The First Citizen rarely summons me. This may be because we detest one another so deeply. He has never bothered to have me killed because I am a relic of the old Republic he claims to have restored. As the oldest living senator I have a certain prestige. Besides, I am not that important. Once, my family controlled the most powerful voting blocs in the Senate, the Plebeian Assembly and the Centurionate Assembly. But that great generation of vigorous political men died in the civil wars and the remnants are scarcely worth my attention, much less his.
But I have certain talents that are unique, and there have been times when the First Citizen has had need of them. At such times he requests my presence, smiles his false smile, and seeks my aid. One such occasion occurred in my 73rd year.
I spent the morning dozing through a Senate meeting. As the power and importance of that august body dwindled, so did its speeches expand. One time-serving nobody after another got up to discourse windily upon trifles. My neighbors discreetly nudged me any time my snoring became obtrusive.
The session ended at noon, not a moment too early. I pushed myself to my feet with my walking stick and left the Curia. I didn't really need a stick, it just lent me an air of venerability. Once outside, I paused at the top of the steps to breathe the clean air and survey my City.
The sight was not altogether pleasing. There was still much in evidence that was ancient and familiar, but the spate of building that had been going on for more than twenty years had changed the City almost beyond recognition. Temples that had been simple, sober and dignified had become masterpieces of the confectioner's art, their facades tarted up with white marble and frothy carving and gilding. And some of the temples were new, erected not to honor the gods but to the glory of a single family.
There was, for instance, the temple of Venus Genetrix, the goddess from whom Caesar had claimed descent. A tenuous connection for the First Citizen, who was merely the grandson of Caesar's sister. And then there was the temple of Mars the Avenger. Mars had always had his shrines outside the City walls. Now he had been brought within, solely to remind everyone that the First Citizen had avenged (so he claimed) the murder of the great Caius Julius. Some of the new public buildings were begun by Caesar, but most bore the name of the First Citizen, or of his cronies: Agrippa and Maecenas. Somehow, the whole city had become his clientele.
I used to make fun of my father for indulging in this sort of good-old-days grumbling. Now that I am old I rather enjoy it.
My grumpy musings were interrupted by the arrival of my grandson, Decius the Youngest. He is nicknamed Paris for his exceptional looks. It is not good for one so young to be so handsome. It presages a life of trouble and a bad end. All the splendidly handsome men I have known came to a bad end: Milo, Marcus Antonius, Vercingetorix, they flourished briefly to great admiration and were gone. On the other hand, there is much to be said for dying young.
"Grandfather!" He ran up the steps, scattering senators and their hangers-on like chaff before a whirlwind. The boy had yet to dedicate his first beard and he possessed a commendable lack of respect for authority. He was breathing heavily and thrust a small scroll at me. "A letter from the Palace!"
I accepted it. "From Himself, I take it?" I said loudly, using the term his sycophants often used. Time was when only slaves used that term to refer to their master.
"How should I know?" he said, all innocence.
"Because you've read it, imp. The seal is broken."
He shrugged. "The messenger must have dropped it."
"What a liar. By the time I was your age I could lie far better than that. Let's see, now." I held the missive at arm's length and read loudly, as if I were hard of hearing:
''From the First Citizen to the venerable Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus, greeting." Actually, here he employed the name which he illegally usurped from a better man and which I refuse to use. Recently, the Senate had voted him the title of Augustus. The Senate can give him any silly title it likes. He will always be sneaky little Caius Octavius to me.
''The First Citizen requests the honor of your company in his home this afternoon, to confer upon a matter concerning the good of the Senate and People of Rome.'' I snorted. "Summoning me like some Oriental despot, is he? Well, that's just like him. Got himself into a tight spot again and needs me to get him out of it, no doubt!" All over the Curia steps, senators began sidling away from me, as if to clear a target range for Jove's thunderbolt. I love to see them do that.
"Father says you shouldn't talk like that," Paris said, quite unconcerned.
"Your father has grown disgustingly respectable these last few years. In his younger days there wasn't a professional criminal in Rome who could match him for villainy. Come along." I took him by the shoulder. "Let's go find something to eat and pay a visit to the baths and then we'll go see what the First Citizen wants."
On the waterfront near the Aemilian Bridge was a colorful little establishment called the Nemean Lion. That district of Rome is much devoted to Hercules and references to the demigod's legend are numerous. It was owned by a man named Ulpius who, in his youth, had been one of Milo's thugs. His daughter-in-law made the best pork sausage in Rome and each Saturnalia I gave them a nice present, so that they kept for me a reserve of fine, unwatered Falernian.
Since the day was fine we sat out front beneath the awning and watched the river traffic while Ulpius's granddaughters loaded the table with food and brought a flask of my private stock.
"Mother says you drink too early in the day," Paris said, lighting into the eatables. "She says you drink too much generally."
"She does, eh? Three generations of my relatives have said the same thing. I’ve presided at most of their funerals. I’m not going to face the First Citizen sober."
"Why do you hate him so much?" he mumbled around a mouthful of honeyed date cake.
"Because he destroyed the Republic and set up a monarchy and killed all the best men in Rome—all the true republicans."
