SPQR X: A Point of Law

by John Maddox Roberts

  But the Archive kept the bulk of the records of government, many of them going back centuries. It was staffed by state-owned slaves and freedmen. In those days they were among the very few slaves owned directly by the state, unlike the vast slave bureaucracy that surrounds us now. They were very haughty, self-important slaves, too. The freedmen were even worse.

  There was no real system or order to the place. It was not like the great Library at Alexandria where anyone who could read could walk straight to the wing where the work he desired was stored and find it within a few minutes. The Archive slaves simply kept everything in their memories, thus rendering themselves indispensable.

  A bit of asking brought me to a warren presided over by a freed-man named Androcles. He was not happy to see me. They never were.

  “Senator Metellus, is it?” he said, as if merely speaking my name were an intolerable imposition. “I thought the whole City had taken a holiday, all flocking out to the Campus to see the soldiers, as if they’ve never seen such a prodigy. Well, some people still have to work!”

  “Excellent,” I said, “then you won’t mind doing a little work for me.”

  “What?” He looked as if I had insulted his family, his homeland, and his national gods. “Have you any idea what is demanded of us here? Are you aware that Caesar’s new conquests have added not one but three, three, mind you, new provinces to the Empire?” His voice had risen to a shout.

  “Yes, but—”

  “There isn’t just to be a Province of Gaul,” he went on, ignoring me. “No, that’s not good enough for Caesar! There is to be a Province of Belgica, one of Aquitania, and one of Lugdunensis! Three brand-new provinces all at once! Oh, it’s easy to kill a flock of barbarians and conquer the place, but who do you think has to organize and administer that wilderness? With three complete sets of public servants to establish a government, arrange its finances, and keep its records? And we’re still getting Cyprus organized. Next thing you know, some fool is going to annex Egypt! Or Britannia!”

  “Actually,” I said, “it isn’t so easy to conquer a new province, and the Senate will see to its administration.”

  “The Senate? The Senate names provincial governors! They don’t do any work! You know that; you’re a senator yourself. We have to provide the record keepers, keep the correspondence moving between the provinces and Rome, and build another level of rooms for this place so we can store them all. And do you think the Senate is going to vote us the budget to take care of all this? Hah!”

  Hermes stepped forward and took a pouch from within his tunic. When he shook it, it made a musical jingle.

  “Well, what is it you want?” Androcles asked, now marginally less hostile.

  “I need documents pertaining to the citizenship status of the Tribune of the People Manilius, soon to leave office.”

  His eyes went wide. “Find documents pertaining to one citizen among all this—”

  “Oh, shut up,” Hermes said. As a freedman himself he knew all the poses and dodges. “You know perfectly well that you got all that stuff together when Manilius declared himself a candidate. And I happen to know that you keep the records pertaining to all serving magistrates handy because every climbing politician who wants to sue one of them for malfeasance comes here and bribes you for a look at them, just like we’re doing. So go get them now.”

  Androcles glared at him. “I don’t have to take that from some jumped-up errand boy! I remember when you carried the Senator’s scraper and bath oil, and he was ill-advised to entrust you with those.”

  I placed an arm around his shoulders. “My friend Androcles, I know how overworked you are, and I, for one, appreciate the toil and stress of your office. Now, as one servant of the Senate and People to another, could you see if you can find these things for me?”

  “Well,” he said, somewhat mollified, “let me see what’s to be found.” He stalked off between two stacks of shelves, calling for his slave assistants.

  “Always the politician, eh?” Hermes said.

  “He’s a voter, too, Hermes. Never forget that.”

  A slave appeared a short time later, holding an armload of scrolls and tablets. “Where do you want these?”

  I pointed to one of the tables beneath the latticed windows that lined one of the long, southeast-facing walls. He arranged them neatly and stood back, not letting the documents out of his sight. We began to go over them.

