The Sacrilege

Chapter II

The next morning I rose far too early and greeted my clients. I still had only a small number of them, but they are a necessary adjunct of social and political life. I had about twelve at this time, mostly from families long associated with mine or else retired soldiers who had served with me at one time or other. They had little to do except cheer me in the courts or protect me in times of danger, and I was bound to help them legally and financially. They would be asking more favors now that I was a Senator.

I dismissed them with thanks and gifts and then made my way to Celer's house. I found a great mob in his atrium. His clientage in Rome alone numbered in the hundreds, with thousands more in Italy and the provinces. Naturally, even the Roman crowd could not all call on him at the same time. I think they had some sort of system of on and off days.

I wandered among them, catching up with old friends and meeting a few new ones. People spoke mainly of Pompey's upcoming triumph, and what a splendid spectacle it was sure to be. It seemed all but certain that the Senate's muleheaded opposition could not last much longer. Among the crowd I found Caesar again.

"Two days in a row, Caius Julius?" I said. "Surely no Julian has ever been a Metellan client."

Caesar smiled his dazzling smile. "No, I do not come as a client, but as a homeless suppliant. I've come to beg your kinsman for a roof to shelter my head tomorrow night.'

"Didn't they ever fix the tiles on the pontiffs palace?" I asked. "They were working on that when I left Rome."

"No, the place is sound, but tomorrow night the rites of Bona Dea are to be held there, and I cannot be present."

"The date had escaped me," I admitted. "But then, I'm not married." This rite was performed in the house of the Pontifex Maximus under the supervision of his wife, and all the noblest ladies of Rome attended. It was absolutely forbidden to men, and women were forbidden to speak of it on pain of death.

"You mean even the supreme pontiff can't be there?" I said.

"It is true. I have regulatory power over all aspects of our religious practice, but this one rite I cannot touch, and my wife may not speak to me of it."

"Well, that's-" My words were cut off short when a man standing next to Caesar but with his back to me turned around. His face was malignant, dark and flushing darker. I should have recognized that squat, neckless form even from behind. Somehow I managed to control my natural impulse to reach for a weapon. Just as well, since I was unarmed.

"Why, Publius," I said, "I rejoice to see your face again." And indeed I did. It always did my heart good to look upon the scars I had put on that misshapen countenance.

"My sister said you were back." He almost strangled on the words, but perhaps he just suffered from croup. I swear I saw red veins shoot across his eyeballs like strokes of lightning. Then Caesar put a hand on his shoulder.

"Now, let us have no unseemliness," Caesar said, smiling. "This is the house of Metellus." At his touch and his words and his smile, Clodius ceased to tremble and his color faded. Wordlessly, he nodded. It was the most extraordinary performance. Had the idea not been so absurd, I would have sworn that Clodius was afraid of Caesar! I could not guess what the little scene meant, but I learned something from it that was to haunt me for years to come. I wanted never to see Caius Julius smile at me like that.

My kinsman Metellus Creticus was standing near and caught the unpleasant scene, and he moved in to provide a diversion.

"It's no wonder Decius is confused about the date," he said. "Everybody else is, too. The calendar's gotten all skewed again. That's your job, Caius Julius. When are you going to correct it?" Our calendar was lunar, and because the diurnal year doesn't quite come out even with the turnings of the moon, the calendar would get out of order and every few years the Pontifex Maximus would have to slip in an extra month to make it come out even. Caesar had ignored the problem since his election, probably because he was, basically, a lazy man.

"This creaky old calendar of ours is beyond redemption," Caesar said. "I propose to utterly reform the calendar so that it never needs adjusting again."

A good lazy man's solution, I thought. "How will you do that?" I asked him.

"I will assemble the best astronomers and mathematicians to be found and commission them to work out a sensible calendar in which the number of months always stays the same. I think it can be done if we accept the idea that not all the months will have the same number of days and they will have nothing to do with the phases of the moon."

