A Point of Law

5

The Goldsmiths’ Quarter in those days lay in a small block of houses and shops on the Via Nova just across from the ancient Mugonia Gate, near the eastern end of the Forum. Unlike other quarters of the City, this one had its own wall, low but strong, its heavy gates guarded by club-wielding slaves whose loyalty was guaranteed by their excellent terms of service: five years of duty followed by freedom and a large enough stake to buy a house or a small shop. The Goldsmiths’ Guild had a special license for their little fortress and its arrangements, granted by the censors and renewed every five years as long as anyone could remember. The jewelers and other dealers in precious materials had similar arrangements with the censors. Rome was so full of thieves that they needed these special precautions to practice their trade at all.

The headquarters of the guild was in a modest house just within the main gate. They needed nothing more pretentious because they held their annual banquets at the nearby Temple of the Public Penates.

Next to the old gate Hermes and I paused long enough to buy snacks from a street vendor, our narrow escape having given us an appetite. We bought grilled sausage and onions wrapped in flat bread and doused with garum. From another vendor we got cups of cheap wine, and we sat beneath the shade of a fine plane tree to discuss matters before consulting with the goldsmiths.

“The furnishings of that house,” I said, “the desk and the inkstand, for instance-those were the sort of things wealthy men give to one another as gifts for Saturnalia or as guest gifts or to celebrate the naming of sons. What was a man like Fulvius doing with such possessions?”

“Maybe they were loaned to him,” Hermes said, around a greasy mouthful, which he finally swallowed. “If Marcellus lent him the house, why not the furnishings as well?”

“But why would he do that? Why did he want Fulvius to put up such a fine front?”

“You could go ask him.”

“Something tells me that would not be a wise move just now.” I weighed the ring in my hand. The fine, strange granulation of its surface gave it an exotic look. I knew I had seen such metal work before, but I did not remember where. “You could buy a decent house with this and have enough left over to staff it with slaves. How did he get it, and why wasn’t he wearing it?”

Hermes thought about this. “Could be he was waiting to gain the reputation to go with it, just like the senator’s tunic and the toga praetexta. A nobody like him standing for tribune or quaestor would look like a fool wearing such a ring. It would be right at home on a praetor’s hand.”

“That’s a thought. It makes me wonder who could dangle such prizes in front of him.”

“Caesar could,” Hermes said. “Or Pompey. They’ve both been known to raise obscure men to high office and power.”

“Ridiculous!” I said. “Those two would never-”

“I just meant,” Hermes went on, “that they are the type of men to do such a thing. And there are more ways of rising in the world than through birth or politics. Look at me. All my life I was a slave. Now I am a citizen with the name of a great family, which my descendants will inherit. This happened because you wanted it to. The lives of humble men are there for great men to make use of. We needn’t wonder that it is done. We just need to discover the reason.”

“You’re uncommonly thoughtful today,” I said, taken a little aback.

“Well, I don’t carry your bath things around anymore, so I might as well do some of your thinking for you.”

I brushed crumbs from my hands and downed the last of the wine. “Come on, let’s see if we can find someone who can tell us about this ring.” We gave our cups back to the vendor and walked across the street.

The year’s guild master, a man named Laturnus, recognized me the moment I walked in. His office was laid out almost like a shop: a single, long room opening onto a courtyard, the whole upper half of the wall on that side open to admit maximum light. Except for chairs, the only furnishing of the room was a single, long table. It held a balance and selection of official weights, a touchstone, and a case holding samples of pure gold and silver and all the alloys of those metals. I could see that most of the business done here consisted of settling disputes concerning the purity of gold being sold in Rome. There were very strict laws regulating this, and the guild was held responsible for its members’ honesty.

“Senator! Or should I say Praetor?” He took my hand and guided me to a comfortable chair. “How good it is to see you!” He was a fat man with keen eyes and nimble hands, both requirements of his craft. “I suppose you’ve come to discuss next year’s legislation?”

My mind, distracted by other matters, failed to grasp his meaning. “Legislation?”

He was puzzled. “Why, yes. You will surely be holding court next year. And we will also have new censors. If Appius Claudius is elected censor, and surely he shall be, he plans to institute a new slate of antiluxury laws. I, and the members of my guild, feel that these laws will be a very bad idea.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “But the praetors have no power over acts of the censors. Since you goldsmiths deal in the marketplace, your cases are heard by the aediles and they will be enforcing any decrees of the censors.”

