A Point of Law s-10 Page 13

  I had thought myself numb to enormities, but this left me aghast. “He had a citizen publicly flogged?” Heads swiveled to see who was shouting. I went on in a lower voice. “Surely he’ll be exiled for this!” That the man had been a senator was a minor matter. By ancient law Roman citizens were not to be publicly flogged or crucified. These punishments were restricted to foreigners and rebellious slaves.

  “That is just it. Marcellus proclaimed that Caesar had no right to confer citizenship, and he would recognize no such citizenships, nor would he tolerate any senators sent from any such colonies.”

  At that time it was customary, when a new colony was enfranchised, to allow a very prominent man of that place to take a seat in the Senate without having first served a quaestorship in Rome.

  “And what about Balbus?” I asked. I referred to Lucius Cornelius Balbus, a very prominent senator who, along with two or three others, got his senator’s stripe in the same fashion, because he was a friend of Pompey’s from Spain. He was no relation to the Atius Balbus who was Caesar’s brother-in-law and grandfather of the First Citizen.

  “Marcellus isn’t picking a fight with Pompey.”

  I ran a palm over my by now stubbly face. My bright mood of an hour before was gone. “It is worse than I thought,” I admitted. “If this keeps up, it will be open war between Caesar and the Senate.”

  “It’s been war for some time.”

  “I don’t mean political dispute, no matter how rambunctious it gets. I mean real war. Next year we could see these soldiers all around us back again, with their shields facing the gates and Caesar behind them on his command platform.” Caesar had invented a collapsible platform that could be erected in minutes, so that he could get close to the fighting and still see over the heads of his soldiers.

  “Then now is a good time to choose sides, isn’t it?” Sallustius said, insinuatingly. I wondered what to read into this. He said almost everything insinuatingly.

  “Are you offering me a side to choose?”

  “Why,” his look was all innocence, “I assumed, because of your family connection and the obvious esteem Caesar holds for you, that you would be firmly in his camp.”

  This angered me and I was about to snap out something ill-considered when Hermes rapped me sharply over the kidney. Sallustius couldn’t see the jab, but I could certainly feel it.

  “Isn’t that our friend the tribune over there?” Hermes said, nodding toward a little group of men who seemed to be looking over the restoration work. One of them was, indeed, young Tribune Manilius. The other four men were vaguely familiar to me. I knew I had seen their faces in the Senate. Three of them resembled one another strongly, with bushy, brown hair and thick, red noses. They stood just within the portico of the basilica. They all seemed to be arguing about something.

  “This is why I led you here,” Sallustius said. “I saw them cross the Forum and climb the steps here a bit earlier. You see, of course, the three who look like they hatched from the same egg?”

  “Naturally. Is one of them Marcellus?”

  “They all are. The one on the left, with the old sword scar on his cheek, is this year’s consul, Marcus Claudius Marcellus. The one poking his finger in the tribune’s face is his cousin Caius, who is most likely to be next year’s consul. The third, who looks like he needs an enema, is Caius’s brother, another Marcus Claudius Marcellus. He plans to stand for the consulship the following year.”

  “And the fifth man?” I asked.

  “That is Lucius Aemilius Lepidus Paullus, also standing for next year’s consulship, and the man having this basilica restored to the glory of his ancestors.”

  “With Caesar’s money, I hear.”

  “Caesar is generous to his friends,” Sallustius affirmed.

  The evidence was apparent everywhere. The walls of the portico were being covered with exquisite mosaics depicting the history of the Aemilian gens back to the days of Romulus, the whole interior was faced with brilliantly colored marble, the old roof tiles had been stripped away and replaced by plates of gleaming bronze. The restored basilica would be the most magnificent public building in Rome, at least until some other politician decided to bankrupt himself for the sake of public adulation.

  “This seems like an odd group to see in one place,” I observed.