"Sounds too radical to me," Creticus said. At the time I took it merely for more of Caesar's grandiose talk, but a few years later he actually did it, and we haven't had to adjust the calendar since. Even a man like Caius Julius can do something right once in a while.

By this time Clodius's friends had led him away, and it occurred to me that somebody, perhaps Clodia, had passed the word that we were to be kept apart. That was a juxtaposition I could live with. As I waited for Celer to appear, I noticed something that I had begun to suspect the day before, in the Forum: I had become very popular with the publicani. Most of these were prosperous equities, men in the building or tax-farming trade. They all were eager to make my acquaintance and they all asked pointedly after my father's health. As the Censors were in charge of letting the public contracts, I was clearly a man to cultivate. They hinted that, should I commend them to the old man, I could look forward to some generous gifts at Saturnalia. It looked as if I might finally escape my customary penury.

Mind you, this was not considered a matter of corruption, although our First Citizen would have it so. He claims that we were utterly corrupt in those days and that his "reforms" have fixed everything and corruption is no more. As usual, he flatters himself. He has merely ensured that a fat chunk of every bribe that is passed comes to him.

At one point, while having my ear abraded by a quarry owner, I found myself edging toward a little knot of men surrounding Clodius. I had keen ears, and I always loved to eavesdrop, especially upon conversations where my murder could be the main topic. They were not talking about me, though.

"But just what is it the women do at that ceremony, eh?" The voice of Clodius dripped with prurient insinuation. I had to admit, guiltily, that I had wondered exactly that myself.

"Every highborn husband in Rome wonders that," said a man who was obviously uneasy about what his wife would be up to the next night.

"But," said a very young man I did not recognize, "it can't be much, can it? I mean, they're all women, after all." The others drew back and made disdainful noises at such callowness.

"I'll wager it's worth seeing, eh?" said Clodius. I thought of stepping over and hitting him on the head with a vase or something. I just could not abide that voice. It wasn't just the subject. He could comment on the weather and it would come out sounding like that.

"Worth a man's life, you mean," said an older and presumably wiser man. Then conversation ceased as Celer arrived and began greeting the callers. When he got to me he put a hand on my shoulder in that gesture that always says that this is a private conversation. The others turned discreetly away.

"Decius, today I want you to call on Mamercus Capito and sound him out. Politically he's a nobody, but nine in ten Consuls are. More to the point, he's agreeable, which is to say he's pliable, and as an Aemilian, he's as noble as you can get in Rome without being enrolled among the gods. He'd be a suitable colleague for me and he's talked about standing for the office. See if he's amenable to a coitio, so long as he agrees that I'll be the senior colleague."

"I'll call on him at once." This was the sort of politicking I liked. It was how a great deal of our public life was carried out. Personal relationships usually had as much to do with it as party affiliations. Debates in the Senate were often just so much noise and bluster, with the real decisions reached and agreed to at dinner parties, in the baths, even in the stands at the Circus.

I hurried out, hoping to catch Capito at home. The Aemilii had been among our most illustrious families, but the line had dwindled and there were few of them left. Those of the present generation were undistinguished except for the name. Capito had plodded his way up the ladder of office, attaining seniority without military or political distinction. He was like two hundred or more of his fellow Senators: colorless functionaries who won office on the basis of family history, served as soon as age and seniority permitted, and lazed through their terms of authority with as little effort as possible, generally using position only as a way to get rich.

In short, Capito was an ideal colleague for an energetic man like Celer, who wanted to pursue the activities of his office with minimal interference. And as senior colleague, he would get the better of the proconsular provinces when he stepped down from office. By that time, the main reason men wanted to be Consul was to get their hands on the rich proconsular provinces. These were supposedly chosen by lot, but everyone knew the choice was rigged. A man who gained sufficient senatorial support would get one of the plums, while one with many enemies in the Senate got a worthless place, rich in nothing but disagreeable natives.