“Of course, you are right,” he said, with a flutter of the fingers, “but the aediles and the praetors often work closely together, as your jurisdictions sometimes overlap.”

“Certainly,” I said, “and I assure you that I shall look with great leniency on frivolous accusations of luxury-law violations. Somehow I do not believe that the prime threat to the Republic comes from how many rings a man wears or the weight of gold around his wife’s neck. I plan to dismiss out of hand all cases except those involving serious crime.”

“We shall all be most grateful,” he assured me, meaning that he would pass the word and I could expect a fine price break for any jewelry I bought from a guild member.

“Your best bet though,” I advised him, “is to cultivate the other censor. He can overrule Appius’s acts.”

“Oh, believe me, we are doing just that. Calpurnius Piso is most likely to be elected, and he is a man, how shall we say, amenable to persuasion. But he will have very weighty matters on his mind next year, and he may be fully occupied trying to protect his friends whom Appius Claudius plans to expel from the Senate.”

“The Senate is in severe need of pruning,” I said. “But I’ve recently spoken with Appius, and he seems far more concerned about the indebtedness of the senatorial class than about luxury per se.”

“Let us hope,” said Laturnus.

“Now, my friend,” I said, “what I came here to inquire about is this.” I took the heavy ring from my tunic and handed it to him. “Can you tell me anything about this?”

He took it, stepped closer to the open wall to catch the best light. “A lovely piece. It’s very old.”

“How can you tell?”

“It’s Etruscan work. This granulation of the surface is quite unique, and the art of making it has been lost for generations.”

That explained it. I’d seen that surface before, many times, on old bronze lamps and vessels, always of Etruscan make. “Why is it no longer done?”

“It was probably only done by a few families, and the families died out without passing the secret on. The granulation is not chased onto the surface with gravers, as such surfaces are done now. First, they made thousands of minute, gold beads, all exactly the same size. That, too, is a lost art. Then the roughened surface of the piece-the ring, in this case-was prepared with a layer of the finest solder.” His voice grew wistful, explaining the arcana of his vocation.

“Then the tiny beads were laid atop the solder, one at a time. This task was so demanding that it is said only children could do it properly. No one older than ten or twelve at the oldest, had the eyesight and the lightness of touch to accomplish it. Then, without disturbing the surface preparation, the piece was put into a furnace. It had to be removed the instant the temperature was perfect. Remove it too soon and the solder would not hold. Leave it too long and the solder would run off, taking the granulation with it. There were a hundred stages at which work this delicate could be ruined. It is amazing that any saw completion at all. But, when done properly, the effect is incomparable. Modern granulation work done with a graver or chisel is gross and coarse by comparison.”

“The stone looks Greek,” I said.

“It is. But the old Etruscans often incorporated Greek work into their own, just as we do today. Or, this could be a modern stone set into an old Etruscan ring. For that you will need to consult a lapidary. It is not my field.”

I took the ring back from him. “Many thanks, Laturnus. I believe that your guild and my future office will enjoy the most excellent of relations.” I rose from my chair.

“I rejoice to hear it. Why, if I may ask, is the origin of this ring of interest to you?”

“A matter of an inheritance. Several heirs claiming to be the rightful owner, you know how it goes.”

“Alas, so I do.”

Back out in the street I checked the angle of the sun. Still plenty of daylight left.

“That was interesting,” I said, “but probably irrelevant. Let’s go see if the stone has any surprises for us.”

We went to the nearby quarter of the lapidaries. Most of the workers in precious substances lived and worked in the same small area near the eastern end of the Forum. Their shops were often located in the Forum itself, but I was looking for a dealer who traveled widely and bought from many sources; one who specialized in sapphires.

A bit of questioning led me to the shop of such a man, a resident alien named Gyges. Despite his Greek name he had a distinctly Syrian look, not an uncommon combination in the eastern coastal cities. I explained what I wanted, and he looked at the stone.

“The stone is from Egypt,” he said without hesitation. “Once it had a different shape, but it was cut down and polished flat to prepare it for this carving. That is done a great deal with Egyptian stones. Outside of Egypt, nobody much likes Egyptian jewels. Fortunately, they liked massive, irregular stones, so it is relatively easy to alter them for a more refined taste.”

“How old is it?” I asked. “I mean, when was this carving made? Can you tell?”

