“Then—how indeed?” asked Cato. “Something you’d written he might have been able to find?”
Drusus shook his head so positively he left his audience in no doubt. “I have written nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
“Why are you so sure Quintus Servilius had help in framing his accusations?” asked Livia Drusa.
“Because he accused me of falsifying the enrollment of new citizens, and lumped me with Quintus Poppaedius.”
“Could he not have plucked that out of thin air?”
“Perhaps, except for one really worrying aspect—he gave a third name. Gaius Papius Mutilus of the Samnites. Where did he learn that particular name? I knew of it only because I knew Quintus Poppaedius had grown very friendly with Papius Mutilus. The thing is, I’m certain both Quintus Poppaedius and Papius Mutilus did falsify the rolls. But how did Caepio know it?”
Livia Drusa got to her feet. “I cannot promise anything, Marcus Livius, but it’s possible I can provide an answer. Will you excuse me for a moment?”
Drusus, Cato Salonianus, and Servilia Caepionis waited out the moment, hardly curious; what could Livia Drusa produce to answer such a mysterious question, when the real answer was probably that Caepio had made a lucky guess?
Back came Livia Drusa marching her daughter Servilia in front of her, one hand digging into the child’s shoulder.
“Stand right here, Servilia. I want to ask you something,” said Livia Drusa sternly. “Have you been visiting your father?”
The girl’s small face was so still, so expressionless that it struck those who observed it as a guilty face, guarded.
“I require a truthful answer, Servilia,” said Livia Drusa. ‘ ‘Have you been visiting your father? And before you speak, I would remind you that if you answer in the negative, I will make enquiries in the nursery of Stratonice and the others.”
“Yes, I visit him,” said Servilia.
Drusus sat up straight, so did Cato; Servilia Caepionis sank lower in her chair, shielding her face with her hand.
“What did you tell your father about your Uncle Marcus and his friend, Quintus Poppaedius?”
“The truth,” said Servilia, still expressionless.
“What truth?”
“That they have conspired to put Italians on the roll of Roman citizens.”
“How could you do that, Servilia, when it isn’t the truth?” asked Drusus, growing angry.
“It is the truth!” cried the child shrilly. “I saw letters in the Marsian man’s room not many days ago!”
“You entered a guest’s room without his knowledge?” asked Cato Salonianus incredulously. “That’s despicable, girl!”
“Who are you to judge me?” asked Servilia, rounding on him. “You’re the descendant of a slave and a peasant!”
Lips thin, Cato swallowed. “I might be all of that, Servilia, but even slaves can own principles too high to invade the sacred privacy of a guest.”
“I am a patrician Servilius,” said the child hardily, “whereas that man is just an Italian. He was behaving treasonously—and so was Uncle Marcus!”
“What letters did you see, Servilia?” asked Drusus.
“Letters from a Samnite named Gaius Papius Mutilus.”
“But not letters from Marcus Livius Drusus.”
“I didn’t need to. You’re so thick with the Italians that everyone knows you do what they want, and conspire with them.”
“It’s as well for Rome that you’re female, Servilia,” said Drusus, forcing his face and voice to appear amused. “If you entered the law courts armed with such arguments, you’d soon make a public fool of yourself.” He slid off his couch and came round it to stand directly in front of her. “You are an idiot and an ingrate, my child. Deceitful and— as your stepfather said—despicable. If you were older, I would lock you out of my house. As it is, I will do the opposite. You will be locked inside my house, free to go wherever you like within its walls provided there is someone with you. But outside its walls you will not go at all for any reason. You will not visit your father or anyone else. Nor will you send him notes. If he sends demanding that you go to live with him, I will let you go gladly. But if that should happen, I will never admit you to my house again, even to see your mother. While your father refuses custody of you, I am your paterfamilias. You will accept my word as law because such is the law. Everyone in my house will be instructed to do as I command concerning you and the life you will lead in my house. Is that understood?”