  “Publius Manilius Scrofa,” Hermes read, “is a native of Rome, born in the Via Sacra district. He is a plebeian of the rural Pinarian Tribe, enrolled in an Equestrian Century. He is twenty-eight years old, unmarried, and has no children.”

  He read this from the document Manilius filed when he declared himself a candidate. It told me little. He had to be plebeian or he couldn’t be a tribune. Nobody who wasn’t equestrian could afford public office. All citizens belonged to tribes, and old, respected families always belonged to rural tribes and thought the urban tribes were all riffraff. Via Sacra might put him in Clodius’s old camp—he’d been a great hero in the Via Sacra—but not necessarily.

  I picked up a document from the last censorship, five years previously. It affirmed that Manilius qualified for the equestrian order, possessing a fortune of 415,000 sesterces. I showed this to Hermes.

  “Just over the line for an eques,” he noted. “That’s not much to finance a political career.”

  “I wonder how his fortune would assess now. A tribune is in a position to make himself rich during his year in office.”

  “Maybe his father died and he inherited,” Hermes pointed out. “Or he could have borrowed. The censors’ assessment is on property. It doesn’t take debt into account. A lot of cash-poor candidates borrow heavily rather than sell their lands and buildings.”

  “Very true,” I said. “But I can’t think of any way we can find out. There is no law requiring anyone to disclose the nature of his finances.” I pondered this for a moment. “But, to maintain equestrian status, he had to file a list of his landed properties. Let’s see what’s here. It could tell us something.”

  We rummaged through the documents until we found a property statement filed with the electoral board that regulated the status of candidates between censorships. The previous year Manilius had listed the same property as during the last censorship, plus a new cash income of one hundred and twenty thousand sesterces per annum from an estate he hadn’t possessed then.

  “Well, well,” I said. “It seems that young Manilius has come into possession of a fine estate in—guess where.”

  “Baiae?” Hermes answered.

  “Where else? Ever since this business started, all roads lead to Baiae.”

  “Pretty substantial estate, too,” Hermes observed, going down the list of its assets. “Two hundred iugera of land, divided into plowland, pasture, orchards, and vineyards, as well as a villa with colonnades and formal garden, olive press, wine press, ninety slaves, and twenty tenant families. Plus, it’s right on the bay and has its own permanent, stone wharf.”

  “Not quite princely but very substantial,” I noted. “It would be nice to know who owned it before it came into his possession.”

  “They’re all Pompey’s clients in the south, aren’t they?” Hermes asked.

  “Not everyone. And Baiae’s become so popular that it’s practically neutral ground.”

  The beautiful little town on the Bay of Neapolis at the southern end of Campania had become the most fashionable resort in Italy. During the hottest months, when Rome became intolerable, most wealthy families abandoned the capital for their country estates. Those who could afford it bought a villa in Baiae as a summer retreat. Cicero had one. So did Lucullus, Pompey, and many others. If you couldn’t afford a place there, you tried to cadge an invitation.

  “Too bad we don’t have a few more days to work on this,” Hermes said. “We could go down to Baiae and find out who gave him the estate. It’d be a good excuse for a trip to Baiae, anyway.”

  “We s
houldn’t have to go that far.”

  “Oh? You have a plan?”

  “Always. I think we should go call on Caius Claudius Marcellus, brother of our consul and most likely consul for next year.”

  THE CITY WAS BEGINNING TO GET noisy. The soldiers were pouring in through the gates, flooding the taverns, and beginning to spread their money around. The day had turned into an impromptu holiday. Nobody seemed concerned that I was still running around loose.

  The house of the Claudia Marcelli was well up on the Palatine. It was actually a veritable compound, holding the houses of a number of prominent members of that family. By asking, I found the proper door and announced myself. I was conducted into the atrium of a house that was fine but not pretentiously so, with a display of death masks that seemed to go back to the Tarquins. Romans who could boast such ancestry felt little need for greater display. The wealth of a Crassus could not buy lineage like that.

  After a short wait, a lady came into the atrium to greet me.

