"Good day, my lady,” I said as I began to replace the javelins. Except for a few runners around the periphery of the field, the Campus Martius was almost deserted. It was always thronged in the spring.
“Greeting,” she said formally. “I was admiring your skill. So few wellborn men bother with martial exercise anymore, it is good to see someone keeping up the tradition.”
Were I a vain man, I would have been flattered to know that she could discern my innate nobility even though I was dressed in my tunic with no mark of rank. However, even in my young and innocent days I was not stupid.
“Have we met, my lady? I confess, your veils defeat me.”
She swept the veil aside, smiling. Her face was definitely that of a highborn Roman lady, with the slightly tilted eyes that spoke of Etruscan ancestry. The tilted eyes bore the only cosmetics she used. Indeed, she needed none. She was, I think, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. So she seemed to me that day, anyway.
“We have, Decius Caecilius.” She continued to smile, provocatively.
I took up the game. “But surely I would remember. You are not the sort of lady I forget easily.”
“And yet I was quite taken with you at the time. It was at the house of your kinsman, Quintus Caecilius Metellus Celer, at the time of my betrothal.”
“Claudia!” I said. “You must forgive me. You were only twelve then, and not half so beautiful as you are now.” I tried to remember what year that had been. She had to be nineteen or twenty by now. There was some speculation within the family as to why the marriage had not yet taken place.
"You haven’t changed. But then, you have. That was before you left for Spain, and you’ve acquired a scar since then. It’s very becoming.”
“There are others,” I told her, “but not so dignified.” I noticed that the serving-girl was studying me coolly, without the downcast-eyed modesty expected of domestic slaves. She was a wiry creature of about sixteen, and I thought she looked more like an acrobat than a lady’s maid.
“You intrigue me,” Claudia said.
“Wonderful. No one has ever called me intriguing before. I assure you, there is nobody I would rather intrigue.” Smitten young men speak like that.
“Yes, it intrigues me that you would rather serve Rome through the plodding routine of office instead of dashing military glory.” I couldn’t tell whether her tone was gently mocking or seriously mocking.
“Plodding but relatively safe. Military shortcuts to power and authority shorten one’s life.”
“But nothing is safe in Rome these days,” she said, quite seriously. “And our illustrious Consul Pompey has done rather well out of his military adventures.”
“Spared himself some of the drudgery of office, at any rate,” I agreed. Early in his precocious career, the boy-wonder general had secured consular command of an army without having served even as a quaestor. He was now Consul at the age of thirty-six. He and his partner, Crassus, had secured election to the Consulate by the simple expedient of encamping their legions within sight of the city walls.
“Well, you may be odd in these times, but I think it’s admirable. I was on my way home from the Capitol when I saw you practicing here. I decided to come over and extend an invitation.”
"An invitation?” I seemed to be attracting a lot of those lately.
“This evening my brother and I host a banquet in honor of a visitor. Will you pay us the honor of attending?”
“I am flattered. Of course I’ll come. Who is the guest?”
“A foreign nobleman, a hospes of my brother’s. I’m not supposed to noise his name about, because he’s supposed to have enemies here in the city. Claudius made me promise not to tell. You’ll meet him tonight.”
“I’ll look forward to meeting this mysterious traveler,” I said, not greatly caring. Foreign potentates were common in Rome, and one more unpronounceable name failed to pique my interest. I would, however, be happy to put up with some boring Egyptian or Numidian in order to see Claudia again.
“This evening, then,” she said, resuming her veil. The slave girl studied me solemnly until her mistress said, “Come, Chrysis.”
I decided that I had time to go to the public baths, then home to change clothes before the banquet, where I would arrive fashionably late.
I went to one of my favorite establishments, a small bathhouse near the Forum that boasted no palaestra or lecture halls and therefore was mercifully free of grunting wrestlers and droning philosophers. It provided towels and oils and its caldarium was a good place to stew in hot water and ponder.
