus’s country villa. Tonight I’ll go on to my own house.”
Hortensius Hortalus had spent most of his time in recent years in his splendid country houses, where he had been developing fish ponds with his friend Marcus Phillipus. The two wrote long books on the subject.
“With country estates like yours,” I said to Hortalus, “I wonder that you bother coming to the City at all.”
“I’m an old Forum politician,” he said. “I just can’t stand to miss an election. Especially not when the issues being debated in the Senate are so crucial to the state. I am long past my days of highest influence, but I flatter myself that my voice is still listened to.”
“Rome ignores your wisdom at her peril,” said Appius.
“Which issues concern you so?” I asked.
“Why the growing insolence of Caesar, of course! Forgive me, Decius, but you’ve been away from the City too long. Did you know that Caesar this year petitioned to stand for consul while keeping his army and his provinces? Unheard of! Might as well crown the bugger king and be done with it.”
“Caesar has been courting that man Curio we just spoke of,” Appius put in. “I think he’s trying to bribe every man standing for next year’s tribuneship: Pansa and Caelius that I know of, probably the others. But he’ll win over Curio for certain.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“The usual. The man’s terrifically debt-ridden, and Caesar will pay off his debts. Has it occurred to anyone that the root of most of our political disorder is not the generals who go out and accumulate loot but the young, wellborn wastrels who accumulate debt instead? There is nothing more dangerous to the public good than a senator or young man of senatorial family made desperate by crushing debt. They can be bought by any politician with a heavy purse.”
“That is very true,” Hortalus said, nodding.
“Next year, if I succeed in being elected censor—”
“The censorship is yours for the asking, Appius Claudius,” I assured him.
“Hear, hear,” Hortalus affirmed.
“I thank you both. Anyway, I intend to use that office to purge the Senate of its worst elements, starting with all those disgraceful debtors.”
“I hope,” Hortalus said, “that you get a colleague who will cooperate with you. My own censorship was ideal because I had the elder Decius as colleague. But poor Crassus could do nothing because his colleague kept overruling every decision he made. He had to quit before even finishing the census or performing the lustrum.”
“Who is most likely to win the other censorship?” I asked. “As Quintus Hortensius has observed, I’ve been out of touch.”
“I am hoping for the elder Cassius,” Appius said, “but it’s more likely to be Calpurnius Piso. If so, I can work with him. He’s one of those who tries not to declare for Caesar or Pompey, but they’re a vanishing breed. It’s a disgrace that Romans of rank have to be seen as supporters of one would-be tyrant or the other, but one must face the situation realistically.”
By this time we were near the house of Marc
ellus. I got out of the litter, took my leave of the two men, and proceeded to walk the short distance to my own home with Hermes and the rest of my men. They had spent the evening loitering around Father’s house, doubtless talking politics like the rest of Rome.
“Did you get anything accomplished?” Hermes wanted to know.
“Just a lot of talk,” I told him. Around us the others held torches aloft and peered into dark alleys, their faces truculent, hands resting on hilts.
“Same here. The mood in the city’s strange since we got back. The quiet is unnatural. Everybody is waiting for something to happen. People are seeing omens everywhere. I just heard about a two-headed calf born near Arpinum, and a hawk killed one of Juno’s geese this morning.”
“At least it wasn’t a snake,” I said. “When a snake gets into the temple and swallows a goose egg, the city’s on edge for days waiting for disaster. People need something to take their minds off all this peace and quiet. Now would be a good time for some games. It’s been almost two months since the Plebeian Games and the next official celebrations won’t be until spring. Hasn’t anybody important died? A good munera would be just the thing.”
“Valerius Flaccus is just back from Cilicia. He was at the ludus yesterday arranging for his father’s funeral games, but that won’t be until March.” Hermes trained with weapons at the Statilian school on most mornings when he had no duties to perform for me, like that day’s canvassing for votes.
“What a time for Rome’s wealthy and bereaved to turn stingy.” One by one my men left us to return to their own homes, accepting my thanks for their support and promising to be at my home before dawn to accompany me to the basilica. By the time we reached home, only Hermes and the torch boy were with me.
Once inside I sent Hermes off to his bed and sought my own. Julia was already asleep. I threw off my clothes and lay down beside her, pleasantly tired and only slightly annoyed by the day’s proceedings. It was still good to be back in Rome, and anything was better than being in Gaul.
IN THE MORNING THE SLAVES BROUGHT water for me to splash on my face, and within a few minutes I was sitting in the triclinium being shaved, having my hair dressed, and eating breakfast all at once. I was almost awake. Julia came in to supervise my grooming.
“Did you find out anything yesterday?” I asked her.
“Some odd things, but you don’t have time to hear about it if you’re going to be in the Forum at sunrise. Come home for lunch and I’ll tell you about it then.”
“All right. In the meantime, make a few morning calls, gossip with your friends, and see what you can learn about the candidates for the tribuneships, particularly Scribonius Curio.”
“Curio?” she said, but I was already out the door.
OUTSIDE THE MORNING AIR WAS COOL, but not truly cold. This was because we were still using the old calendar, which Caesar, as Pontifex Maximus, had allowed to get lamentably out of synchronization with the true season. Thus, while we were still some days prior to the Ides of December, the true date was closer to late October in the new calendar. Caesar’s calendar (actually the work of Sosigenes, the wonderful Alexandrian astronomer) makes more sense, but it lacks the variety and unpredictability of our old one.
By the time we reached the Forum, the sky was getting gray over the crest of the Esquiline. We passed by the Curia Hostilia, the old Senate House, which was still streaked with black and was near-ruinous. In the riots following the death of Clodius, it had been severely damaged by fire, and, as yet, nobody had undertaken its restoration.