The Senate could come up with some real oddities for unusual Consuls. There had been the time when Pompey was given command over the entire Mediterranean and its littoral to rid us of the pirates, for instance. In later years, Caesar as Consul presided over a Senate that was not only hostile but possessed a sense of humor. Instead of a province, he was given the upkeep of Italy's roads and cattle paths. He made them regret it later, of course.

Yes, the Consulship was an office worth pursuing, although it was not without its hazards. I fully expected to be Consul someday, not because I was particularly ambitious, but because that was what you did when your name was Caecilius Metellus. Not that anyone ever accused me of being a man who lazed through office on his family name. No amiable political hack ever weathered as many murder attempts as I did. A man's seriousness as a public official can usually be gauged by the number and homicidal habits of his enemies.

I reached the house of Capito just as his morning callers were leaving and he himself was on his way to an annual sacrifice given by the Aemilii in memory of some victory or other. I knew him only slightly, but he greeted me hospitably and professed himself glad to see me again. I hinted at political business and he invited me to dinner at his house that evening.

Things were shaping up well, and now I had the rest of the day to myself. It was a short walk to the Forum, where I wandered about, soaking up sun and the attentions of a good number of publicani. Most of these were builders, but one intriguing fellow had a novel item to sell: a new design of shields for the legions.

"It's much better than the old scutum," he explained earnestly. "Just as thick and protective, but cut off straight at the top and bottom."

"It's hard to get soldiers to accept something new," I said. "What's the advantage?"

"We've given quite a few to the ludi in Campania, and the gladiators there say it's a much better fighting design than the old oval style. It's lighter and gives better vision."

"Gladiators don't worry much about arrows and javelins," I said doubtfully. "There's more to warfare than single combat, you know."

"Nonsense, sir," he protested. "A man fighting will always hold his shield just below eye level. With the new design, even less of the soldier's body is exposed."

"But if you give a shield a flat bottom," I pointed out, "the soldiers on guard will rest them on the ground and lean on them and go to sleep. Every officer knows that."

He sighed with exasperation. "But that's why centurions have vinestocks to beat their soldiers with. And what legion ever needs more than one exemplary beheading a year for sleeping when the enemy is near? That's all it takes to keep the lads alert. Now, sir, if you'll put in a good word with your father the Censor, I am prepared to offer the state a very reasonable rate. My shops can outfit a full legion every year, complete with a cheaper version for the auxiliaries."

"I'll speak to him," I said, "but I don't think you'll have much luck. He still thinks the Marian reforms are an outrage. How much per shield?"

"Fifty-five denarii for the legionary model, thirty for the auxiliary."

"That seems steep," I said.

"We're not talking about shoddy materials here, sir. We are talking about first-rate plywood made of seasoned limewood strips and Egyptian glue, backed with the finest felt and faced with rawhide; and on top of that, seasoned bullhide bleached almost white so as to take whatever dye or paint the legion wants to add. Ironmongery of the finest workmanship, sir: boss, rivets and grips and a complete bronze rim. Now tell me that's not worth fifty-five denarii."

"I won't argue the details of your trade," I said. "How does the auxiliary version differ?"

"Identical except the cover is plain brown cowhide and the rim is stitched rawhide instead of bronze. Just between you and me, it's as good a shield, but we both know that the legions will revolt if they see the auxiliaries getting gear as pretty as the legions have."

"That is true," I agreed.

"I'll tell you what: I'll drop the price twenty denarii if they offer the old shields in trade. I can sell those to the Egyptians. But I want the right to refuse any that are too cut up for resale."

I promised to do what I could, and he let me know that he would be not only grateful but generous. As it turned out, the legions tried out the new design and liked it, but they didn't buy new shields. They just cut the tops and bottoms off the old ones. There were few fools among the military purchasing officers.

After this encounter I went to a stall and bought a light lunch of sausage, fried onions and chopped olives seasoned with pungent garum and wrapped in flat, unleavened bread. I was washing this down with a cup of watered wine when I saw something over the rim of my cup that made me pause.