“It’s quite recent. This treatment of the hair-snakes, I should say-was first used by Eunostes of Caria no more than fifty years ago. But this wasn’t carved in Caria. The style is that of the Greek cities of southern Italy and Sicily. I am afraid I can’t name you a specific lapidary, but I am almost certain that this came from one of the workshops of Croton.”

Croton is in Bruttium, of course, but its inhabitants are not Bruttians: they are Greeks. Croton was the home of Pythagoras, who knew things about triangles and music and said people shouldn’t eat beans. It was also the home of a great Olympic champion named Milo around five hundred years ago. Lately the place didn’t amount to much.

“That doesn’t help us greatly,” Hermes said as we left.

“You never know what bit of information may come in useful,” I assured him. “Now for something that should be truly enlightening, let’s go find someone who can decipher these documents.”

Rome is full of Greek schoolmasters, most of them penurious. But I needed something better than a man who could drill well-born schoolboys in their alpha-beta-gamma or teach youths of senatorial families to repeat the speeches of Demosthenes. Nor did I want someone who had memorized the entirety of Homer. I spoke of this to Hermes.

“So what are we looking for?” he asked.

“A cipher is no more than a puzzle. Mathematicians like to solve puzzles. We need somebody who is both a Greek scholar and a mathematician.”

“I’m game. How do we find one?”

“Let’s go ask Asklepiodes. He knows the better-educated Greek community here in the City.”

It was not a great walk to the Temple of Aesculapius on Tiber Island. The streets were thinly populated because of the contio called by the Tribune Manilius. Those who had not gone to participate went there to watch.

The beautiful temple on its shiplike island was where Asklepiodes practiced and taught in the afternoons. We found him conducting an early evening sacrifice and waited respectfully with our heads covered while he finished the simple, dignified ceremony.

He smiled delightedly when he saw us. “Is someone else dead already?”

“Not this time,” I told him. When I explained what I needed, he shook his head in wonderment.

“Your activities are a source of unfailing marvel. Yes, I think I know exactly what you need. Callista is here from Alexandria, giving a course of lectures in the hall adjoining Pompey’s Theater.”

“Callista?” I said. “This is a woman?”

“Very much so. You have been to Alexandria. You are aware that female scholars and teachers are not at all uncommon there.”

“They rarely come to Rome to teach. You think she has the qualifications I need?”

“She is one of the foremost authorities on the Greek language working at the Library, and she is also a mathematician of the Archimedean school. I know of nobody else in Rome who enjoys such distinction.”

“I am pressed for time. Would it be excessively rude for me to call on her this evening?”

“Nothing easier,” he assured me. “I will take you there myself. It is a short walk from here, just on the other side of the bridge in the Trans-Tiber. And it will be no rudeness at all. In the Alexandrian fashion, she holds an open salon for persons of a scholarly bent. She should be receiving this evening.”

“Wonderful. Hermes, go tell my wife that I will be home late this evening, lest she think I’ve been waylaid and murdered. Tell her I am consulting with a Greek scholar. Don’t tell her that it is an Alexandrian woman. This is something I must explain to her in my own fashion. Then rejoin me at the house of Callista. If you run, you should be able to find it before it gets too dark to see.”

Asklepiodes explained to him how to find the house and we left the temple, crossing the bridge into the district across the river. A great many foreigners lived in the new district, finding it more congenial both as to accommodation and company. The City proper was crowded, expensive, and full of Romans.

The house of Callista was no more than a hundred paces beyond the bridge, a stroke of luck considering how late the hour was. The sun was almost on the western horizon, and most Romans were already arriving for their dinner engagements, unless the contio was running late.

The gatekeeper was not a slave chained to the doorpost as in a great Roman house, but rather an educated servant who recognized both Asklepiodes and my senatorial insignia in a flickering glance. He bowed deeply.

“Learned Doctor, noble Senator, welcome to the house of Callista. My lady entertains a small but distinguished company this evening. She will be so delighted that you have come.” He swept before us, and we followed him into a fine courtyard where perhaps ten people sat in a small group, their attention centered on a woman who sat on a small folding chair.

While the servant announced us, I studied the group and saw some faces I knew. Catullus the poet was there, as was Marcus Brutus. Brutus was a pontifex, and as a patrician he was barred from the contio that afternoon. He was known for his enthusiasm for Greek philosophy. The rest were men and women of Rome’s literary and philosophical community, both Romans and Greeks.