Past the great portico of the Temple of Saturn, where I had spent a miserable year as treasury quaestor, we came to the Basilica Opimia, which was the only one where courts were sitting that year. The Basilica Porcia had been damaged by the same fire that almost destroyed the Curia, the huge Basilica Aemilia was undergoing lavish restorations, and the Basilica Sempronia was devoted solely to business purposes due to the shortage of basilica space.
We trudged up the steps, passing a drunk who had staggered his way homeward as far as the Basilica Opimia, then wrapped himself in his cloak and passed out on the steps. Well, I had awakened in many strange parts of Rome myself in past years.
My father, naturally, was already there. “Slept late enough, did you?”
“We still beat the crowd to the Forum,” I answered.
Gradually the light grew, and the crowd duly arrived: my own supporters and a miscellaneous pack of idlers, country people just arrived to take part in the elections, vendors, mountebanks, beggars, and senators.
Juventius came trudging up the steps in his purple-bordered toga, preceded by his lictors.
“I see the Metellans are here in force,” he said, as he reached the top. “Where are Fulvius and his people?”
“Waiting to make a grand entrance, no doubt,” I said. “Now what—”
“This man is dead!” someone shouted. I looked down the steps to see a little group of people gawping at an inert form on the steps. It seemed that the drunk was actually a corpse. Now that the sun’s rays were slanting into the Forum, I could see that the dark cloak in which he was wrapped was actually a heavily bloodstained toga.
“Here’s a fine omen,” Juventius said, annoyed. “We may have to meet outdoors if the building has to be purified.”
“It looks like he died on the steps,” I pointed out. “It isn’t as if he died inside.”
“If this were a temple,” Father mused, “a purification would be necessary if one drop of blood struck any stone of the building. I’m not sure if that holds true for a basilica though. We may have to consult with a pontifex. Where is Scipio?”
“It’s all a great bother anyway you look at it,” Juventius said. He turned to one of his lictors. “Let’s have a look at him.”
The lictor went down the steps and carefully raised a flap of the toga with the butt end of his fasces.
“Does anyone here know this man?” Juventius demanded of the crowd in general. We all went closer to see.
“I think we all know him,” I said, feeling a bit queasy, not at the sight, which was a common one, but at its implications. “I’ve only seen him once, and that briefly, but I believe this is Marcus Fulvius.”
3
LOOKS LIKE THE TRIAL’S OFF,” SAID someone, sounding disappointed. Probably, I thought, one of the jury, who had been hoping one of us would offer him a bribe. We went back to the top of the steps to talk this matter over.
Word spread through the Forum with bewildering speed and within seconds the whole mob had flocked to the western end, at the foot of the Capitoline, to get a look at the body and at us.
“This could get ugly,” Juventius said.
“Why?” I asked him. “The man is—was—all but unknown. It’s not like he was Tribune of the People or a gang leader like Clodius.”
“You know how it works,” Juventius said. “He was a nobody. He dared to challenge one of the great families. He ended up dead. How do you think they’re going to interpret it?”
“The man was an impertinent scoundrel who must have had plenty of enemies,” Father said. “Anyone could have killed him.”
“Would just anyone,” Juventius replied hotly, “have killed him and left his body on the steps of this basilica on the morning his case was to be heard in my court?”
“Lower your voice,” I advised him. “You’re encouraging a bad mood here yourself.”
“Oh, I am? I do hope you had plenty of witnesses as to your whereabouts last night, young Decius Caecilius, because you now face charges a good deal more serious than skinning some pack of provincials and tax-gouging publicani.”
“Are you calling me a suspect in this man’s murder?” I shouted, forgetting my own advice. Among other things, I hated being called “Young Decius,” even when my father was there.
“Uh-oh,” Hermes said, touching my arm and pointing to the southeast. A pack of determined men were pushing their way through the crowd. In their forefront was a man with a swolle
n nose and two blackened eyes. He was the one Hermes had punched the previous day. They shoved everyone out of their way until they stood over the body of Fulvius. At the bloody sight, they cried out in dismay.
“We met this morning at the house of Marcus Fulvius,” said the black-eyed man, his voice slightly distorted by his swollen nasal passages. “We waited for him to come out so we could accompany him to court. When he did not come out by gray dawn, we made search for him. He was nowhere to be found. We came to the Forum expecting to find him here, and when we reached the Temple of the Public Lares, at the north end of the Forum, we heard that someone lay murdered in the basilica.
“Now,” he roared, playing to the mob, “we find our friend Marcus Fulvius lying here, drenched in his own blood, and his murderer”—he jammed a dirty finger toward my breast as if he were throwing a javelin—“standing over him!”
Hermes was about to give him a broken jaw to go with the rest, but I restrained him.
“I am innocent of this man’s blood,” I proclaimed, “and I can produce witnesses, among them the most distinguished men in Rome, to attest to my whereabouts last night!” But not, I reminded myself, for the early hours of this morning. It was not my job to point these things out to my accusers.
“Is this justice?” howled another man, this one a red-haired lout. “Are we to allow these nobles, these Caecilians to murder good Roman men? Does their high birth give them leave to shed blood on the very steps of the basilica?” There were mutters from the crowd, along with cries of “Never!” and “Down with them!” from here and there. But it was too early, the crowd still too somnolent and surprised for riot conditions.
“Lictors,” Juventius said impatiently, “arrest those troublemakers.”
“Don’t do that,” I cautioned. “It’s what they want.”
“That sounds odd coming from you,” he said. “These men are howling for your blood.”
“This is a well-rehearsed gang. Anyone can see that. They were primed for this long before they got to the Forum.”
SPQR X: A Point of Law Page 4