SPQR X: A Point of Law

by John Maddox Roberts

  “Wonderful. Hermes, go tell my wife that I will be home late this evening, lest she think I’ve been waylaid and murdered. Tell her I am consulting with a Greek scholar. Don’t tell her that it is an Alexandrian woman. This is something I must explain to her in my own fashion. Then rejoin me at the house of Callista. If you run, you should be able to find it before it gets too dark to see.”

  Asklepiodes explained to him how to find the house and we left the temple, crossing the bridge into the district across the river. A great many foreigners lived in the new district, finding it more congenial both as to accommodation and company. The City proper was crowded, expensive, and full of Romans.

  The house of Callista was no more than a hundred paces beyond the bridge, a stroke of luck considering how late the hour was. The sun was almost on the western horizon, and most Romans were already arriving for their dinner engagements, unless the contio was running late.

  The gatekeeper was not a slave chained to the doorpost as in a great Roman house, but rather an educated servant who recognized both Asklepiodes and my senatorial insignia in a flickering glance. He bowed deeply.

  “Learned Doctor, noble Senator, welcome to the house of Callista. My lady entertains a small but distinguished company this evening. She will be so delighted that you have come.” He swept before us, and we followed him into a fine courtyard where perhaps ten people sat in a small group, their attention centered on a woman who sat on a small folding chair.

  While the servant announced us, I studied the group and saw some faces I knew. Catullus the poet was there, as was Marcus Brutus. Brutus was a pontifex, and as a patrician he was barred from the contio that afternoon. He was known for his enthusiasm for Greek philosophy. The rest were men and women of Rome’s literary and philosophical community, both Romans and Greeks.

  The woman herself rose to greet us. I had rather expected an overeducated crone, but she was a tall, stately woman with the handsome, slightly heavy features so favored by Greek sculptors. Her hair was purest black, divided in the middle and falling over her shoulders. Her gown was as simple and as beautiful as a Doric column. She took Asklepiodes’s hand first.

  “Welcome, learned Asklepiodes, fountain of medical knowledge.” She turned to look at me. “Thrice welcome for bringing the famous Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger to my house.” She released his hand and took mine. “I have hoped for so long to see you, Senator.” Her eyes were disconcertingly direct. Not to mention beautiful.

  “I am amazed you even know my name, distinguished lady, and I apologize for arriving thus unannounced.”

  She smiled and she did this, as she did everything else, beautifully. “Oh, but your all-too-brief stay in Alexandria is, shall we say, still remarked upon after nearly eleven years.”

  “Oh, well,” I said, almost blushing, “what’s one more riot in Alexandria’s long history of them?” The riot had been the least of it.

  “Besides, Princess Cleopatra recently spoke of you in the most glowing terms. She said her adventures with you on Cyprus were wonderfully exhilarating.”

  “Life always seems to be exhilarating around young Cleopatra,” I told her. “She has a way of attracting excitement.”

  “And Ione, the high priestess of the Temple of Aphrodite at Paphos, wrote to me of you. She said that you are the most gifted Roman to come to Cyprus. She believes you to be touched by the gods.”

  This was getting embarrassing. “I’m just another Roman drudge, trying to do my duty and dodge the odd assassin,” I told her.

  “Please join our little group,” she said. “I believe you must know most of these people.”

  She introduced them anyway, then Asklepiodes and I took our seats while their discussion continued. Courtesy dictated that I wait until their evening’s conversation was concluded before I took my problem to her.

  Catullus nudged me in the ribs and said in a stage whisper, “Touched by the gods, eh? Bacchus, I’ll bet.”

  “Venus,” I muttered back at him. “Princesses and priestesses find me irresistible.” Some of the others turned and frowned at us.

  They talked for a long time on some points of philosophy that I couldn’t follow, then about the poetry of Pindar, with which I was at least familiar. I kept my mouth shut rather than stress my ignorance.

