A Point of Law s-10

by John Maddox Roberts

  “Wonderful,” I said. “Even dead, Clodius can cause me trouble.”

  “Time is on your side,” Cato said. “With the election coming up, the court will be sitting for only four more days.”

  “If Juventius is willing to move fast,” I pointed out, “four days is plenty of time to prosecute me.” I didn’t have to point out that a guilty verdict could prevent me from taking my place among the candidates on election day. Even if I were to be voted in anyway, I could be prevented from assuming office on the new year.

  “We have to get your backside planted on that curule chair before the bugger can haul you before a court,” said the eminently practical Creticus.

  “Tonight,” Hortalus said, “I’ll go outside the walls and take the auguries. Perhaps I’ll see a sign that the courts can’t meet for the next few days.”

  “You’re known as my father’s closest friend,” I said. “You’ll be denounced before the Senate for falsifying auguries, even if you see a thunderbolt strike a night-soaring eagle.”

  “I’ll take Claudius Marcellus with me. Nobody will question his auguries.” He did not refer to the Claudius Marcellus who was one of that year’s consuls, nor to the Claudius Marcellus who was to be one of the next year’s consuls, nor yet to the Claudius Marcellus who was consul the year after that, but rather to yet a fourth Claudius Marcellus, who was the oldest member of the College of Augurs and trusted the way we always trust men who are too old to do much harm.

  I looked out over the Forum crowd. No uproar yet. I didn’t really expect one. Scurrilous accusations against candidates were among the more common entertainments of any election. Strolling entertainers and vendors were everywhere, doing a great business as always when the voters thronged the City. I wished that I could consult with Julia, whose political acumen exceeded even that of my own family. But she had gone back home. In any case, it would have been a scandal beyond redemption had I been seen discussing politics with my wife right out in public.

  “Here he comes!” It was the excited voice of Sallustius. He was still standing close by, eager to pick up gossip from the Metellan faction.

  I followed his pointing finger and saw a commotion within the crowd. In the sea of scalps I detected a motion heading our way, the way a shark’s fin cuts the water. As it got closer, the motion resolved itself into a little knot of men striding along purposefully in our direction. In their lead was a tall, light-haired man who had the look of a Forum warrior-the sort who does all of his fighting in the courts. I recognized some of the men behind him as old followers of Clodius. The others were strangers to me.

  “Decius Caecilius Metellus!” the man cried as he reached us.

  “That’s me,” Father said. “What do you want?”

  For an instant the man was nonplussed. His timing had been upset. “Not you! I meant your son.” He leveled a skinny finger toward me.

  “Then why didn’t you say so, you whey-faced buffoon? Until I croak, he’s Decius the Younger.” Our faction whooped and clapped. People began to pack the already crowded area, sensing a good show.

  “He’s talking to your whelp, you bald-headed old fart!” shouted one of the man’s flunkies.

  Father squinted in the man’s direction. “Who’s that? Oh, I remember you. I had your mother flogged from the City for whoring and spreading disease.” Of course, he had no idea who the man was, but he would never let a trifling detail like that stop him.

  I was maintaining a dignified silence, which the light-haired man duly noted.

  “Can’t you speak Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger? I accuse you of bribery, corruption, oppression of Roman citizens, and collusion with enemies of Rome during your naval operations on Cyprus!”

  “And you would be-?” I inquired.

  “I am Marcus Fulvius.” He drew himself to his full height, adopting an orator’s pose.

  My mouth dropped open. “Not the Marcus Fulvius? The Marcus Fulvius who is renowned in Baiae for public fornication with goats? The Marcus Fulvius who took on an entire auxilia cohort of Libyan perverts until the oil supply ran out? To think Rome has been graced with such a celebrity.” Now the whole Forum was laughing. The man’s face reddened, but he held his ground. He was about to shout something when Cato stepped forward, seized his hand, and turned it palmside up.