  “Odd groupings have become the rule in Rome,” Sallustius said. “Men who were at each other’s throats just a few months ago are now comrades-in-arms.”

  Just then one of the Marcelli noticed us and nudged the others. The consul looked at us and frowned.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I’d just pop over and see how the restorations are coming along,” I told him. “It looks wonderful, Lucius Aemilius.”

  He grinned. “I thank you.” Then he looked at the consul and glared. “And why are you questioning the right of Decius Caecilius to be here? This is my basilica, Consul!”

  “He ought to be in prison awaiting trial,” the consul Marcellus growled. “The man’s a murderer and a disgrace!”

  “Not yet proven,” Manilius said.

  “Who needs proof?” said Caius. “He’s the logical choice.”

  I longed to toss out some remark about that estate in Baiae, just to watch their faces change color. But some things are best kept in reserve.

  “The wretch was no loss anyway,” Aemilius Paullus put in. “Did you know that he was trying to usurp my basilica?” He waved a beringed hand, taking in all the lavish adornments. Workmen swarmed everywhere, applying the finishing touches to it: bits of gilding here and there, final polishing of the multicolored marble, buffing the thin mica plates set into the clerestory windows. “He waited until all the major work was nearly finished, then he tried to bring up that old claim that it was a Fulvius, not an Aemilius, who built it!”

  “It’s a valid claim,” said the consul Marcellus. “When I was young, I heard it called the Fulvia as often as the Aemilia.”

  “Nonsense!” Aemilius Paullus cried, going red in the face. “Base calumny! The Fulvians are a family of nobodies who want to steal the glory of a nobler gens! This building is the pride of my family, and it has always been maintained by us!”

  This was excellent entertainment, and I believe I was enjoying it as much as Sallustius was.

  Hermes whispered in my ear: “Another suspect.”

  I nodded but said nothing.

  “Maintained by you!” Caius Marcellus shouted. “Everyone knows that your great restoration project is the result of the biggest bribe in the history of the Republic! Even now, all over Rome, people are beginning to call this place the Basilica Julia!”

  Aemilius Paullus went dead white. “And just what, I pray, am I being bribed to do?”

  “It is common knowledge,” Caius Marcellus sneered, “that you and I will be next year’s consuls.”

  “The two of you have outspent everyone else,” Tribune Manilius commented.

  “And I,” Caius went on, “have pledged to devote myself to recalling Caesar from Gaul and giving his command to a trustworthy man who will draw this endless war to an honorable close. You have been paid handsomely to agitate for an extension of Caesar’s command. Dare to deny it!”

  “Deny that I support Caesar? Never!” said Aemilius Paullus “He has brought Rome more glory and riches than all the Claudians back to the days of Aeneas! He deserves all the honors the Senate can bestow upon him! As for his gifts to me, such tokens exchanged between men of rank are an ancient custom, one you have practiced assiduously!” He appealed to me. “Decius Caecilius, did Caesar not help cover the debts you assumed as aedile?”

  “Actually,” I told them, “he offered to cover them all. But I accepted no more of his generosity than my family deemed proper.” It seemed that everyone was trying to push me into Caesar’s camp.

  “You see?” Aemilius Paullus cried. “A man as upright as our next year’s praetor, Decius Caecilius, is not ashamed to partake of Caesar’s largesse.”


  “With more moderation than you,” said the consul, his exaggerated gaze taking in the lavish restorations. “Don’t try to make us out as enemies of the Metelli, Aemilius. We’ve no argument with them.”

  The angry, raised voices were attracting attention. People had begun drifting in from the Forum to catch the show. Soon there was a large enough crowd for the infuriated politicians to take notice and moderate their tone. The three Marcelli, accompanied by Manilius, stalked off in a huff.

  Aemilius Paullus put a smile back on his face and addressed the minor mob now assembled in the basilica. “Citizens! I welcome all of you warmly, but the workmen are still busy here so I must ask you all to leave for now. But I want you all back here when I rededicate the basilica as soon as I assume office after the election. I shall hold a public banquet to which you and all other citizens are invited.”