I was still astonished that Claudia had grown into such a beautiful woman. I had heard her spoken of, naturally. She was fast building a reputation as a scandalous young lady, but in those days a woman could be scandalous just by speaking her mind in public. She had done nothing really reprehensible so far.
The Claudians were a strange and difficult family, one of the oldest patrician gens, Sabine in origin but with a strong infusion of Etruscan blood. This Etruscan element was credited for that family’s occasional forays into mysticism and odd religions. The family’s history was sprinkled with famous patriots and notorious traitors. One Claudian had built the fine road to Capua and then named it for himself. Another had drowned the sacred chickens and in consequence lost a sea battle with the Carthaginians. They were fairly typical of the breed. However, at this time I had just one Claudian on my mind.
Bathed, shaved, freshly dressed and perfumed, I presented myself to the janitor at the town house of Publius Claudius Pulcher, a fine structure that had once belonged to a wealthy Senator who had been executed during the Sullan proscriptions. Publius himself greeted me in the peristylium. He was a handsome young man of stocky build and he welcomed me warmly.
Publius was known as a headstrong, violent youth, soon to live up to the worst of his family’s reputation. But that was the future, and on this evening I was interested only in his sister. The guests included a number of the rising young men of the time. Caius Julius was there, never one to pass up a free meal and a chance to establish powerful contacts. The formidable Cicero was there as well, fresh from his celebrated prosecution of Verres. He was one of the “new men,” that is to say, men of non-Roman birth who were beginning to come to prominence at that time, as the old Roman families died out through civil war or lack of interest in procreation.
There was also a plump-faced young man whose beard was trimmed in the Greek fashion and who wore Greek clothing. This, I decided, had to be the mysterious guest. Ever since Alexander squashed them under his heel, all the Asiatics want to be imitation Greeks. I lost interest in him when Claudia entered.
I took a cup from a passing slave and was about to monopolize Claudia when another of the guests made it plain that he wanted to speak with me. I groaned inwardly. It was Quintus Curius, an extraordinarily dissipated young Senator, a man to whom virtually every crime short of treason had been imputed. He was to add that one before his short career was done. We went through the customary greetings.
“Odd gathering here, isn’t it?” he said. With him there, I could not but agree. “That Cicero, for instance. How does an odious little nobody like that come out of nowhere to Rome and make a name for himself in public life?”
“Actually,” I said, “he’s from Arpinum.”
Curius shrugged. “Arpinum is nowhere. Caius Julius, of course, he’s a comer, and almost respectable. Lucius Sergius Catilina, that’s a man to keep your eye on. And this Gree-kling, now. Who do you think he might be?”
It was my turn to shrug. “Eastern princes with Greek tutors are no rarity. Someone young Claudius took hospitality with in his travels, I presume.” Gratefully, I saw that Claudia was coming to my rescue.
“Curius, I must borrow Decius for a while,” she said, taking my arm. When we were safely away, she said, “When I saw you standing there looking so distressed, I just had to do something. Isn’t he a horrid bore? I don’t know why my brother invited him.”
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"He doesn’t entirely approve of your guest list,” I told her. “Cicero, for instance.”
“Oh, I rather like Cicero. He’s a brilliant man and afraid of nothing. Married to the most abominable woman, though.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said. “I’ve not had the pleasure of the lady’s acquaintance.”
“We should all be so lucky. Now you must meet our guest of honor.” The young Asiatic turned at our approach. “Decius Caecilius Metellus, I present Tigranes, Prince of Armenia.” So that was it.
“The son of the magnificent King of Armenia does Rome great honor by his presence here.”
“I am dazzled to be in your wondrous city,” he said with a perfect Greek accent. He could not have been terribly dazzled by Rome, coming from his father’s fabulous new royal city, Tigranocerta. But perhaps it was power that dazzled him rather than beauty.
“I only wish,” he continued, “that I could make my visit more public. The state of relations between us, alas, is not the best.” He had reason to be discreet about his presence. Rome was very nearly at war with Armenia. “However, rest assured that, unlike my father, I am a firm friend of Rome.” And running for your life from the old man’s wrath, I thought.