A few stalls down, someone was coming from one of the witches' booths. It was a very young man, old enough to shave and wear the toga, but only by a matter of months. He seemed oddly familiar, yet I could not quite place him. He glanced from side to side guiltily as he emerged from the booth. He wore the red sandals with the ivory crescent at the ankle that only patricians could wear. This and some half-familiar cast to his countenance finally placed him for me: He was one of the little group surrounding Clodius that morning. He was, in fact, the one who had spoken and revealed himself to be young enough to think that a group of highborn women couldn't be up to something really unsavory. This was too good an opportunity to miss. I walked over to him, taking care to approach him from behind.

"Good day!" I said loudly. He all but jumped out of his toga as he spun around, white-faced. He cast a frantic glance toward the witch's booth, clearly terrified that I might have seen him leaving it. I clapped him on the shoulder to show that I harbored no suspicions at all. "I saw you at Celer's house this morning, but we weren't introduced."

He looked faintly relieved. "I am Appius Claudius Nero," he said, "and I know who you are, Senator Metellus."

I took his hand. "I am always glad to meet a new-made citizen. You must have donned the man's toga while I was away in Gaul. Are you the son of the Appius Claudius who was legate to Lucullus in Asia?"

"No, I am his cousin. His father and my grandfather were brothers." That made the whelp second cousin to Clodius and Clodia. Clodius had changed his name from Claudius when he decided to become plebeian, and his sister had imitated him.

"It's good to see that our ancient patrician families still produce sturdy young men," I said, beaming at him. One more Claudian was like one more rat as far as I was concerned, but I would give him the benefit of the doubt. Every century or so the Claudians produced a good man. The elder Appius was a decent sort. The fact that this one was consorting with Clodius was definitely not a mark in his favor.

"Thank you," he said. "I-I do not wish to be rude, sir, but I have an-an appointment and I must hurry," he stammered nervously. "I must go."

"By all means," I said, "don't let me detain you. And you must call on me soon. I would like to become better acquainted." I took his hand in both of mine and noticed that it was trembling. Then I noticed something decidedly odd: On the forefinger of his hand he wore a great, bulbous poison ring.

I stared at his fear-stiffened back as he walked away. Why on earth was he wearing one of those? I suppose I should explain here. Back in those days poison rings were not really uncommon, but barbarians often think that we used them to poison our enemies. They fancy that the rings had spring-loaded lids to facilitate the surreptitious sprinkling of poison into an enemy's cup. Actually, they were a means of quick suicide. The domed chamber was cunningly wrought as a seamless capsule filled with poison. There was no access to the poison save by breaking open the capsule. In times of civil strife, when picking the wrong faction could mean death, you saw them everywhere. They were rare in tranquil times. These were relatively tranquil times.

I wore a poison ring myself from time to time. When you knew that at any moment a rampaging mob might break your door down, or your enemies were chasing you through the alleys, it was comforting to have a fast escape. Just bite through the thin gold, suck out the poison, and you might avoid being tortured, or hurled from the Tarpeian Rock, or dragged on a hook into the Tiber.

The boy was far too young to have serious enemies. Perhaps, I thought, he was just trying to get a little drama into his life. It is the common practice of boys just come to manhood to do things like that: wear poison rings or conceal swords beneath their tunics or write dreadful poems. However, nothing remotely connected with Publius Clodius was too trifling to rouse my suspicions.

The booth was typical of the sort: a flimsy construction of poles, roofed and walled with cheap, heavy cloth. Unlike the vendors' booths, this one did not have a table out front for the display of wares. Instead, the front and sides were decorated with magical symbols: crescent moons, snakes, owls and the like. I pushed aside the curtain and ducked through the low doorway. The interior was full of baskets containing all manner of herbs, vials of scented oils and nameless articles, of interest solely to the practitioners of magic. In one rustling basket I saw a knot of writhing black snakes.