  This got a cheer from the crowd, with Caesar’s soldiers cheering loudest. No doubt about it, his election was assured. As soon as the crowd dispersed, Aemilius Paullus came to join us.

  “It looks like next year will be an important one, eh, Decius?” he said.

  “Lively, anyway. The Senate meetings should be noisy.”

  “I take it I can count on your support?”

  I sidestepped. “I’m just one voice in the Senate. As praetor, I’ll have no voice in provincial affairs. You need to talk to next year’s tribunes. Caesar’s fortunes lie more with the assemblies than with the Senate.”

  “All too true,” Aemilius Paullus grumbled, then he turned to Sallustius. “Have you packed to go yet, Caius Sallustius?”

  “Go?”

  “Yes, go. I’ve been talking with Appius Claudius Pulcher, and he’s already making his list of men to expel from the Senate when he’s censor next year. Your name is on it.”

  “Expel me?” Sallustius cried, aghast. “On what charge?”

  “Immorality, it seems.”

  “Indeed? Am I so much worse than my colleagues in the Senate?”

  “You know that better than I, but Appius doesn’t like you, and it’s going to be a hard year for men he doesn’t like.”

  “Of what sort of immoralities is Sallustius accused?” I asked. This was something I just had to hear.

  “Let’s see-as tribune last year he is supposed to have taken bribes to prosecute Milo and oppose Cicero, he maintains his residence in a whorehouse, he looted the Ostian treasury during his quaestorship there, he seduced the wives of at least twenty senators, he likewise seduced a Vestal, he has appeared in the Senate staggering drunk, he dishonored certain statues of the gods during the Floralia, he was seen using weapons in the annual brawl over the head of the October Horse, he employed blackmail to send a naval cutter to Cirta to fetch him fresh oysters-”

  “I haven’t done half those things!” Sallustius protested.

  “Which half?” I asked him.

  “This is the basest sort of slander, spread by Caesar’s enemies.”

  “It’s enough to get you expelled though,” I told him. “If I were you, I’d talk with Calpurnius Piso. He’s almost certain to be the other censor, and he’s Caesar’s father-in-law to boot. If he’s obstructive enough, he might be able to keep you in.”

  “Don’t count on that,” Aemilius advised. “Piso’s wife is one of the ones you’re accused of seducing. And you’re just one of a very long list Appius has drawn up.”

  “Who else?” I asked.

  “Most prominently, young Curio.”

  “A serving tribune?” I said. “What does he hope to accomplish?”

  “First, he can make Curio’s life miserable,” Aemilius Paullus pointed out, “even though he can’t take immediate action against him. Second, he’ll be parceling out the public contracts. Curio has many friends and supporters among the wealthy publicani. How many of them do you think will get their contracts granted or renewed under this censorship?”

  “That’s a powerful weapon all right,” I acknowledged.

  “And,” Aemilius Paullus reminded us, “a tribune must lay down his powers at a specific time-next December to be precise. A censor is under no such obligation. He can stay in office until he judges it to be fulfilled. I think I can predict that Appius will stay in office until he’s dealt with all of next year’s magistrates who have displeased him.”

  “Not much chance of keeping my stripe with a quick bribe, then,” Sallustius said. “Well, what one set of censors decree, another can set aside. Maybe I won’t even have to wait that long.”

  “How will you accomplish that?” I asked him. Expulsion by the censors usually meant a five-year wait until a more sympathetic pair took office. Then you had to start at the bottom again, getting elected to another quaestorship and serving in that office for a year to qualify for the Senate.