The woman herself rose to greet us. I had rather expected an overeducated crone, but she was a tall, stately woman with the handsome, slightly heavy features so favored by Greek sculptors. Her hair was purest black, divided in the middle and falling over her shoulders. Her gown was as simple and as beautiful as a Doric column. She took Asklepiodes’s hand first.

“Welcome, learned Asklepiodes, fountain of medical knowledge.” She turned to look at me. “Thrice welcome for bringing the famous Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger to my house.” She released his hand and took mine. “I have hoped for so long to see you, Senator.” Her eyes were disconcertingly direct. Not to mention beautiful.

“I am amazed you even know my name, distinguished lady, and I apologize for arriving thus unannounced.”

She smiled and she did this, as she did everything else, beautifully. “Oh, but your all-too-brief stay in Alexandria is, shall we say, still remarked upon after nearly eleven years.”

“Oh, well,” I said, almost blushing, “what’s one more riot in Alexandria’s long history of them?” The riot had been the least of it.

“Besides, Princess Cleopatra recently spoke of you in the most glowing terms. She said her adventures with you on Cyprus were wonderfully exhilarating.”

“Life always seems to be exhilarating around young Cleopatra,” I told her. “She has a way of attracting excitement.”

“And Ione, the high priestess of the Temple of Aphrodite at Paphos, wrote to me of you. She said that you are the most gifted Roman to come to Cyprus. She believes you to be touched by the gods.”

This was getting embarrassing. “I’m just another Roman drudge, trying to do my duty and dodge the odd assassin,” I told her.

“Please join our little group,” she said. “I believe you must know most of these people.”

She introduced them anyway, then Asklepiodes and I took our seats while their discussion continued. Courtesy dictated that I wait until their evening’s conversation was concluded before I took my problem to her.

Catullus nudged me in the ribs and said in a stage whisper, “Touched by the gods, eh? Bacchus, I’ll bet.”

“Venus,” I muttered back at him. “Princesses and priestesses find me irresistible.” Some of the others turned and frowned at us.

They talked for a long time on some points of philosophy that I couldn’t follow, then about the poetry of Pindar, with which I was at least familiar. I kept my mouth shut rather than stress my ignorance.

I must confess that I felt absurdly flattered that this woman knew who I was, had spoken with Cleopatra, and corresponded with Ione about me. Even better, she had not once mentioned my connection to Caesar. By that time I was beginning to feel that, in most peoples’ eyes, being married to Caesar’s niece was the highest distinction I had achieved.

I was struck by the foolishness of my feelings. Why should I, a widely experienced soldier and magistrate of the greatest republic in the world, feel warmed by the esteem of a foreign woman? After all, she was only a woman. And while we Romans had a grudging admiration, even awe, of the Greeks of former times; we regarded their descendants, our contemporaries, as a pack of foolish degenerates, political imbeciles, and natural-born slaves. We often marveled that the Greeks we saw every day could be even distantly related to Achilles and Agamemnon, or even to the later ones like Pericles, Leonidas, and Miltiades.

Perhaps the truth was that I had grown tired and disillusioned with the Romans of my own class, self-seeking politicians and grasping conquerors who were slowly destroying the Republic more surely than any barbarian enemy could hope to.

Not that I expected to find some cure for our ills in the supposed wisdom of aliens. Many of the more idle and empty-headed members of the senatorial and equestrian orders were forever discovering the answers to the problems that have plagued mankind in the ancient “enlightenment” of Persia or Babylonia or Egypt. They never explain how this wonderful wisdom failed to save those utterly fallen and destroyed civilizations. At least men like Brutus and Cicero chose to admire the relatively rational Greeks, who knew how to carve wonderful statues.

Eventually, people began to rise and take their leave. While Callista bade each good night I spoke briefly with Brutus. He was a man of the highest reputation but far too solemn and serious for my taste. He couldn’t decide which direction to spit without wondering how it might reflect on the honor of his ancient family. I thought it a grotesque fixation in one so young. His mother, Servilia, had been one of the great beauties of her generation, and Brutus had inherited some portion of her comeliness, which did not otherwise run in his aptly named family.

“I hope this decision of the comitia tributa goes well for you, Senator,” Brutus said gravely. He gave the word for the plebeian assembly the slightly contemptuous turn common to patricians. They always preferred the comitia centuriata, which was dominated by a handful of great families.

“I daresay their decision will be enlightening,” I told him. “This whole business has me utterly mystified. It’s true I was a bit rough on certain Romans living in Cyprus, but they were all thieves and plunderers and I can prove it. How this fool Fulvius got killed I have no idea.”

