SPQR I: The Kings Gambit

by John Maddox Roberts

  It is an oddity of soldiers that they will hate most officers who beat them and discipline them strictly, but will worship others for the same qualities. In my lifetime I have known two generals whose soldiers reveled in the strictness of their rule. One was Drusus, beloved stepson of our First Citizen. The other was Caius Julius, who had that wonderful facility for persuading men to do those things directly contrary to their own interests but ideal for his. I do not by this mean to equate Caesar with Drusus, for the latter is a splendid man, if somewhat dim of apprehension, while Caius Julius was the most brilliantly cold-blooded schemer Rome ever produced.

  But I am getting ahead of myself. At that moment, on that night, I had only Tigranes and Publius and Claudia on my mind. Especially Claudia. It pained me that she would contemplate lowering her social status, but that would have

  no bearing on our personal relationship. It was the knowledge that, when Publius Claudius changed his status and became Clodius, he would instantly become a figure of controversy and acrimony. That meant that he would be a target for assassins, and so would she, if she persisted in backing his fortunes.

  I returned to find the guests being conducted into the dining room. We all crawled onto the couches, a rather undignified procedure dictated by tradition, and slaves took our sandals and passed out wreaths: laurel, I noted, probably in honor of the foreign guest’s Greek tastes. The dinner was arranged in the old style, with three couches arranged around three sides of a square table, three guests to each couch.

  Publius had a difficult problem of precedence to contend with, having both a visiting prince and a Consulelect among his guests. Had Hortalus been in office, the right-hand position on the central couch would have been his by right, but Publius had given that place to Tigranes as a distinguished foreign guest. Hortalus had the next-highest place, in the center of the middle table, with Publius taking the left end.

  The rest of us were seated in no particular order, since birth and office were so oddly mixed in this group. I had the upper position on the right-hand couch, putting me next to Tigranes, with Claudia to my right and Caius Julius next to her. Opposite us on the third couch Curius, Catilina and Cicero reclined. It was still a new custom for women to recline with the men at dinner, but Claudia was nothing if not up-to-date. In earlier days, women sat in chairs, usually next to their husbands. Nobody on this occasion seemed upset by Claudia’s presence on the couch. I certainly wasn’t. The banquet itself was perfectly decorous, probably out of respect for Hortalus’s status as Consul-elect.

  There were no flamingos’ tongues or dormice rolled in honey and poppy seed or other culinary curiosities such as delighted Sergius Paulus. To begin, the servers brought in various appetizers: figs, dates, olives and the like, along with the inevitable eggs. Before anyone reached for these, Hortalus intoned the invocation to the gods in his matchless voice. Then we all set to.

  “Ever since I reached Italy,” Tigranes said to me, “every dinner has begun with eggs. Is that a custom here?”

  “Every formal dinner begins with eggs and ends with fruit,” I told him. “We have an expression, ‘from eggs to apples,’ meaning from beginning to end.”

  “I’ve heard the expression, but I never knew what it meant.” He eyed a dish of hard-boiled pheasant’s eggs doubtfully. Apparently, eggs were not esteemed among his countrymen. He found the next courses more to his liking: roast kid, a vast tuna and hares boiled in milk. Throughout this there was little but small talk. The latest omens were discussed, as usual.

  “Four eagles were seen atop the Temple of Jupiter this morning,” Hortalus said. “This must portend a good year to come.” It would, of course, be the year of his Consulate.

  “I’ve heard that a calf was born three nights ago in Campania,” Curius contributed, “with five legs and two heads.”

  Cicero snorted. “Monstrous births have no bearing on the affairs of men. They are nothing but the sport of the gods. I think the stars are of greater significance in our lives than most of us realize.”

  "Oriental mummery,” Hortalus pronounced, “begging our royal guest’s pardon. I think that the only omens of significance for us are those officially recognized and handed down to us by ancient custom: the auguries and the haruspices.”

  “Those being?” Tigranes asked.

  “Auguries are taken by the officials of the college of augurs, of whom there are fifteen,” Caesar explained. “It is a great honor for one of us to be elected to that college. They interpret the divine will by observing the flight and feeding of birds, and by determining the direction of lightning and thunder. Favorable omens come from the left, unfavorable omens from the right.”

  “Haruspices, on the other hand,” Cicero said, “are determined by observing the entrails of sacrificial animals. This is carried out by a professional class, mostly Etruscans. Official or not, I consider it to be fraudulent.”

  Tigranes looked confused. “Just a moment. If you regard the left side as favorable and the right as unfavorable, why do Roman poets often speak of thunder from the right as a sign of the gods’ favor?”

  “They are following a Greek custom,” Claudia said. “The Greek augurs faced north when taking the omens. Ours face south.”

  “Speaking of lightning,” Catilina said, “I don’t know whether it came from right or left, but this morning a bolt struck the statue of Lucullus by the wharf at Ostia. I heard this from a bargeman at the Tiber docks today. Melted him into a puddle of bronze.”

  There was much chatter about this omen. No official augur was required to interpret this one as unfavorable to Lucullus.