  “Here’s a hand that never held a sword,” he said with withering scorn, and nobody could pour on the scorn more witheringly than Marcus Porcius Cato. “Listen to me, you small-town nobody. Go put in some time with the legions, distinguish yourself in arms before you dare come to Rome and accuse a veteran of Gaul and Iberia, the crusher of pirates and exposer of a score of traitors.”

  This was making a bit much of my military and court record, but the words were deadly earnest and nobody was laughing now. I doubt that it was affection for me speaking. Cato despised men who came from out of town to make their reputations in Rome.

  “Any Roman citizen may bring suit against any other in public court,” Fulvius said. “As you know well, Marcus Porcius.”

  Hortensius Hortalus came forward. “That is very true. In fact, it was my impression that you made this very accusation this morning in the extortion court of Marcus Juventius Laterensis. Wherefore do you now, Marcus Fulvius, repeat these charges here in the ancient and sacred gathering place of the comitia, thus bringing disturbance to the grave deliberations of the citizens of Rome as they partake in the most venerable of our Republican institutions, the choosing among candidates for the highest offices?”

  This speech would sound stilted and awkward in my mouth, but it was always a joy to hear Hortalus speak. The sonorous vowels of his old-fashioned Latin flowed over the crowd like honey.

  Fulvius yanked his hand away from Cato. “I speak forth boldly because I want Rome to know it is a degenerate criminal who demands that the citizens grant him imperium. This man”-Once again he extended the skinny, slightly dirty-nailed finger toward my face, this time shaking with ill-bridled wrath-“laid hands on crucial naval stores, public property, citizens! And sold them for his own profit! He set his slaves to break into the houses of honest Roman citizens, to beat and torture them until they bought their lives with gold! He took great bribes from foreign merchants who trafficked with the very pirates he was sent to suppress. This is the man who wants to preside over a court that will try Roman citizens. This is the man who would go forth to govern a propraetorian province and command legions, no doubt to plunder our provincials and betray our allies!”

  “Wasn’t there something about collusion with enemies of Rome?” I asked.

  “Beyond all this,” he said, scarcely pausing for breath, “he consorted with the notorious slut Princess Cleopatra, daughter of the degenerate Ptolemy the Flute Player, that disgusting tyrant of Egypt.”

  At this time not one Roman in a thousand had ever heard of Cleopatra, who was barely seventeen years old. But her father, Ptolemy, was a worldwide joke.

  “King Ptolemy,” said Metellus Scipio, “has been recognized by the Senate of Rome as the lawful king of Egypt and has been accorded the status of Friend and Ally of the Roman People. Not only do you bring frivolous charges against a blameless servant of the Senate and People, but you slander the daughter of an allied prince. I’ve a mind to haul you into court for it.”

  “Everyone knows old Ptolemy bribed half the Senate to get that title!” shouted one of Fulvius’s toadies. It was perfectly true, but hardly to the point.

  I held up a hand for silence, and in a few seconds the hubbub calmed. “Marcus Fulvius, you bring serious charges against me, and your slanders are worthless. Bring out your witnesses.”

  “You will see them in court.”

  “Then why are you yammering at me here?” Of course, I knew perfectly well. The man was an unknown, a nobody. He wanted all of Rome to know his name, and by nightfall it surely would.

  “I am here,” Fulvius announced grandly, “to invite every citizen of Rome to witness my prosecution of the mighty Ca
ecilius Metellus, whose loathsome guilt I shall prove through the testimony of Roman citizens wronged. The gods of Rome themselves will call for his exile!” This brought cries of admiration for his eloquence, at which he preened.

  Hortalus spoke again. “You’ve learned rhetoric from a good master, Fulvius. That last turn of phrase was from Junius Billienus’s prosecution of Minucius, one hundred and sixty-five years ago”-Hortalus’s knowledge of the law was truly comprehensive, admired by Cicero himself, but he paused for effect and let fall a telling addendum-“in the consulship of Paullus and Varro.”

  Half unconsciously, everyone there made some gesture to ward off evil, making apotropaic hand signs, fishing out phallic amulets, or reciting protective cantrips. Those lucky enough to be standing near an altar or statue of a god kissed their hands and pressed them to the sacred object. This we always do when that ill-starred year is mentioned, for it was in the consulship of Paullus and Varro that Hannibal met the greatest Roman army ever assembled and annihilated it at Cannae.