“All honest Romans agree that your actions on Cyprus were perfectly just,” Brutus said ponderously. “Cato concurs with me on this. The death of this man Fulvius, while unfortunate, is a trifling matter compared with the great dangers before us. Did you know that an invading army is about to descend upon Rome?”

“Really?” I said, doubting his sanity. “Not the Parthians, I hope.”

“I almost wish it were. Caesar has given half his legions leave of absence so that they can come to Rome and take part in the election. A rider came in not three hours ago to inform the aediles that the first cohorts would be pitching their tents on the Campus Martius in the morning. The rest will be here within two days.”

“That’s high-handed behavior even for Caesar,” I said. “But as far as I know, it’s constitutional. And he can spare them. It’s the depth of winter up in Gaul. He can keep his conquests in order with his auxilia.” The auxilia were foreigners, allies, and mercenaries. Legionaries, on the other hand, were all citizens, which meant they could all vote. And they would vote for Caesar’s favored candidates.

“It’s good news for you, I suppose,” Brutus grumbled. I was one of those favored candidates.

“I won’t be a total hypocrite and claim I don’t want their votes,” I admitted. “But any army descending on Rome, even a Roman one, is an unsettling concept.”

“I rejoice to hear it. But the time must come when men who love the Republic must take action to curb the arrogance of Caesar.”

I won’t pretend to be an oracle and claim that in these words I perceived a portent of dire deeds to come. Nor did I foresee a bloody Ides of March when I heard Cassius, Casca, Basileus, and all the rest voice similar thoughts in that and future years, all those men who are now so notorious. Half of Rome, it seemed, spoke darkly of the other half, and many important figures jumped nimbly from one side to the other, repeatedly, not least among them the men who later plotted Caesar’s death.

Finally only Asklepiodes and I remained of the evening’s guests.

“Callista,” Asklepiodes said, “my friend the Senator Metellus has a singular problem, its solution requires a combination of skills and talents that I have informed him are possessed in abundance by you alone of all the scholars now resident in Rome.” He spoke in Greek, which I could follow well enough.

“How intriguing. I shall seek to vindicate your trust in me.” She turned to me and switched to Latin. “And how may I possibly be of help?”

I took out the papers. “These documents were written in cipher by a person whose activities I am investigating. The alphabet used is Greek, although I can’t say whether the language thus encoded is Greek or Latin.” I handed them to her, and she studied them by the light of a multiwicked lamp.

“Are you certain that it is one of those two languages? I ask because of the extraordinary repetition of the letter delta. The arrangement, even taking into account the common letter substitution of ciphers, doesn’t look like either language.”

This could mean trouble. “The man in question lived almost all his life in Baiae, which is in Campania. It’s conceivable that it’s the Oscan dialect that is used. But Oscan has almost the same grammar as Latin, though the vocabulary and pronunciation are different.”

She shook her head. “Then that can’t be it. Do you know to whom this is written?”

“I have no idea.”

“If he turns out to be Syrian or Egyptian, I will be of little use to you, I fear.”

“I strongly doubt that the author knew any such language. He was of an old Latin family. His sister has lived in Rome for many years. The family is distinguished but not for scholarship. I would venture to say that he would be lost in any language save Greek or Latin.”

“That will simplify things. Would it be possible to leave these letters with me?”

“They are of no use in my possession, and any excuse to call upon you again is welcome.”

“You need no excuse, Senator. Please feel free to call upon me anytime. I have no lectures scheduled for tomorrow. I find that election time in Rome is not a good time for much of anything. I’ll devote the morning to this. If you can come by tomorrow afternoon, perhaps I’ll have made some headway.”

“Depend upon it, I’ll be here,” I told her.

I found Hermes waiting outside. He had brought along a small bodyguard of men from my neighborhood who were under obligation to me.

“I believe the lady is rather taken with you,” Asklepiodes said slyly as he took his leave.

“If this were another city, and if I were not as married as I am, I would be greatly taken with her,” I said. “But I think I am in enough danger as it is.”

“Life’s little complexities keep us from growing old too soon,” he assured me. “Please keep me informed how this fascinating business progresses.”

We walked home without incident, and I dismissed my little guard with my thanks. Julia was waiting up when I went inside.

“I hear you’ve been up to your old activities,” she said, as she took my toga and directed the slaves to lay out a late supper. “It’s been a long time since you practiced house breaking and burglary and escaping through the alleys and over rooftops.”