The girl betrayed no trace of shame or fear; dark eyes full of fire, she stood her ground indomitably. “I am a patrician Servilius,” she said. “No matter what you do to me, you cannot alter the fact that I am better than all of you put together. What might be wrong for my inferiors is no more than my duty. I uncovered a plot against Rome and informed my father. As was my duty. You can punish me in any way you choose, Marcus Livius. I don’t care if you lock me inside one room forever, or beat me, or kill me. I know I did my duty.”
“Oh, take her away, get her out of my sight!” cried Drusus to his sister.
“Shall I have her beaten?” asked Livia Drusa, quite as angry as Drusus.
He flinched. “No! There will be no more beatings in my house, Livia Drusa. Just do with her as I’ve ordered. If she ventures outside the nursery or her schoolroom, she must have an escort. And though she is now old enough to be moved from the nursery to her own sleeping cubicle, I will not allow it. Let her suffer lack of privacy, since she accords none to my guests. All this will be punishment enough as the years go on. Ten more of them before she has any hope of leaving here—if her father then takes enough interest in her to make a match for her. If he doesn’t, I will—and not to a patrician! I’ll marry her to some peasant country bumpkin!”
Cato Salonianus laughed. “No, not a country bumpkin, Marcus Livius. Marry her to a truly wonderful freedman, a natural nobleman without the slightest hope of ever becoming one. Then perhaps she will discover that slaves and ex-slaves can be better than patricians.”
“I hate you!” screamed Servilia as her mother hustled her away. “I hate you all! I curse you, I curse you! May every last one of you be dead before I am old enough to marry!”
Then the child was forgotten; Servilia Caepionis slid from her chair to the floor. Drusus gathered her up, terrified, and carried her to their bedroom, where burning feathers held under her nose brought her back to consciousness. She wept desolately.
“Oh, Marcus Livius, you have had no luck since you allied yourself to my family,” she sniffled, while he sat on the edge of the bed and held her close, praying that her baby weathered this.
“I have, you know,” he said, kissing her brow, wiping her tears tenderly. “Don’t make yourself ill, mea vita, the girl isn’t worth it. Don’t give her the satisfaction, please.”
“I love you, Marcus Livius. I always have, I always will.”
“Good! I love you too, Servilia Caepionis. A little more each and every day we spend together. Now calm yourself, don’t forget our baby. He’s growing so nicely,” he said, with a pat for her enlarging belly.
*
Servilia Caepionis died in childbirth the day before Lucius Licinius Crassus Orator and Quintus Mucius Scaevola promulgated a new law about the Italian situation to the members of the Senate, with the result that the Marcus Livius Drusus who dragged himself to the meeting to hear the nature of the bill was in no fit state to lend the matter the attention it warranted.
No one in the Drusus household had been prepared; Servilia Caepionis had been very well, her pregnancy proceeding snugly and without incident. So sudden was her labor that even she had felt no warning; within two hours she was dead of a massive haemorrhage no amount of packing and elevation served to staunch. Out of the house when it happened, Drusus rushed back in time to be with her, but she passed from terrible pain to a dreamy, carefree euphoria, and died without knowing that Drusus held her hand, or understanding that she was dying. A merciful end for her but a horr
ifying one for Drusus, who received from her no words of love, or comfort, or even acknowledgment of his presence. All her years of trying for that elusive child had come to a finish; she just dwindled to a bloodless, oblivious white effigy in a bed saturated with her life force. When she died the child had not so much as entered the birth canal; the doctors and midwives beseeched Drusus to let them cut the baby out of his wife, but he refused.
“Let her go still wrapping it round,” he said. “Let her have that consolation. If it lived, I couldn’t love it.”
And so he hauled himself to the Curia Hostilia no more than half-alive himself, and took his place among the middle ranks to listen, his priesthood allowing him a position more prominent than his actual senatorial status warranted. His servant situated his folding chair and literally lowered his master down onto it, while those around him murmured their condolences and he nodded, nodded, nodded his thanks, face almost as white as hers had been. Before he was ready for it, he caught sight of Caepio in the back row of the opposite tiers, and managed to go whiter still. Caepio! Who had sent back word when notified of his sister’s death that he was leaving Rome immediately after this meeting, and would not in consequence be able to attend the funeral of Servilia Caepionis.