  I must confess that I felt absurdly flattered that this woman knew who I was, had spoken with Cleopatra, and corresponded with Ione about me. Even better, she had not once mentioned my connection to Caesar. By that time I was beginning to feel that, in most peoples’ eyes, being married to Caesar’s niece was the highest distinction I had achieved.

  I was struck by the foolishness of my feelings. Why should I, a widely experienced soldier and magistrate of the greatest republic in the world, feel warmed by the esteem of a foreign woman? After all, she was only a woman. And while we Romans had a grudging admiration, even awe, of the Greeks of former times; we regarded their descendants, our contemporaries, as a pack of foolish degenerates, political imbeciles, and natural-born slaves. We often marveled that the Greeks we saw every day could be even distantly related to Achilles and Agamemnon, or even to the later ones like Pericles, Leonidas, and Miltiades.

  Perhaps the truth was that I had grown tired and disillusioned with the Romans of my own class, self-seeking politicians and grasping conquerors who were slowly destroying the Republic more surely than any barbarian enemy could hope to.

  Not that I expected to find some cure for our ills in the supposed wisdom of aliens. Many of the more idle and empty-headed members of the senatorial and equestrian orders were forever discovering the answers to the problems that have plagued mankind in the ancient “enlightenment” of Persia or Babylonia or Egypt. They never explain how this wonderful wisdom failed to save those utterly fallen and destroyed civilizations. At least men like Brutus and Cicero chose to admire the relatively rational Greeks, who knew how to carve wonderful statues.

  Eventually, people began to rise and take their leave. While Callista bade each good night I spoke briefly with Brutus. He was a man of the highest reputation but far too solemn and serious for my taste. He couldn’t decide which direction to spit without wondering how it might reflect on the honor of his ancient family. I thought it a grotesque fixation in one so young. His mother, Servilia, had been one of the great beauties of her generation, and Brutus had inherited some portion of her comeliness, which did not otherwise run in his aptly named family.

  “I hope this decision of the comitia tributa goes well for you, Senator,” Brutus said gravely. He gave the word for the plebeian assembly the slightly contemptuous turn common to patricians. They always preferred the comitia centuriata, which was dominated by a handful of great families.

  “I daresay their decision will be enlightening,” I told him. “This whole business has me utterly mystified. It’s true I was a bit rough on certain Romans living in Cyprus, but they were all thieves and plunderers and I can prove it. How this fool Fulvius got killed I have no idea.”

  “All honest Romans agree that your actions on Cyprus were perfectly just,” Brutus said ponderously. “Cato concurs with me on this. The death of this man Fulvius, while unfortunate, is a trifling matter compared with the great dangers before us. Did you know that an invading army is about to descend upon Rome?”

  “Really?” I said, doubting his sanity. “Not the Parthians, I hope.”

  “I almost wish it were. Caesar has given half his legions leave of absence so that they can come to Rome and take part in the election. A rider came in not three hours ago to inform the aediles that the first cohorts would be pitching their tents on the Campus Martius in the morning. The rest will be here within two days.”

  “That’s high-handed behavior even for Caesar,” I said. “But as far as I know, it’s constitutional. And he can spare them. It’s the depth of winter up in Gaul. He can keep his conquests in order with his auxilia.” The auxilia were foreigners, allies, and mercenaries. Legionaries, on the other hand, were
all citizens, which meant they could all vote. And they would vote for Caesar’s favored candidates.

  “It’s good news for you, I suppose,” Brutus grumbled. I was one of those favored candidates.

  “I won’t be a total hypocrite and claim I don’t want their votes,” I admitted. “But any army descending on Rome, even a Roman one, is an unsettling concept.”

  “I rejoice to hear it. But the time must come when men who love the Republic must take action to curb the arrogance of Caesar.”

  I won’t pretend to be an oracle and claim that in these words I perceived a portent of dire deeds to come. Nor did I foresee a bloody Ides of March when I heard Cassius, Casca, Basileus, and all the rest voice similar thoughts in that and future years, all those men who are now so notorious. Half of Rome, it seemed, spoke darkly of the other half, and many important figures jumped nimbly from one side to the other, repeatedly, not least among them the men who later plotted Caesar’s death.