  "This sounds most ominous,” Hortalus said. “Let us hope that it doesn’t presage some terrible defeat in the East.” The statement had a hypocritical ring to it, but then Hortalus always sounded that way. If he told you the sun had risen that morning, you would go outside to see, just to make sure.

  “There are no few here in Rome who would rejoice to see Lucullus recalled,” Curius commented.

  “But the Senate would never recall a successful general,” I said, not liking the sound of this.

  “Not as long as he’s successful,” Publius Claudius said, smiling. “And my brother-in-law has been very successful.” He picked up a skewer of grilled lamb and gnawed at it daintily.

  “Mark me,” Catilina said, “that man is building himself an independent power base in the East, currying favor with those Asian cities by bankrupting half of Rome.” Sergius Catilina was one of those red-faced, red-haired men who looked and sounded angry all the time. He referred to Lu-cullus’s slashing of the Asian debt. When Sulla was Dictator, he had levied a tremendous assessment on the cities of the province of Asia, which they could pay only by borrowing at usurious rates from Roman financiers. To save the cities from utter ruin Lucullus had forgiven much of the debt and had forbidden high interest, earning him the undying enmity of our moneylenders.

  “Perhaps Publius will be able to point out the error of his ways when he sails to join Lucullus next year,” Claudia said airily. She seemed to want to lighten the conversation and quickly changed the subject. Soon the main course dishes were cleared away and we all observed a few moments of silence as the household gods were brought in. Officiating as household priest, Publius drew his toga over his head and sprinkled the little gods with meal and wine lees. When the gods were carried out, the dessert was served.

  During this time, Tigranes paid me inordinate attention, asking me to explain this or that concerning Roman custom, law or religion. He showed extraordinary interest in my career and plans for future officeholding. I might have been flattered at such interest from a man who might one day be King of Kings, but at the time I felt more annoyed that he prevented me from devoting my time to Claudia. As a result, Caesar received most of her conversation, for which I envied him.

  Claudia excused herself from the drinking-bout that followed dessert, and I decided that I had better moderate my intake of wine. It had come to me during dinner that I wa
s in the company of men with whom it would be unwise to speak carelessly. They were the sort of men who played the power game for the very highest stakes. Such men usually die by violence, and of those present at that drinking-bout, only Hortalus would enjoy a natural death. Of the nature of my own demise, I am not yet qualified to write. The politics of that time shared some aspects in common with the munera sine missione of which I wrote earlier.

  Taking little part in the drinking, I watched my fellow guests with interest. Curius was well advanced in drunkenness from what he had sipped during dinner. Sergius Catilina had the sort of red face that grew redder as he drank. His voice loudened and coarsened as well. Hortalus remained as calm and jovial as always, and Cicero drank moderately, his voice never slurring.

  Caius Julius was named master of revels and he decreed that the wine be mixed to a strength of only one part water to two of wine, a strong mix considering the potency of the Falernian that Publius served. I was grateful that Caesar refrained from decreeing one of those bouts where every guest had to down a specified number of cups. For instance, we might have been required to drink a cup for every letter in the name of the guest of honor. Tigranes would not have been a bad choice, but we all would have been on the floor before getting to the end of Quintus Hortensius Hortalus. Instead, we were to drink as we pleased, although a server made sure that our cups never stayed empty.

  “Tonight,” Caius Caesar said, “since we have so many guests of such high standing in the world, we will discuss the proper uses of power, both civil and military, in the service of the state.” This was another Greek custom chosen to flatter our foreign guest. When Romans settle down to serious drinking, philosophical discourse is rarely chosen for entertainment, on the grounds that nobody the next day will remember what was said anyway. Wrestlers, acrobats or naked Sardinian dancers would be more like it.

  “Marcus Tullius,” Caesar said, “be so good as to open the discussion. Mind you, you are not arguing before the bar, so keep your remarks brief and concise, so that men half-drunk can follow the thread of your reasoning.” Caesar himself was the very soul of tipsy good-fellowship, although I was certain that he was perfectly sober.

  Cicero thought for a moment, marshaling his arguments. “We Romans,” he began, “have created something new in the world. Since expelling the last of our kings more than four hundred years ago, we have constructed our Republic, which is the finest instrument of statecraft ever devised by man. It is not an unruly, shouting rabble such as the old Athenian republic, but rather a system of duly constituted assemblies, headed by the Senate and presided over by Consuls. With apologies to our honored guest, this is far superior to the outmoded system of monarchy, for we have laws instead of arbitrary will, and all positions of power within the state are apportioned according to merit and service, and all are subject to recall upon proof of incompetence or corruption.

  “As such, power is properly wielded, for the good of the state, by those men specially trained in the laws and usages of state governances. Military command should only be given to those who have spent years in the civil branch, lest commanders be capable of thinking only in military terms, and seek out wars to enrich themselves rather than undertake military action only for the good of the state.” This was a none-too-subtle jab at Pompey, who had attained generalship with almost no public service and then, through military power, had assumed the highest office.

  “Sergius Catilina,” Caesar said, “share your thoughts on the subject.”