  “Appius won’t stay in office any longer than it takes him to do as Aemilius Paullus says. He’ll have no excuse, and he’ll have other things to do. I’ll ask Caesar to get me a quaestorship without going through the elections again. He can get the comitia to grant me one by acclamation. He did it for Marcus Antonius. A year of that and I can resume my seat in the Senate.” In a few seconds Sallustius had figured out a way to extricate himself from a political predicament that might have discouraged a less flexible man. He was not without talent.

  “There, you see?” said Aemilius Lepidus Paullus. “Being a friend of Caesar has its advantages.” He lost his smile. “Bribery! As if I would not support Caesar without being bought! The Aemilii and the Julia Caesares have been allies for generations.”

  I could not vouch for that, but it was clear that the charge of bribery rankled him. Caesar’s munificence could be confusing. Sometimes he simply bought a man’s allegiance, as had clearly been the case with Curio. But just as often he was generous to a man whose support was already unquestioned.

  “How will you handle next year’s business?” Sallustius asked him. “It’s clear you are going to have a hostile colleague in office.”

  “Much will depend upon how great my support is. I can count upon little from the Senate.”

  “You can count upon mine,” Sallustius said, “but it sounds as if I’ll be devoting myself to literary pursuits at my country house.”

  “Then I shall have to look to the Popular Assemblies, it seems. That’s where the real power is these days.”

  And there it was again: class against class. War was coming.

  8

  "Octavia said something important,” I told Julia.

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “That’s a great help.” We sat eating dinner while sounds of revelry made their way in through the door and over the walls. Everyone was entertaining Caesar’s soldiers, and the party had spilled out into the streets and squares where tables had been set up and the wine flowed. I wished I could be out there with them.

  “I mean, I remember everything she said. I just can’t put my finger on what did not ring true.”

  “Sleep on it,” Julia advised. “Perhaps, like Callista, you’ll be visited by a god who will sort this out for you.”

  “It could happen,” I admitted. “Speaking of that learned lady, did she come up with a solution for the code?”

  Julia shook her head. “No, I left her house shortly after you did. I wanted to give her privacy to work on it.”

  I wondered what the two had really been talking about. Me and my shortcomings, no doubt.

  There was a pounding on the door outside and a few moments later my father came in, accompanied by Scipio and Nepos. Julia served wine and retired, none too happy about it. These men were too old-fashioned to talk politics with a woman in the room.

  “What have you learned?” Father demanded. I gave a succinct report of my doings, and he made a disgusted sound. “You’ve wasted your time while we’ve been lining up support for you.”

  “No, I find this interesting,” said Metellus Scipio. “You’ve gathered a lot of evidence here and there, Deciu
s. Have you drawn any conclusions?”

  “Just a few minor conclusions that may lead to the main one.”

  “Such as?” said Nepos.

  “Fulvius was killed by three or more highly placed men.”

  “How is that?” Father asked. “The number of weapons says multiple assailants and the bugger was held from behind, I’ll grant your Greek friend knows what he’s talking about there. What makes you think they were well-born or important and not just street scum?”

  “The clumsiness of the execution,” I told them. “What grown Roman man doesn’t know how to kill a man with a knife? It’s part of every soldier’s training, and even those who never served in the legions see it done in the arenas, both with straight blades and curved sicas. This man was killed by a multitude of shallow cuts, like some wretch executed by an Oriental monarch. And the cuts were administered by straight blades, not well suited to the task.”

  Scipio nodded. “And a gentleman would never use a sica, even to commit murder.”

  “Precisely. And there was this: Everybody wanted to participate, but nobody wanted to be the one to administer the deathblow.”

  “You’ve lost me,” Father said.

  “We’ve seen it before,” I told them. “The essence of conspiracy is to take part, but also to make sure that the others take an equal part. Look at the absurd lengths to which Catilina’s men went to make sure that every one of them was liable to the death penalty. That way nobody could back out, and nobody could squeal on the others.”

  “So each administers a little bit of the death, eh?” Nepos said.

  “Picture yourself as part of such a conspiracy,” I began.

  “Never!” said Father.