  Finally only Asklepiodes and I remained of the evening’s guests.

  “Callista,” Asklepiodes said, “my friend the Senator Metellus has a singular problem, its solution requires a combination of skills and talents that I have informed him are possessed in abundance by you alone of all the scholars now resident in Rome.” He spoke in Greek, which I could follow well enough.

  “How intriguing. I shall seek to vindicate your trust in me.” She turned to me and switched to Latin. “And how may I possibly be of help?”

  I took out the papers. “These documents were written in cipher by a person whose activities I am investigating. The alphabet used is Greek, although I can’t say whether the language thus encoded is Greek or Latin.” I handed them to her, and she studied them by the light of a multiwicked lamp.

  “Are you certain that it is one of those two languages? I ask because of the extraordinary repetition of the letter delta. The arrangement, even taking into account the common letter substitution of ciphers, doesn’t look like either language.”

  This could mean trouble. “The man in question lived almost all his life in Baiae, which is in Campania. It’s conceivable that it’s the Oscan dialect that is used. But Oscan has almost the same grammar as Latin, though the vocabulary and pronunciation are different.”

  She shook her head. “Then that can’t be it. Do you know to whom this is written?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “If he turns out to be Syrian or Egyptian, I will be of little use to you, I fear.”

  “I strongly doubt that the author knew any such language. He was of an old Latin family. His sister has lived in Rome for many years. The family is distinguished but not for scholarship. I would venture to say that he would be lost in any language save Greek or Latin.”

  “That will simplify things. Would it be possible to leave these letters with me?”

  “They are of no use in my possession, and any excuse to call upon you again is welcome.”

  “You need no excuse, Senator. Please feel free to call upon me anytime. I have no lectures scheduled for tomorrow. I find that election time in Rome is not a good time for much of anything. I’ll devote the morning to this. If you can come by tomorrow afternoon, perhaps I’ll have made some headway.”

  “Depend upon it, I’ll be here,” I told her.

  I found Hermes waiting outside. He had brought along a small bodyguard of men from my neighborhood who were under obligation to me.

  “I believe the lady is rather taken with you,” Asklepiodes said slyly as he took his leave.

  “If this were another city, and if I were not as married as I am, I would be greatly taken with her,” I said. “But I think I am in enough danger as it is.”

  “Life’s little complexities keep us from growing old too soon,” he assured me. “Please keep me informed how this fascinating business progresses.”

  We walked home without incident, and I dismissed my little guard with my thanks. Julia was waiting up when I went inside.

  “I hear you’ve been up to your old activities,” she said, as she took my toga and directed the slaves to lay out a late supper. “It’s been a long time since you practiced house breaking and burglary and escaping through the alleys and over rooftops.”

  “You’ve been listening to Hermes. That’s always a mistake.”

  “He’s acting innocent as a sacrificial lamb. It’s the rest of the City buzzing about your activities.”

  “Oh. Well, gossip is unreliable, you know.” I picked up a chicken leg.

  “Tell me your news, and I’ll tell you mine. And stop evading.”

  So I began with my visit to Fulvia’s house and my encounter with Curio.

  “He is a man with a scandalous history,” she commented, “but very courageous, and it looks as if he’s chosen the right side now. He spoke up for you in the contio this evening by the way.”

  “He said that he would. Tell me about that.”

  “When you’ve told me the rest of your day’s doings. Have some of that soup. It will keep you from catching cold running around like this in the winter.”

  Obediently, I sipped at a cup of her grandmother’s cold remedy. It was broth of stewed chicken laced with garum and vinegar. Not bad, actually. I told her about our visit to the goldsmith’s guild and the lapidary.

  “That was a waste of time,” she commented.

  “You never know. Then, of course, I went to get those encoded letters examined by an expert.”

  “Which one?” she asked.

  “Well, I went to Asklepiodes first, and he recommended Callista.”

  Julia was silent for a moment. “Callista?” The name sounded ominous in her mouth.

