A Point of Law

7

If any one place in Rome could be called the center of government in the old Republic, it would not be the Curia, which was just a place where the Senate met to argue and yell at each other. Nor was it the Septa on the Campus Martius where elections were held. At that time it was little more than a field with barriers to separate the people by tribes, and its informal name of “sheep-fold” was quite descriptive.

No, the true center of the Republic was the Tabularium on the lower slopes of the Capitoline Hill, where most of the important documents of the City and the Empire were stored. It was our one true government building. Otherwise, we continued our rustic, inconvenient old custom of locating civic functions and offices in temples.

We had the Treasury in Saturn’s, although money was coined in that of Juno Moneta. The Temple of Ceres housed the offices of the aediles; treaties and wills were kept in the Temple of Vesta. We declared war at the Temple of Bellona. We used the basilicas to hold courts, but they were used as much for markets and banks. Numerous minor temples housed lesser civic functions.

But the Archive kept the bulk of the records of government, many of them going back centuries. It was staffed by state-owned slaves and freedmen. In those days they were among the very few slaves owned directly by the state, unlike the vast slave bureaucracy that surrounds us now. They were very haughty, self-important slaves, too. The freedmen were even worse.

There was no real system or order to the place. It was not like the great Library at Alexandria where anyone who could read could walk straight to the wing where the work he desired was stored and find it within a few minutes. The Archive slaves simply kept everything in their memories, thus rendering themselves indispensable.

A bit of asking brought me to a warren presided over by a freed-man named Androcles. He was not happy to see me. They never were.

“Senator Metellus, is it?” he said, as if merely speaking my name were an intolerable imposition. “I thought the whole City had taken a holiday, all flocking out to the Campus to see the soldiers, as if they’ve never seen such a prodigy. Well, some people still have to work!”

“Excellent,” I said, “then you won’t mind doing a little work for me.”

“What?” He looked as if I had insulted his family, his homeland, and his national gods. “Have you any idea what is demanded of us here? Are you aware that Caesar’s new conquests have added not one but three, three, mind you, new provinces to the Empire?” His voice had risen to a shout.

“Yes, but-”

“There isn’t just to be a Province of Gaul,” he went on, ignoring me. “No, that’s not good enough for Caesar! There is to be a Province of Belgica, one of Aquitania, and one of Lugdunensis! Three brand-new provinces all at once! Oh, it’s easy to kill a flock of barbarians and conquer the place, but who do you think has to organize and administer that wilderness? With three complete sets of public servants to establish a government, arrange its finances, and keep its records? And we’re still getting Cyprus organized. Next thing you know, some fool is going to annex Egypt! Or Britannia!”

“Actually,” I said, “it isn’t so easy to conquer a new province, and the Senate will see to its administration.”

“The Senate? The Senate names provincial governors! They don’t do any work! You know that; you’re a senator yourself. We have to provide the record keepers, keep the correspondence moving between the provinces and Rome, and build another level of rooms for this place so we can store them all. And do you think the Senate is going to vote us the budget to take care of all this? Hah!”

Hermes stepped forward and took a pouch from within his tunic. When he shook it, it made a musical jingle.

“Well, what is it you want?” Androcles asked, now marginally less hostile.

“I need documents pertaining to the citizenship status of the Tribune of the People Manilius, soon to leave office.”

His eyes went wide. “Find documents pertaining to one citizen among all this-”

“Oh, shut up,” Hermes said. As a freedman himself he knew all the poses and dodges. “You know perfectly well that you got all that stuff together when Manilius declared himself a candidate. And I happen to know that you keep the records pertaining to all serving magistrates handy because every climbing politician who wants to sue one of them for malfeasance comes here and bribes you for a look at them, just like we’re doing. So go get them now.”

Androcles glared at him. “I don’t have to take that from some jumped-up errand boy! I remember when you carried the Senator’s scraper and bath oil, and he was ill-advised to entrust you with those.”

I placed an arm around his shoulders. “My friend Androcles, I know how overworked you are, and I, for one, appreciate the toil and stress of your office. Now, as one servant of the Senate and People to another, could you see if you can find these things for me?”

“Well,” he said, somewhat mollified, “let me see what’s to be found.” He stalked off between two stacks of shelves, calling for his slave assistants.

“Always the politician, eh?” Hermes said.