  “Welcome, Senator Metellus. I fear that my husband cannot be here to give you a proper greeting.” She appeared to be in her early twenties and was therefore far younger than her husband. Nothing unusual about that. Patrician girls were often married off at fifteen or sixteen to politicians in their fifties. She was beautiful in a rather severe way, with hard-planed, regular features. Her clothing was of fine make but proper and old-fashioned. She was as far from Fulvia as she could be and still be Roman.

  “What could be more proper than a greeting from the distinguished Lady Octavia?”

  “You are diplomatic, but then that is the reputation of your family. My husband is out with the rest of the Senate inspecting my great-uncle’s horde.”

  Her use of the word was not lost on me. “You don’t approve of Caesar’s sending his soldiers here? They are citizens, after all.”

  “When I married Caius Claudius I cut my ties with the Julian family. Like my husband and his brother, I perceive Caesar as a potential tyrant.”

  “But I understand he contemplates adopting your brother.”

  “I barely know my brother. I haven’t seen him since he was an infant.” She shook her head. “Forgive me. I forget my manners. Please come in, Senator.”

  Hermes remained in the atrium. It was just a few paces to the peristyle, where the statues surrounding the pool ran to figures like Camillus, Cincinnatus, and various ancestral Claudians. Not quite as lively as Fulvia’s decor. We sat and a slave brought the obligatory watered wine and small loaves. I took enough to satisfy etiquette and determine that the wine was excellent, even though I couldn’t identify it.

  “Is it possible that I may help you?” she asked.

  “Possibly. I am investigating the death of a man named Marcus Fulvius. You may have heard that he was accusing me of corruption, and that I am a suspect in his murder.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t follow City gossip.”

  “Admirable. I’ve learned that he was living in a house owned by your husband, a property near the Temple of Tellus. Might you know anything about the man?”

  “Like most men of quality, my husband owns a great deal of property both urban and rural. I suppose he must have a hundred residential properties within the old walls alone, and a great deal more outside and across the river. I know very little about them, and I doubt he does. His stewards manage all that for him. State business takes up all his time and energy.”

  “Service to the Senate and People is a demanding calling. Among his holdings, does he by chance number any estates in Baiae?”

  “Why do you ask?” The question was blunt, and her look was direct.

  “This man Fulvius was from Baiae, recently arrived in Rome. I wondered if he might be a family client of your husband.”

  “I know of no family named Fulvius among my husband’s clientela. I believe the Fulvias are in some way connected to the Claudia Pulchri, but not to the Claudia Marcella.”

  “I see. Do you know if your husband has dealings with the Tribune of the People, Marcus Manilius?”

  “I don’t know the man, but my husband stands firmly with the optimates and I can hardly imagine him having anything to do with a tribune. Those jumped-up peasants have brought the Republic to the brink of ruin. Sulla should have abolished the office when he had the power to.”

  “I see I’ve troubled you needlessly,” I said, rising.

  “I am truly sorry I couldn’t help you, Senator. I do hope you don’t think me rude.” Her smile was like the smile carved on a statue.

  “Not at all. I’ll just see if I can locate your husband, our future consul. If I miss him, please extend my regards when he returns home.”

  “I’ll be sure to do so.”

  I collected Hermes and we left the house.

  “Did you catch all that?” I asked him.

  “Every word. I didn’t think they made Roman matrons like that anymore.”

  “They don’t. I’m sure almost everything she said was a lie.”

  “That’s a relief. A Roman woman who doesn’t follow City gossip—it’s like saying the sun comes up in the west.”

  We found a tavern at the base of the Palatine where the soldiers were celebrating among admiring citizenry and took seats outside. The immense bulk of the Circus Maximus reared its arches skyward just a few paces away. An overworked girl brought us a pitcher and cups. It wasn’t like the wine served in a great house, but it was adequate.

  “What have I taught you about criminal investigations, Hermes?”

  “Everyone lies.”

  “Exactly. What must the investigator do?”

  “Sort through the lies to find the truth?”