“Rome’s admiration for the ancient kingdom of Armenia is unbounded,” I assured him. “Envy” might have been a better word. Old Tigranes in those days was King of Kings, a title originally held, I believe, by the King of Persia. Since then, the title was held by the Oriental tyrant who had the most subject-kings licking his sandals. Tigranes the Elder was unthinkably wealthy, and every one of our generals was itching to have a go at him. The sack of Tigranocerta was certain to net the richest haul since we took Corinth. Every legionary would be able to retire to a villa in the country with a hundred slaves.
“My generous friend Publius Claudius and his gracious sister have most kindly extended their hospitality to me for the duration of my stay here in the capital of the world.”
“And you could not be in better hands, I assure you.” It seemed to me that he looked at Claudia with more than mere admiration.
“So I believe,” he said. “The Lady Claudia is, I believe, the most remarkable woman I have ever met.”
Claudia smiled at the compliment, bringing out a tiny dimple at the corner of her mouth. “Prince Tigranes and I have discovered a mutual fondness for the Greek Lyric poets.”
“Would you believe that she has all of Sappho by heart?” Tigranes said.
“She is famed as a lady of wide accomplishments,” I assured them both. I could well believe that she was something new to him. It had only recently become fashionable for wellborn Roman women to be educated. In the East, women were never educated, and if they were intelligent, they were careful to hide the fact.
“Is this a pleasure visit?” I asked, knowing full well that it was not.
“Of course, it is the greatest pleasure to visit Rome, and one I shall treasure all my life. I do, however, wish to confer with your distinguished Consuls concerning my troublesome neighbor to the northwest.” This could only mean the redoubtable Mithridates, whose name, even if merely implied, seemed to be everywhere lately.
"As I understand it,” I said, “he may not be troublesome much longer. Last I heard, General Lucullus had him on the run.” Something struck me and I turned to Claudia. “Isn’t your sister married to Lucullus?”
“She is,” Claudia affirmed. “Lucullus has promised Publius a staff appointment as soon as Publius can join him in the East.”
“Ah, so Publius is about to enter public life?” I said heartily. The thought of Publius Claudius in a position of military authority made one tremble for the fate of Rome. The only reason I could conceive that he would risk his aristocratic hide in a campaign was to accumulate enough military time to run for office.
“The call to public duty comes to all men in our family,” she said.
“Let’s see,” I mused, “a couple of years in the East, and Publius will be old enough and have the qualifications to stand for a quaestorship, will he not?”
“He wishes to be a tribune of the people,” she answered.
This was a bit of a shock, although it should not have been. “Then he will become a Clodius?” I queried.
“Exactly. And, since my brother and I do everything together, I shall become Clodia.”
“I beg you to reconsider, Claudia,” I said, very gravely. “This is not a step to be taken lightly.”
Tigranes was looking from one to the other of us in great puzzlement. At that moment, a slave ran up to Claudia and told her than an important guest had arrived. She turned to me.
“Decius, the prince is puzzled by all this. Perhaps you can explain some of our quaint old customs to him while I take care of my duties as hostess.”
“I confess,” Tigranes said when she was gone, “that I don’t understand what you meant—about Publius, I mean.”
This was a subject that could be confusing even among Romans, but I did my best to enlighten this foreigner. “You are aware of our distinction between patrician and plebeian?”
He nodded. “At one time, I thought that it meant the same as noble and commons, but I’ve found that is not quite the case.”
“True. The patricians were the founding families, and they still have certain privileges, mostly concerning ritual duties and such. At one time, they had all the high offices, but no longer.” Slaves came by bearing trays of sweetmeats and we helped ourselves. “There were some rather nasty civil wars fought over plebeian rights, long ago, but the fact is, the patrician families have long been dying out and plebeians have had to take over their duties. We now recognize a plebeian nobility. These are families that have had Consuls among their ancestors. Is this clear?”
“I think so,” he said, very doubtfully.