"Then why didn't he kill you?" Precocious little bugger.
"By the time he got around to considering me, he'd decided to pose as the benevolent savior of the State. It's one of the political rules: Kill all your important enemies as soon as you seize power. The survivors will be so relieved that they'll forget all about it within a year. His great-uncle Julius Caesar neglected to kill his own enemies, and look what happened to him. Pretending respect and affection for me bolsters his image as the all-forgiving father of his country. It costs him nothing since I no longer count for anything, politically."
Truthfully, he didn't murder the Republic. It committed suicide. He just rearranged the carcass to suit him better. And most of the best men killed each other before Julian had a chance at them. No sense confusing the boy with political subtleties at so tender an age, though.
"So why are you willing to help him?"
"Why don't you finish your lunch?"
Thus fortified, and with the worst of my aches massaged from my bones at my favorite bathing establishment, I felt up to the long trudge up the Palatine and an interview with my least favorite Roman.
From the bottom of the steps we encountered guards. Caius Octavius makes a great show of being an ordinary citizen, living among his fellows without fear, and claimed that he never violated the ancient law against bringing armed soldiers into the City. The burly men who lounged around the residence wore togas, but they clinked as they moved and they studied me with an unsettling fixity.
A steward greeted me in the atrium and disappeared into the interior of the vast house to announce me. A few minutes later a splendidly handsome and stately woman appeared.
&n
bsp; "Decius Caecilius, how good of you to come! And this must be the handsome grandson of whom I hear such brilliant reports!"
"I don't know who you listen to, Livia, but if you've heard that he's anything but a lazy troublemaker your spies should be crucified."
"But so many of them are your relatives."
"All the more reason to nail them up," I grumbled. Of all the many intriguing and dangerous women I have known in my long life, Livia was the most perilous, the subtlest, and the most intelligent by a tremendous margin, and I knew Cleopatra, who may have been the most powerful as well as the best educated woman who ever lived. I always accorded Livia the highest respect.
"Come along, my husband is in his study. I do hope you’ll be able to help him. He has great confidence in you."
This should be good, I thought.
We found Octavius sitting at a desk attended by secretaries, apparently absorbed by weighty matters of state. At our arrival he stood and extended his hands.
"Ah, my old friend Decius Caecilius Metellus, I am so pleased that you've found time to visit me." With his spindly body and his large head with its unruly hair, he rather resembled a thistle.
"Always happy to be of assistance to the Senate and People," I said pointedly. The irony sailed right past him.
"As all good men should be. Please, sit down, Senator. And this would be the youngest to bear your ancient name? What a splendid example of Roman youth."
I was beginning to regret having brought Paris. The less these people noticed him, the better. I found myself falling into these lapses of judgement as I aged. Not that my discernment had ever been worthy of praise. I feigned creakiness as I lowered myself into a chair and sat with my hands resting atop my stick. A slave brought in a tray bearing a platter and cups.
"Please, take something, my friend. It's a long walk up the Palatine."
The platter held fresh figs. The cups held plain water. His pose of plainness and austerity had been concocted for him by Livia. Even his banquets were Stoic affairs, featuring only peasant food. I could easily picture him sneaking off afterward, to gorge in private upon imported delicacies arid rare wines.
"Thank you, no. I must take a care for my digestion, you know." Paris kept a straight face. He showed real promise.
"I see." He nodded commiseratingly. "My own health is rather uncertain." He was famously cold and wore two tunics even in summer, three or even four in winter, all under a great blanket of a toga. I think his inability to get warm was the result of perpetual fear. Like all tyrants he lived in terror of plots and poison.
Livia hovered nearby, her eyes always fixed adoringly upon her husband. I wondered if she bothered to do that when there were no witnesses.
"My husband has worn himself out in service to the state and the people," she intoned.
To my credit, I did not gag. "It seems I am here to take some of that burden upon my own aged shoulders," I said. "What might be the nature of this difficulty?"
"Ah, yes, well—esteemed Senator, you are aware of my concern for the declining morals of the citizenry, are you not?"
I said nothing, just raised my eyebrows.
"Well," he went on, "things have reached a shocking state. Senator, just shocking. The Roman family is not what it was in the days of our ancestors and the strength of character that made Rome great throughout the world has reached such a state of degeneracy that the very best of our families are dying out—yes, dying out, because our young men prefer dissipation and foreign vices to marrying and starting families!"
"How could I fail to notice?" I said. "You made that speech to the Senate last month."
"Proving, if any proof were needed, the seriousness of the problem!" Pedantic little twit.
"I hope you will not think I am boasting," I said, "but my own life has not been one of perfect probity. In fact, the words 'scandalous,' licentious,' and even 'degenerate' have been bandied about in company where my name was mentioned."
"That was when you were younger, Decius," Livia said. "You have acquired the respectability of venerable years. The follies of youth are quickly forgotten." The woman's political acuity was astounding.
"I have not given up the habit of folly," I told her.
"Excellent," she said, smiling. I knew then that I had said the wrong thing.
"I am sure you are aware," Octavius told me, "that the position of Rex Sacrorum has been vacant for some time?"