"May I help you, sir?" The speaker was an absurdly ordinary-looking peasant woman. She might as well have been selling turnips in the produce market.

"I am the Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger," I said portentously. "I want to know what the noble youth who just left was doing here."

She looked me over. "Is there any reason I should talk about my clients to you?"

"Your sort is forbidden within the city, you know," I said.

"The stripe's on your tunic, not your toga," she pointed out. By this she meant that I did not wear the purple-bordered toga praetexta and therefore plainly had no judicial power.

"No, but my father is the Censor Metellus," I said.

"Is that so? I don't follow political matters much. Well, if that's the case, he's the one I should be talking to, I suppose. Why don't you fetch him here and we'll sit down and have a little chat?"

"Woman, you try my patience. Don't you know how to show the proper respect to a Senator?"

She looked at me pityingly. "Now, sir, you know perfectly well a Senator's just a citizen with a purple stripe on his tunic. If you only knew how many Senators come to me wanting a poison to get rid of their wives, or an abortion for a slave girl, and me just a poor, honest fortune-teller and herbalist. The wives come, too, because the noble husband's been away all year and they're going to have a baby that'll come out looking just like the Gallic stableboy. You'd be shocked at what your peers get up to, sir." Unfortunately, I would not be a bit shocked.

"And you, of course, would have nothing to do with such things?"

"I should hope not!" She made a number of gestures against the evil eye and other supernatural misfortunes. "I read the signs and give advice. Come to me with a cold or a hangover and I'll mix you up a potion to relieve your suffering, but don't ask me to do anything illegal."

Well, I could scarcely expect her to admit selling poisons for purposes other than suicide, since the punishment was a horrible death. '

"Fortune-telling is illegal," I pointed out.

"Well, there's lawbreaking that gets you run out of town and there's lawbreaking that gets you nailed to a cross. It's that last kind that I call illegal."

"I am going to stay here until you tell me what that boy was doing here. Then what will you do for customers?"

She threw up her hands in exasperation. "Oh, sir! Wasn't you ever that young? Didn't you always go running to a fortune-teller every time your heart went thump over some neighbor's pimply daughter? Lovesick boys outnumber embarrassed Senators any day."

"Very well," I said, "I will accept that for now, but I may be back. What is your name?"

"Purpurea, sir. You'll find me here most days."

I left fuming. Sometimes I envy Asiatic nobles, whose inferiors have to grovel in the dirt before them and lick their toes. Purpurea! When women get to make up their own names, they come up with some strange ones. And her pose of innocence did not impress me. In my lifetime I have known thousands of criminals, and the best of them could make a newborn infant seem a veritable monster by comparison. One thing was certain: That boy had been afraid to be seen emerging from her booth.

If you seek any prominent Roman at midday, it is usually futile to look for him at home. Your best bet is to go to the Forum and wander around until you bump into him. That was how I found Milo. He stood near the Temple of Castor and Pollux, surrounded by a group of tough-looking men, most of them dressed in dark tunics. He was the only one who bothered with a toga. He grinned his great, white-toothed grin when he saw me.

We had been friends for years, a thing most of my peers thought disgraceful. He was the most powerful gang leader in Rome, with Clodius as his only rival. He was a huge man, still young and extraordinarily handsome. He had been a rower in his younger years and was as strong as any professional gladiator or wrestler. We exchanged the usual embraces and greetings and he invited me to his house, where we could talk privily.

The minor fortress Milo called home occupied a whole block in one of the better slums. It was fully staffed with street fighters, many of them veterans of the legions or the arena. We sat at a table in Milo's enormous assembly room, and one of his men brought us watered wine. Milo was never one for the amenities, so I launched straight into the matter at hand.

"Milo, why is Clodius still in Rome?"

"His presence has not escaped me," Milo said. "Nor has the fact that Caesar shows an uncharacteristic fondness for our city when his fortunes are to be mended elsewhere."

"Caius Julius doesn't amount to much," I said.