“You’ve been listening to Hermes. That’s always a mistake.”

“He’s acting innocent as a sacrificial lamb. It’s the rest of the City buzzing about your activities.”

“Oh. Well, gossip is unreliable, you know.” I picked up a chicken leg.

“Tell me your news, and I’ll tell you mine. And stop evading.”

So I began with my visit to Fulvia’s house and my encounter with Curio.

“He is a man with a scandalous history,” she commented, “but very courageous, and it looks as if he’s chosen the right side now. He spoke up for you in the contio this evening by the way.”

“He said that he would. Tell me about that.”

“When you’ve told me the rest of your day’s doings. Have some of that soup. It will keep you from catching cold running around like this in the winter.”

Obediently, I sipped at a cup of her grandmother’s cold remedy. It was broth of stewed chicken laced with garum and vinegar. Not bad, actually. I told her about our visit to the goldsmith’s guild and the lapidary.

“That was a waste of time,” she commented.

“You never know. Then, of course, I went to get those encoded letters examined by an expert.”

“Which one?” she asked.

“Well, I went to Asklepiodes first, and he recommended Callista.”

Julia was silent for a moment. “Callista?” The name sounded ominous in her mouth.

“Yes, she’s an Alexandrian, quite brilliant in-”

“I know who she is. She’s said to be quite beautiful.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Her nose is a little long for my taste. Anyway, I didn’t call on her for her looks, but for her expertise in Greek and mathematics.”

“You went to the home of a foreign woman at night, without invitation?” The dark clouds were gathering.

“It’s a sort of open salon she holds for intellectual sorts.” I floundered about for something to allay her suspicions, which were all too justified. “My dear,” I said, “Marcus Brutus was there.”

The clouds seemed to recede. “Brutus. Well, the gathering must have been respectable anyway.”

“Boringly so. Incidentally, Brutus seems to regard Caesar with some hostility.” I told her what he had said. Nothing distracted Julia as effectively as an insult to her revered uncle. But she didn’t seem concerned.

“Brutus has some foolishly old-fashioned notions. Caesar thinks the world of him. He’ll come around. Now tell me what Callista said about the letters.”

So I told her what the woman had said. “I’ll call on her tomorrow to find out what she’s learned.”

“Not if you’re under arrest, you won’t.”

“What?” I all but choked on my wine, a light Falernian, as I recall.

“The vote in the contio was close, but you are to be tried for the murder of Marcus Fulvius.”

“Ridiculous! There is no evidence!”

To my surprise, she leaned over and kissed me tenderly. “Decius, I think I love you most of all when you are being foolish and naive. Surely you understand that you are the only man in Rome who cares about things like evidence. Trials are not about evidence. They are not about guilt or innocence. They are about friends and enemies. Do you have more friends than enemies?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Then you’ll probably be vindicated. But you may also find that you have enemies you knew nothing about.”

“I’ve already discovered one: Marcus Fulvius, although he’s no longer numbered among the living. And whoever is behind him.” Another thought struck me. I told her about Caesar’s veterans arriving.

She clapped her hands like a child. “Wonderful! They all know you. We can count on their support.” Then she frowned. “But men who’ve spent years in Gaul won’t be in the jury pool.”

“What form is the trial to take?”

“You’re to be tried before the concilium plebis, with a jury of three hundred equites.” Very large juries were the rule at that time. It was thought to be difficult to bribe so many people.

“When?”

“On the third day from this.”

“What? We only found the bugger dead this morning! It’s customary to give an accused man ten days to get his defense together.”

“Do you want to be praetor or not? They could delay the election no longer than that. Conviction or acquittal, the election goes ahead in four days.”

That was that. Nothing to be done about it. “What was the mood of the crowd? Did your sources say?”

“It’s a sideshow to the general spectacle of the elections. You’re a popular man with the plebs and nobody knew Fulvius, so there was no crowd baying for your blood. Some good people spoke up for you, and the ones demanding a trial appealed to hatred of the aristocrats.”

“Running according to form then,” I said, refilling my cup. “What about the Tribune, Manilius? Was he rabble-rousing?”

“From what I heard, he conducted it well, shutting up anyone who spoke too long, putting a quick stop to shouting matches.”

“I wonder which side he’s on,” I said.

“That one is easy,” she said. “Until he proves otherwise, consider him your enemy.”