  “Yes, she’s an Alexandrian, quite brilliant in—”

  “I know who she is. She’s said to be quite beautiful.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. Her nose is a little long for my taste. Anyway, I didn’t call on her for her looks, but for her expertise in Greek and mathematics.”

  “You went to the home of a foreign woman at night, without invitation?” The dark clouds were gathering.

  “It’s a sort of open salon she holds for intellectual sorts.” I floundered about for something to allay her suspicions, which were all too justified. “My dear,” I said, “Marcus Brutus was there.”

  The clouds seemed to recede. “Brutus. Well, the gathering must have been respectable anyway.”

  “Boringly so. Incidentally, Brutus seems to regard Caesar with some hostility.” I told her what he had said. Nothing distracted Julia as effectively as an insult to her revered uncle. But she didn’t seem concerned.

  “Brutus has some foolishly old-fashioned notions. Caesar thinks the world of him. He’ll come around. Now tell me what Callista said about the letters.”

  So I told her what the woman had said. “I’ll call on her tomorrow to find out what she’s learned.”

  “Not if you’re under arrest, you won’t.”

  “What?” I all but choked on my wine, a light Falernian, as I recall.

  “The vote in the contio was close, but you are to be tried for the murder of Marcus Fulvius.”

  “Ridiculous! There is no evidence!”

  To my surprise, she leaned over and kissed me tenderly. “Decius, I think I love you most of all when you are being foolish and naive. Surely you understand that you are the only man in Rome who cares about things like evidence. Trials are not about evidence. They are not about guilt or innocence. They are about friends and enemies. Do you have more friends than enemies?”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “Then you’ll probably be vindicated. But you may also find that you have enemies you knew nothing about.”

  “I’ve already discovered one: Marcus Fulvius, although he’s no longer numbered among the living. And whoever is behind him.” Another thought struck me. I told her about Caesar’s veterans arriving.

  She clapped her hands like a child. “Wonderful! They all know you. We can count on their support.” Then she
frowned. “But men who’ve spent years in Gaul won’t be in the jury pool.”

  “What form is the trial to take?”

  “You’re to be tried before the concilium plebis, with a jury of three hundred equites.” Very large juries were the rule at that time. It was thought to be difficult to bribe so many people.

  “When?”

  “On the third day from this.”

  “What? We only found the bugger dead this morning! It’s customary to give an accused man ten days to get his defense together.”

  “Do you want to be praetor or not? They could delay the election no longer than that. Conviction or acquittal, the election goes ahead in four days.”

  That was that. Nothing to be done about it. “What was the mood of the crowd? Did your sources say?”

  “It’s a sideshow to the general spectacle of the elections. You’re a popular man with the plebs and nobody knew Fulvius, so there was no crowd baying for your blood. Some good people spoke up for you, and the ones demanding a trial appealed to hatred of the aristocrats.”

  “Running according to form then,” I said, refilling my cup. “What about the Tribune, Manilius? Was he rabble-rousing?”

  “From what I heard, he conducted it well, shutting up anyone who spoke too long, putting a quick stop to shouting matches.”

  “I wonder which side he’s on,” I said.

  “That one is easy,” she said. “Until he proves otherwise, consider him your enemy.”

  6

  BY MORNING NO LICTORS HAD APpeared to arrest me, so I presumed I was free to go around as I pleased, which I proceeded to do.

  That morning featured a new distraction for the citizens, the arrival of Caesar’s men on the Campus Martius. For the moment I was forgotten as everyone flocked out through the northwestern gates to the old drill field to welcome the heroes of Gaul. Being under arms they could not enter the City, but elections were held on the Campus Martius so they didn’t have to.

  The field had become greatly built up in the last generation, with the homes and businesses around the Circus Flaminius and Pompey’s theater complex, which was practically a village in itself, but there was still plenty of ground devoted to military drill. By the time I got there, at least two cohorts’ tents were already pitched, and more soldiers were arriving, an endless stream of them coming down the Via Flaminia.