“For instance, my own family, the Caecilii Metelli, has had many Consuls. By far the largest number of the senatorial families these days are plebeian. There are still some patrician families.” I looked over the room. “For instance: Over there is Caius Julius Caesar, a patrician. So is Sergius Catilina. Both of this year’s Consuls, Crassus and Pompey, are plebeians. Cicero over there is not even from Rome, but everybody expects him to be Consul someday. Is this clear?”
“I think so,” he said, nibbling on a sugared fig.
“Good. Because now it gets complicated. Our host and hostess belong to the very ancient Claudian gens. This family is unusual in having both patrician and plebeian branches. The patricians are usually called Claudius, and the plebeians are usually named Clodius. Certain members of this family have chosen, for political reasons, to switch from patrician to plebeian status. To do this, they arrange to have themselves adopted by a member of the plebeian family and then change the spelling of their name.”
Tigranes looked slightly stunned. “But why should anyone want to change from patrician to plebeian?”
“That is a shrewd question,” I admitted. “Partly, it’s to curry favor with the mob, which is entirely plebeian. Partly, it’s constitutional. Only plebeians can hold the office of tribune.”
“I thought tribunes were military officers,” he said.
“Military tribunes are low-ranking officers, appointed by the Senate, who continually embarrass our generals with their inexperience and clumsiness.” Having been one, I could speak with authority. “Tribunes of the people are elected by the plebs and have had considerable power, including the power of veto over a senatorial decree.”
“ ‘Have had’?” Tigranes said, with an excellent grasp of Latin tenses.
“Well, yes,” I said, floundering somewhat because I was so puzzled myself. “Actually, under the Sullan constitution, which still stands, the tribunes of the people have been stripped of most of their old powers.” Sulla, one need hardly point out, had been a patrician.
“And yet Claudius wants to be a tribune,” Tigranes said. “Will this be difficult?”
“Well, let me see. He’ll have to have a plebe
ian sponsor, which is no problem since so many of his kinsman are Clo-dians. There will be legislation to force through the Senate. They are always reluctant to see such social fluidity. It can be complicated.”
“I marvel at this multiplicity of governmental voices,” Tigranes said. “In my homeland, the Great King says what is to be, and it is.”
“We’ve done well out of our system,” I assured him. At that moment, the new guest entered. It was none other than my father’s patron, Quintus Hortensius Hortalus. Everybody expected a sudden clashing of guests, because Hortalus had defended Verres, whom Cicero had prosecuted with such spectacular success. However, the two men remained quite civil, in that odd fashion that lawyers have.
I excused myself to go to the privy. Actually, I only needed a few moments to ponder the makeup of the night’s odd gathering. Upon reflection, I realized it was not so disparate after all. Virtually every man present was a supporter of Pompey. Within a month, Pompey and Crassus would step down from consular office to take up proconsular command. One of the Consuls for the next year was none other than Quintus Hortensius Hortalus.
Now, while Pompey and Crassus were technically equal in rank, Crassus was not one tenth the general Pompey was. It was clear to everyone that Pompey coveted the eastern command now held by Lucullus. It would be the spectacular crown to Pompey’s brilliant military career to add the eastern kingdoms to Rome’s holdings. The problem was, it looked as if Lucullus was going to do exactly that before Pompey had the chance.
Perhaps I should say something about Lucullus here.
He was an altogether admirable man whose reputation had suffered of late because he did not belong to the all-important family we all know so well. He is remembered now because of his later writings on the nature of the good life and because of his patronage of the arts, but in those days he was our most brilliant general. He was one of the few genuinely fine Romans I ever knew, able in political and military life, a patron of the arts, ferocious in battle, magnanimous in the moment of victory. I know it sounds like the praise of a lackey, but we were not related and I never owed him anything, so you may take it as true. Unlike so many of our generals who bought the goodwill of their soldiers by allowing them great license, especially after a battle, Lucullus was a strict disciplinarian, and as a result his troops had little affection for him when the campaigning was rough.
SPQR I: The Kings Gambit Page 5