Indeed, Drusus’s view of proceedings and the House was virtually unimpeded, as he sat near the end of the left-hand tiers, where the great bronze doors of the curia built centuries before by King Tullus Hostilius stood open to permit those crowded in the portico to hear. For this, the consuls decided, must be a fully public meeting. No one save the senators and their single attendants was permitted inside, but a public meeting meant that anyone else could cluster just outside the open doors to listen.
At the other end of the chamber, flanked on either side by the three tiers of steps upon which the House placed their folding stools, stood the raised podium of the curule magistrates, in front of it the long wooden bench upon which the ten tribunes of the plebs perched. The beautiful carved ivory curule chairs of the two consuls were positioned at the front of the platform, those belonging to the six praetors behind, and the ivory curule chairs of the two curule aediles behind them again. Those senators permitted to speak because of sheer accumulation of years or curule office occupied the bottom tier on either side, the middle tier went to those who held priesthoods or augurships, or had served as tribunes of the plebs, or were priests of the minor colleges, while the top tier was reserved for the pedarii—the backbenchers—whose only privilege in the House was to vote.
After the prayers and offerings and omens were declared all satisfactory, Lucius Licinius Crassus Orator, the senior of the two consuls, rose to his feet.
“Princeps Senatus, Pontifex Maximus, fellow curule magistrates, members of this august body, the House has been talking for some time about the illegal enrollment of Italian nationals as Roman citizens during this present census,” he said, a document curled in his left hand. “Though our distinguished colleagues the censors, Marcus Antonius and Lucius Valerius, had expected to see several thousand new names added to the rolls, they did not expect to see very many thousands of new names. But that is what happened. The census in Italy has seen an unprecedented rise in those claiming to be Roman citizens, and testimony has been made to us that most of these new names are those of men of Italian Allied status who have absolutely no right to the Roman citizenship. Testimony has been made to us that the leaders of the Italian nations connived at having their people enroll as Roman citizens virtually en masse. Two names have been put forward: Quintus Poppaedius Silo, leader of the Marsi, and Gaius Papius Mutilus, leader of the Samnites.”
Fingers snapped imperiously; the consul stopped, bowed toward the middle of the front row on his right. “Gaius Marius, I welcome you back to this House. You have a question?”
“I do indeed, Lucius Licinius,” said Marius, rising to his feet looking very brown and fit. “These two men, Silo and Mutilus. Are their names on our rolls?”
“No, Gaius Marius, they are not.”
“Then, testimony aside, what evidence do you have?”
“Of evidence, none,” said Crassus Orator coolly. “I mention their names only because of testimony to the effect that they personally incited the citizens of their nations to apply for enrollment in huge numbers.”
“Surely then, Lucius Licinius, the testimony to which you refer is entirely suspect?”
“Possibly,” said Crassus Orator, unruffled. He bowed again, with a great flourish. “If, Gaius Marius, you would permit me to proceed with my speech, I will make all clear in time.”
Grinning, Marius returned the bow, and sat down.
“To proceed then, Conscript Fathers! As Gaius Marius so perceptively observes, testimony unsupported by solid evidence is questionable. It is not the intent of your consuls or your censors to ignore this aspect. However, the man who testified before us is prestigious, and his testimony does tend to confirm our own observations,” said Crassus Orator.
“Who is this prestigious person?” asked Publius Rutilius Rufus, without rising.
“Due to a certain danger involved, he requested that his name not be divulged,” said Crassus Orator.
“I can tell you, Uncle!” said Drusus loudly. “His name is Quintus Servilius Caepio Wife-beater! He also accused me!”
“Marcus Livius, you are out of order,” said the consul.
“Well, and so I did accuse him! He’s as guilty as Silo and Mutilus!” shouted Caepio from the back row.
“Quintus Servilius, you are out of order. Sit down.”