  “That’s only part of it. One of the biggest mistakes you can make is to assume that everyone is lying for the same reason. Sometimes they’re covering themselves; sometimes they’re covering for other people. But sometimes they’re hiding something you aren’t even looking for. The fact is just about everyone is guilty of something, and when someone like me comes snooping around they reflexively assume that they’re the target and try to hide their guilt.”

  “It gets confusing.”

  “Nothing that can’t be solved by a first-class mind and a little inspiration,” I assured him. I took another sip of inspiration and pondered for a while. This called for another sip. It really was inferior wine, not nearly as fine as the unknown vintage Octavia had served—

  Abruptly, a god (or my special muse) visited me. In moments like this I have a special radiant, or perhaps stunned look. After awhile I noticed that fingers were waving in front of my face.

  “Decius,” Hermes was asking, “are you still there?”

  “Let’s order some food,” I said. “I’m going to need a little fortification.”

  Mystified, he fetched flat bread, sausage, and preserved onions from the food counter and brought it to the table. I wasn’t really hungry, but I put it away like a starving legionary.

  “What’s this all about?” Hermes wanted to know.

  “We’re going to visit the Brotherhood of Bacchus.”

  He blinked. “The wine merchants?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You intend to get drunk and stay that way until this is all over?”

  “A splendid idea, now that you suggest it, but not my intention.” I was absurdly pleased with myself.

  Hermes shrugged, knowing what I was like in this mood. “Whatever you say.”

  We left the tavern, rounded the northern end of the Circus, and turned left along the river. This district was devoted to the river trade, a great sprawl of wharves and warehouses with few temples or public buildings. Among the latter was the huge porticus of the Aemilian family, where a great deal of the river trade was conducted informally.

  The warehouse of the Brotherhood of Bacchus stood between the porticus and the river. In the little square between the buildings stood one of my favorite statues in all of Rome. It depicted, about twice life-size, the god Bacchus. He stood in
the conventional pose of a Greek god, but this was the Italian Bacchus, not the Greek Dionysus. He was portrayed as a handsome young man, but his features were slightly puffy and pouch eyed, his fine, athlete’s body a little potbellied, his smile a bit silly. He looked like Apollo gone to seed. In one hand he held aloft a huge cluster of grapes. In the other, a wine cup. The cup was tilted and the sculptor, with marvelous skill, had depicted a tiny bit of wine slopping over the rim. His pose was a trifle off-balance, his garland of vine leaves just the tiniest bit askew.

  “There stands a real Roman god,” I said to Hermes. “None of that stuffy, Olympian solemnity about him.”

  We passed the god and went inside. The interior was cavernous, with massive, wooden racks stretching off in all directions, holding thousands of clay amphorae from every district of the world where grapes grow. The racks were labeled by district and year. Everywhere, slaves in pairs, stripped to loincloths, carried amphorae here and there, bringing them from the boats tied up to the wharf outside or from the racks to wagons waiting in the street out front. Each pair carried a pole on their brawny shoulders, the amphora suspended from the pole by ropes passed through the thick handles molded to each side of its neck. The slaves accomplished this seemingly awkward task with wonderful celerity and skill.

  A fat man wearing a toga spotted my senator’s stripe and hustled over. “Welcome, Senator. What may the Brotherhood of Bacchus do for you? I am Manius Maelius, steward of the Brotherhood, at your service.”

  “I’m of a mind to buy some wine for my household. Of course, my steward will be along later to make the purchase, but I want to try the vintage first.”

  “Of course, of course. What is your pleasure? Here we have wine from Iberia, from Greece and all the islands: Cyprus, Rhodes, Cos, Lesbos—some fine Lesbian just arrived today, Senator—Delian, Cretan, the list goes on. We have Asian, Syrian, Judean, wine from Egypt, from Numidia and Libya and Mauretania, from Cisalpina—”

  “My taste runs a bit closer to home,” I said, interrupting his circumnavigation of the Middle Sea.