"Not yet, but keep your eye on him. And Clodius is Caesar's man."

I remembered the odd tableau that morning. "You think it's connected?"

"I know that Clodius does very little these days without Caesar's permission."

My cup paused halfway to my lips. "That's new. Were some new lines drawn while I was away?"

"The lines are much the same as always, but the number of players in this game has narrowed. There used to be many gangs controlling the streets of Rome. Now there are just two: mine and Clodius's. Once there was a large number of soldier-politicians and lawyer-politicians contending for mastery of Rome and its empire. Most have dropped out or been eliminated. Lucullus, Hortalus and the rest have left the big struggle for power."

"Hortalus is Censor with my father," I pointed out.

"An office with great prestige but no imperium. No, Decius Caecilius, the contenders are now Pompey, Crassus and Cicero, with Caesar soon to join them. See what he is like when he gets back from Spain."

"I trust your instincts," I said. "So you say Clodius has become Caesar's man. Celer tells me that you are now closely linked with Cicero."

"Cicero and I are not friends, but he needs me. The men who want to control the empire must be away from the city much of the time. They must have an ally to control the city in their absence, and there is no constitutional office for that purpose."

I always admired this quality in Milo. He knew the branchings of power as a farmer knows the branching of his grapevines. He knew which branches showed promise and which needed pruning. He was utterly un-trammeled by the constitutional precedents and traditions that shaped the political thinking of more orthodox Romans.

"What is Cicero's standing these days with the Senate and the public in general?"

"Precarious for the moment. He has his adherents, but his enemies charge that he was high-handed in executing the Catilinarian conspirators without trial. And many are resentful of his indifferent origins. They can't accept the idea of a new man rising as Cicero has. Some are jealous of his new house on the Palatine. They're charging that he embezzled public funds to build it."

"How do you read the situation?" I asked.

"The Catilinarian scandal will fade in no great time. Nothing gets old as fast as yesterday's scandal. Catilina never had any firm base among the powerful men of Rome. With Pompey coming back, all attention will be on him, and lately Cicero's thrown his support behind Pompey."

"Cicero?" I said. "He was always with the anti-Pompeians before."

"But he understands the inevitable. Something has to be done to placate Pompey's veterans. You know, when Pompey comes into the city for his triumph, it will be the first time in years that Pompey, Crassus and Caesar will all be in Rome at the same time."

"You see a connection?" I knew Milo wasn't just musing aloud.

"There's a rumor floating around. Just a rumor, mind you, but there are those who say that Caesar can't leave because of his debts. Some of those he owes money to are very highly placed."

"But if he can just get to Spain, he'll enrich himself like any other bandit," I said. "Then he can pay his debts."

"Or he may get killed. He has a reputation for recklessness. Remember those pirates?"

It was a famous story. When he was quaestor, Caesar had been captured by pirates and held for ransom. He had behaved arrogantly and demanded that his ransom be appropriate to his rank. He had unbraided his captors, promised that he would return with a flotilla and crucify them all, and made them listen to his speeches. The pirates had been highly amused and treated him as a sort of mascot while he resided among them. In time his ransom arrived and he was sent on to the nearest Roman port. He immediately raised a flotilla, returned and crucified all the pirates exactly as he had said he would. It was the sort of tale that tickled the Roman fancy and made him a minor celebrity for a while.

"So his creditors want some sort of security? What can he do? Caesar spends so freely he barely owns the clothes on his back. Pontifex Maximus is a fine old position, but it never made anyone a copper as that I ever heard of."

"There is a further rumor," Milo said. "A loan. An enormous loan to stand surety for the bulk of his debts while he is away. All out of one man's purse."

Now things began to make sense. "Crassus," I said.

"What other man in the world has that kind of money?"

"Crassus is not a charitable man. He will want something in return for a loan like that. What can Caesar do for the likes of Marcus Licinius Crassus?"

"That is something I would give a great deal to know," Milo said.