  At that point a pair of lictors, their fasces shouldered, pushed their way through the crowd and stopped in front of me.

  “Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger,” said one of them, “you are summoned to appear before the court of the praetor Marcus Juventius Laterensis at dawn tomorrow.” They looked a bit uncomfortable carrying out this commonplace duty. If I should be elected praetor they might be assigned to me, and they feared I would remember them with disfavor.

  “Why wait?” I said. “Let’s go see him now.” I left my spot and began to walk toward the basilica with my whole crowd behind me. I couldn’t accomplish anything at court until my trial began, but I didn’t want to give Fulvius anymore free publicity at my expense.

  One of Fulvius’s men, an ugly, scar-faced thug, pushed toward me. “Hey! You can’t-” He got that far when Hermes stepped up to him and punched him in the face. The boy could hit as hard as any professional boxer, and the man went down like a sacrificial ox. My father clouted another over the head with his cane, and the rest fell back before us.

  Had something like this occurred just a few years before, there would have been real bloodshed, but Pompey had finally set the city in order, expelled the gangs that had made elections so uproarious, and restored a little of our dignity. In consequence, everybody was bored and ready for a fight.

  It was a very short walk to the basilica where Juventius had his court. The lictors had to hold the mob back while we stormed in, interrupting some case he was hearing. Juventius looked up, his face furious.

  “I will hear your case tomorrow! Get out of my court!” He was a hard-faced man of no real distinction. Like most, he had done no more than put in the requisite civil and military time and had spent enough on his games as aedile, and so he got his year in the curule chair. Of course, some would say the same of me.

  “Tomorrow!” I yelled. “This malicious wretch has had who knows how many months to put his plot together, to rehearse his perjurious witnesses, to bribe and suborn the testimony he needs to prove his false accusations, and I have until tomorrow to prepare my case! Citizens!” I smote my breast dramatically and almost choked on my own cloud of chalk dust. “Is this justice?” I was shouting loud enough to be heard outside and sounds of a gratifying agreement came back to me.

  “Lictors!” Juventius shouted. “Throw these trespassers out!” Since his lictors were outside trying to hold the crowd back, they were in something of a quandary.

  “What’s all this unseemliness?” The voice was not terribly loud, but all disorder quieted instantly. Pompey entered the basilica, preceded by his twelve lictors. Technically, he was proconsul for Nearer and Farther Spain, but he also had an extraordinary oversight of the grain supply, so he remained in Italy to keep everyone from starving while his legates attended to both Spanish provinces. It was an unheard-of arrangement for a proconsul with full imperium to remain in Italy; but in this, as in everything else, Pompey was a law unto himself.

  “Proconsul,” Juventius said, “I’ve summoned Metellus the Younger to appear before me tomorrow, and he has shown up instead today, interrupting court business.”

  “You gave him short enough notice. Why should he do less for you?” Then he turned to me. “Decius, you’ve been provoked, but I’ll not have disorder in Roman courts. Go home and get your defense ready. I’m sure you’ll have a good one.”

  “Naturally,” I said to him. “I have hundreds of witnesses to my activities, and they’re all on Cyprus! If I were, at great expense, to dispatch a fast cutter I could bring a few dozen here in about a month. At least I could if it were the sailing season, which it isn’t.”

  “You’d better think of something,” Pompey advised, “because if your case is carried over into the next year, you can’t be elected praetor.”

  He turned around, strode to the entrance, and bellowed, “This matter is to be settled tomorrow! I want you all to go about your business. There are to be no unlawful assemblies or disorderly demonstrations.”

  Meekly, the whole crowd did his bidding. Pompey was acting as if he were sovereign of the City. Since the City was well-supplied with his veterans in those days, he might as well have been.

  “We’ll meet at my house this evening,” Father said. “Summon our highest-ranking supporters. We have some serious planning to do.”