“Not until you add the name of Marcus Livius Drusus to my charge!” shouted Caepio, even louder.
“The consuls and the censors have satisfied themselves that Marcus Livius Drusus is not implicated in this business,” said Crassus Orator, beginning to look annoyed. “You would be wise—as would all pedarii!—to remember that this House has not yet accorded you the freedom to speak! Now sit down and keep your tongue where it belongs—inside your shut mouth! This House will hear no more from men involved in a personal feud, and this House will pay attention to me!”
Silence followed. Crassus Orator listened to it reverently for some moments, then cleared his throat and began again.
“For whatever reason—and at whoever’s instigation— there are suddenly far too many names upon our census rolls. The assumption that many men have illegally usurped the citizenship is a fair one to make given the circumstances. It is the intention of your consuls to rectify this situation, not to pursue false trails or apportion blame without evidence. We are interested in one thing only: the knowledge that unless we do something, we are going to be faced with a surplus of citizens—all claiming to be members of the thirty-one rural tribes!—who will within a generation be able to cast more votes in the tribal elections than we bona fide citizens, and may possibly also be able to influence voting in the Centuriate Classes.”
“Then I sincerely hope we are going to do something, Lucius Licinius,” said Scaurus Princeps Senatus from his seat in the middle of the right-hand front row, next to Gaius Marius.
“Quintus Mucius and I have drafted a new law,” said Crassus Orator, not taking offense at this particular interruption. “Its intent is to remove all false citizens from the rolls of Rome. It concerns itself with nothing else. It is not an act of expulsion, it will not call for a mass exodus of non-citizens from the city of Rome or from any other center of Romans or Latins within Italy. Its concern is to uncover those who have been entered on the rolls as citizens who are not citizens at all. To effect this, the act proposes that the Italian peninsula be divided into ten parts—Umbria, Etruria, Picenum, Latium, Samnium, Campania, Apulia, Lucania, Calabria, and Bruttium. Each of the ten parts will be provided with a special court of enquiry empowered to investigate the citizen status of all those whose names appear on the census for the first time. The act proposes that these quaestiones be staffed by judges rather than juries, and that the judges be members of the Senate of Rome—each court presi
dent will be of consular status, and he will be assisted by two junior senators. A number of steps are incorporated to serve as guidelines for the courts of enquiry, and each man arraigned before them will have to answer—with proof!—the questions included within each step of the guidelines. These protocols will be too strict for any false citizen to escape detection, so much we do assure you for the moment. At a later contio meeting we will of course read out the text of the lex Licinia Mucia in full, but I am never of the opinion that the first contio on any bill should mire itself in detailed legalities.”
Scaurus Princeps Senatus rose to his feet. “If I may, Lucius Licinius, I would like to ask if you propose to set up one of your special quaestiones in the city of Rome herself, and if so, whether this quaestio will function as the one investigating Latium as well as Rome?”
Crassus Orator looked solemn. “Rome herself will constitute the eleventh quaestio,” he answered. “Latium will be dealt with separately. With regard to Rome, however, I would like to say that the rolls of the city have not revealed any mass declarations of new citizens we believe to be spurious. Despite this, we believe it will be worth setting up a court of enquiry within Rome, as the city probably contains many enrolled citizens who—if the enquiries are taken far enough—will be proven ineligible.”
“Thank you, Lucius Licinius,” said Scaurus, sitting down.
Crassus Orator was now thoroughly put out. All hopes he might have cherished to work up to some of his finer rhetorical periods were now utterly destroyed; what had started out as a speech had turned into a questions-and-answers exercise.
Before he could resume his address, Quintus Lutatius Catulus Caesar got up, confirming the senior consul’s suspicions that the House was just not in the mood to listen to magnificent speeches.
“May I venture a question?” asked Catulus Caesar demurely.
Crassus Orator sighed. “Everyone else is, Quintus Lutatius, even those not entitled to speak! Feel free. Do not hesitate. Be my guest. Avail yourself of the opportunity, do!”
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