"Naturally," I said. "It's been vacant for most of my lifetime." The King of Sacrifices is a very ancient office, tremendously honorable, but surrounded by as many taboos as that of the Flamen Dialis. Usually, the position went to some doddering senator too old to mind the restrictions on his behavior. Such a priest rarely lasted more than a few years and then the office was vacant again.
"I had a candidate, eminently qualified, together with the concurrence of the Senate and the pontifical colleges."
"So I heard. Some jumped-up new patrician of yours, isn't he? Scandalous thing, if you ask me; making new patricians for the first time since Romulus."
The First Citizen reddened. "Decius Caecilius, you are perfectly aware that this was a measure necessary to restore the State! By ancient law many offices and priesthoods require patricians, and there were no longer enough of them to go around! In the days of Camillus there were more than a hundred patrician families. By the time of my first consulship there were no more than fourteen. Something had to be done."
"You were yourself offered that honor," Livia put in, "and your descendants."
"The gens Caecilia Metella has been the greatest of the plebeian families for centuries," I said peevishly. "I would not change that status. It is no honor for me and it would shame my ancestors." He began to puff up like Aesop's bullfrog but just then a significant detail penetrated my age-and-wine-fogged mind. "Your pardon. First Citizen, but did you say you ‘had' a candidate for Rex Sacrorum? I know that one as well trained in the arts of rhetoric as you are does not employ tenses haphazardly."
"The fellow's dead," Livia said.
"Ah, now we approach the heart of the matter." I leaned forward, chin atop my cane. "Am I safe in assuming this new-minted patrician did not choke to death on an olive stone?"
"He was murdered," Octavius said, seeming almost upset by it.
"No doubt you can find a replacement," I reassured him.
"Not as easy as you might think," he muttered, "even for me. However, replacing him is not the problem. It is the murder. It is going to cause a scandal!"
This raised my eyebrows. "Not only a murder, but a scandal, eh? I do hope none of your relatives are involved." I suppose it was rather unfair of me to refer, even obliquely, to his daughter's scandalous life, but when was he ever fair to anybody?
"No, for which I render the gods due thanks. But for years now I have bent my efforts toward restoring respect for the traditional Roman family, and now this!" He smote his fist upon his bony knee in vexation.
"And now what?" I prodded.
"We think it was somebody in his family who did him in," Livia said. "His wife, perhaps, maybe a daughter or one of the other relatives. There were things about him ... we did not know when we chose him for the position." I did not miss the significance of the "we." Octavius made few decisions without consulting her and rumor had it that he never made a move without her permission.
At last this was getting interesting. "What sort of things?"
"I will not countenance slanderous hearsay," her husband said, primly. "Such rumors may be baseless and are no better than the anonymous denunciations during the proscriptions!" What a hypocrite.
"Senator," Livia said, "you are renowned for your expertise in these things. We want you to investigate this murder and report to us."
"I see. Has a praetor been assigned?"
"Not yet," Octavius said. "Should your investigation produce evidence sufficient for a trial before a praetor's court, I assure you that all the proper forms will be respected. I am, after all. First Citize
n, not Dictator." Such piety.
I rose. "The name of the unfortunate gentleman?"
" Aulus Gratidius Tubero. He was discovered dead in his house this morning." His spoiled-brat mouth twisted at the sheer impertinence of this death.
"Then as a former praetor and many times a Iudex” I said, "I will undertake this investigation." It was mealy-mouthed of me to pretend that I was duty-bound by constitutional tradition to do as he wished. I merely did not want to admit that I did Octavius's bidding like everyone else. One could not be long in his Senate without contracting this disease of pious political hypocrisy.
Livia saw me to the door, a fine-boned hand resting on my equally bony shoulder. "Decius, you know I would never seek to influence your investigation."
I was expecting this. "What do you want?"
"My husband and I would be most grateful if our family were to be kept out of this dreadful mess."
Uh-oh, I thought. "Not Julia again?" Between them, Livia and Octavius had a sizable brood. Most were turning out, strangely, to be fairly decent. Tiberius and Drusus, Livia's boys by a previous marriage, were making their names as excellent soldiers. Julia was another matter. Although only nineteen years old, she was already a widow, her husband and Octavius's designated heir, Marcellus, having died a year or two previously. She had a reputation for extravagance, overweening pride and a taste for liaisons with married men. This was a bit of an embarrassment, since Octavius, in his zeal to restore Roman family values had declared adultery a crime; a laughable concept if ever there was one.
"I'm afraid so," Livia affirmed sadly. "I fear that someone has laid her under a curse."
More likely under every bush and ceiling in Rome, I thought, wisely refraining from chuckling at her unfortunate choice of words.
"However, she is now betrothed to Vipsanius Agrippa." Her lip curled only slightly. There was venom between Livia and her husband's loyal soldier-advisor.
"Agrippa? The man's near my own age!"
"Don't be ridiculous. He's the same age as my husband. She needs a mature man who can keep her on a tight rein. This marriage is important and we can't have her embroiled in some squalid scandal."
John Maddox Roberts - The King Of Sacrifices Page 1