  2

  By the time I got home, Julia already knew most of the story. Her network of slaves, tradesmen, and the women of her social circle rivaled the espionage organization of any Eastern potentate. She met me in our atrium that afternoon with a harried expression and a formidable degree of preparation. She clapped her hands, and the household slaves bustled to do her bidding. A slave took my candidate’s toga as another toweled the chalk from my neck and arms.

  “Come along,” Julia said. “We have a lot to discuss and not much time.” I followed her into the dining room where more slaves were already setting the table for us. I flopped onto a couch and somebody took my sandals.

  “Eat,” Julia commanded. “You’re going to have a long night of plotting ahead of you at your father’s house.”

  “You already know about that?” I reached for the wine, and she slapped my hand. I grabbed a roll instead.

  “How should I not?” She mixed the wine with water. Far too much water. “They’ll want to organize a legal defense for you. Tell them they are wasting their time.”

  “Why should I do that? Even perjured testimony has to be answered and countered. I don’t see how the man can hope to make his charges stick.”

  Julia rolled her eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? He has no intention of bringing in a conviction! He just wants to keep you out of the election!”

  “But why? He can’t hope to make his reputation on an abortive trial resulting in an acquittal.”

  “That’s the question we have to answer.” She shoved a cup of the weak mixture into my hand. I dipped my bread into balsam-steeped oil and chewed.

  “If he doesn’t benefit directly from my exclusion from office, then who does? That’s always Cicero’s question, isn’t it? ‘Who benefits?’ ”

  “There is another question to ask: Are you the real target of this attack?”

  “What do you mean?” I downed a couple of oysters and went after a roast chicken.

  “His words, as reported to me, were that he would bring down ‘the great Caecilius Metellus.’ You are not the most distinguished of your family. He may be attacking the family through you.”

  “If we were known Pompeians or Caesarians that would make sense, but we aren’t. The family supported Sulla and has gone its own way since his death.”

  “There are those who may find that intolerable,” Julia said obscurely.

  “How well do you know Fulvia? He’s her brother.”

  “I’ve scarcely seen her these past few years, except when we both attended noblewomen’s ceremonies the Bona Dea festival and the rites of Ceres and so forth. When she was married to Clodius, she was tight
with that circle, naturally. Now it looks as if she’ll marry Marcus Antonius, and Antonius has thrown in his lot with Caesar. So I can’t imagine that she’s put her brother up to this, evil bitch though she may be.”

  “Do you think she’s all that bad?”

  “Clodia’s a Vestal by comparison.” The notorious Clodia had retired to virtual seclusion since her brother’s death, thus robbing Rome of its favorite focus for scandal. As always, I grew uneasy when my wife mentioned Clodia. I had a checkered and somewhat unsavory past with that woman.

  “Then who? The major factions should be trying to court the Metelli, not to alienate them.” I attacked an unoffending but delicious rabbit, tore off its leg and dipped it in garum.

  Julia thought about it for a while, then she seemed to get off the subject. “Who do you think your family will support? They can’t stay neutral forever. Sooner or later they’ll have to declare for Caesar or Pompey.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “For one thing, a year from now, Caesar or Pompey or both could be dead. Gaul is not a healthy place, as I can attest from experience. One stray arrow, one determined assassin, an unexpected German offensive-any number of things could spell an abrupt end for Caesar. For that matter, an ague or a disgruntled officer could do it. Recall if you will that half the Senate cooperated to send him to Gaul in hopes that he’d die there.

  “As for Pompey, he’s at the age when men drop dead suddenly of natural causes. He’s put on weight and doesn’t get around like he used to.”

  “You aren’t answering me.” Julia was as relentless as any lawyer.

  “It depends on who frightens them the most. They’ve spent decades scared of Pompey and his soldiers, and they’ve opposed him most of the time. Now they’re getting apprehensive of Caesar. He has an unprecedentedly large and happy army, and for several years he’s been virtual king of Gaul and Illyricum. When the time comes, they’ll take sides against the one who gives them the biggest scare. They’ll back the weaker man.”