  Catilina was bleary-eyed, but his voice was sharp. “While none of us, of course, would wish to see a restoration of the monarchy, our esteemed Marcus Tullius totally neglects the value of good birth in selecting those who should wield power. Those who are raised up from the dregs have no sense of duty to the state, but only a lust for personal aggrandizement. It takes centuries of breeding to produce the innate qualities of character that go into true nobility, and this is, regrettably, becoming a rare quantity. Every day, I see the sons of freedmen sitting in the Senate!” Like Publius, Catilina was a man who thought he deserved high office because of his birth. He certainly had no other qualifications. “I would propose that public office and military command be restricted to patricians and to the plebeian nobility. Then we would not have so many mere adventurers in positions of power.”

  “Admirably put,” Caesar said dryly. “Now, since Quin-tus Curius has withdrawn himself from the discussion”—the gentleman had passed out and was snoring—"let us hear from our Consul-elect for the coming year.”

  “I am not a political philosopher,” Hortalus intoned, “but a mere lawyer and dabbler in the arts of statecraft. While I would never want to see a Roman king, yet I am a friend to kings.” Here he bowed to Tigranes. “And while I agree that arbitrary power wielded by a single man is a menace to order, yet we have the admirable practice of dictatorship for those emergencies when only the quick decisions of a single commander can preserve the state. As for the military”—he gestured eloquently with his winecup—"I think that we have for some time allowed far too much latitude in our generals abroad. There is now a tendency among them to forget that they owe their commands and all else to the Senate, and thus come to regard themselves as virtual independent rulers within their areas of operation. We all remember Sertorius, and earlier this evening Sergius Catilina made some remarks of this nature about General Lucullus.” It was typical of Hortalus to use someone else’s statement to make his own point. “Perhaps it will soon be time to introduce legal proceedings spelling out the duties of our generals, and limiting their powers.”

  “Excellent points,” Caesar said. “Now we shall hear from our host.”

  Publius was well gone in wine, but still marginally coherent. “I am soon to join my brother-in-law, the glorious Lucullus, in the war against Mithridates. Military service is essential in one who would serve the state. Always said so. But power resides here, in Rome. If a man wants to have supreme power, it’s not to be had conquering Spaniards or Egyptians. Power comes from the Roman people. All of the Roman people, patrician and plebeian both. The Senate passes ultimate decrees, but power rests in the Popular Assembly as well. One who would wield power is deceiving himself if he thinks that a mere Senate majority is enough. A popular following is also essential, and not just in the assemblies, but in the streets.”

  “Most interesting,” Caius Julius said when the rather disjointed harangue seemed to be over. “But now, for a different perspective, let us hear from our visiting prince.”

  “First,” Tigranes said, “you must allow me to express my unbounded admiration for your unique Roman system, which chooses from among its best people those fit to govern half the world. However, I fear that it would never be suitable for my part of the world. Here you are steeped in Greek culture, and have a long tradition of elected government. My people are for the most part primitive Asiatics, unused to any but autocratic government. To them, their king is a god. Take away the king, and they lose their god as well.”

  He smiled at all the guests gathered around the table, as if we were the best friends he had ever known. “No, I believe that the East will always be ruled by kings. And I think you will agree that they should be kings who are friends of Rome. Few share my views on the matter in the East these days.” Still angling for Papa’s throne, I noted.

  "A point most excellently taken,” Caesar said. “Now we must hear from Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, who has recently begun his public career, is the son of our esteemed Urban Praetor and the scion of a distinguished line.”

  I had drunk little, yet I felt light-headed. Perhaps it was my preoccupation with Claudia. I had promised myself not to speak injudiciously, but something about Caesar’s fulsome introduction caused me to depart from the bland address I had planned. Also, there was something in the air, something that had been nagging at my mind all evening. It was the way that everything that had happened since the murders of Sinistrus and Paramedes, everything said or hinted by nearly e
veryone I had spoken to, and especially everything said at this dinner, had circled around two names: Lucullus and Mithridates, Mithridates and Lucullus. I knew that if I pried hard enough, I could wrench this tangled heap of lies and secrecy open, exposing everyone’s guilty interest in those two powerful men. I had the level to pry with: the power of the Senate and People of Rome. But as yet I had no fulcrum upon which to rest my lever.

  “As the most junior member of the government,” I began, “I scarcely dare speak in such distinguished company.” They all looked at me, smiled and nodded, except for Curius, who snored softly. Servers padded about on bare feet, keeping the cups brimming.

  “But in the course of this fascinating discussion a few things have occurred to me, and I will share them with you.” Still, they smiled. “It seems to me that what is more important than birth or origin, more important even than experience or ability, is loyalty to Rome, to the Senate and People. As my patron Hortalus and my friend Sergius Catilina have pointed out, a victorious general who fights only to enrich or glorify himself is no servant of Rome. Neither is a magistrate who sells his decisions or a governor who robs his province.” At this, Cicero nodded vigorously. He had prosecuted Verres for exactly that. “And no one,” I went on, “is a loyal Roman who deals secretly with foreign kings for his own gain, or who conspires against a Roman commander in the field for envy of his glory.”