“He’s a voter, too, Hermes. Never forget that.”

A slave appeared a short time later, holding an armload of scrolls and tablets. “Where do you want these?”

I pointed to one of the tables beneath the latticed windows that lined one of the long, southeast-facing walls. He arranged them neatly and stood back, not letting the documents out of his sight. We began to go over them.

“Publius Manilius Scrofa,” Hermes read, “is a native of Rome, born in the Via Sacra district. He is a plebeian of the rural Pinarian Tribe, enrolled in an Equestrian Century. He is twenty-eight years old, unmarried, and has no children.”

He read this from the document Manilius filed when he declared himself a candidate. It told me little. He had to be plebeian or he couldn’t be a tribune. Nobody who wasn’t equestrian could afford public office. All citizens belonged to tribes, and old, respected families always belonged to rural tribes and thought the urban tribes were all riffraff. Via Sacra might put him in Clodius’s old camp-he’d been a great hero in the Via Sacra-but not necessarily.

I picked up a document from the last censorship, five years previously. It affirmed that Manilius qualified for the equestrian order, possessing a fortune of 415,000 sesterces. I showed this to Hermes.

“Just over the line for an eques,” he noted. “That’s not much to finance a political career.”

“I wonder how his fortune would assess now. A tribune is in a position to make himself rich during his year in office.”

“Maybe his father died and he inherited,” Hermes pointed out. “Or he could have borrowed. The censors’ assessment is on property. It doesn’t take debt into account. A lot of cash-poor candidates borrow heavily rather than sell their lands and buildings.”

“Very true,” I said. “But I can’t think of any way we can find out. There is no law requiring anyone to disclose the nature of his finances.” I pondered this for a moment. “But, to maintain equestrian status, he had to file a list of his landed properties. Let’s see what’s here. It could tell us something.”

We rummaged through the documents until we found a property statement filed with the electoral board that regulated the status of candidates between censorships. The previous year Manilius had listed the same property as during the last censorship, plus a new cash income of one hundred and twenty thousand sesterces per annum from an estate he hadn’t possessed then.

“Well, well,” I said. “It seems that young Manilius has come into possession of a fine estate in-guess where.”

“Baiae?” Hermes answered.

“Where else? Ever since this business started, all roads lead to Baiae.”

“Pretty substantial estate, too,” Hermes observed, going down the list of its assets. “Two hundred iugera of land, divided into plowland, pasture, orchards, and vineyards, as well as a villa with colonnades and formal garden, olive press, wine press, ninety slaves, and twenty tenant families. Plus, it’s right on the bay and has its own permanent, stone wharf.”

“Not quite princely but very substantial,” I noted. “It would be nice to know who owned it before it came into his possession.”

“They’re all Pompey’s clients in the south, aren’t they?” Hermes asked.

“Not everyone. And Baiae’s become so popular that it’s practically neutral ground.”

The beautiful little town on the Bay of Neapolis at the southern end of Campania had become the most fashionable resort in Italy. During the hottest months, when Rome became intolerable, most wealthy families abandoned the capital for their country estates. Those who could afford it bought a villa in Baiae as a summer retreat. Cicero had one. So did Lucullus, Pompey, and many others. If you couldn’t afford a place there, you tried to cadge an invitation.

“Too bad we don’t have a few more days to work on this,” Hermes said. “We could go down to Baiae and find out who gave him the estate. It’d be a good excuse for a trip to Baiae, anyway.”

“We shouldn’t have to go that far.”

“Oh? You have a plan?”

“Always. I think we should go call on Caius Claudius Marcellus, brother of our consul and most likely consul for next year.”

The city was beginning to get noisy. The soldiers were pouring in through the gates, flooding the taverns, and beginning to spread their money around. The day had turned into an impromptu holiday. Nobody seemed concerned that I was still running around loose.

The house of the Claudia Marcelli was well up on the Palatine. It was actually a veritable compound, holding the houses of a number of prominent members of that family. By asking, I found the proper door and announced myself. I was conducted into the atrium of a house that was fine but not pretentiously so, with a display of death masks that seemed to go back to the Tarquins. Romans who could boast such ancestry felt little need for greater display. The wealth of a Crassus could not buy lineage like that.

After a short wait, a lady came into the atrium to greet me.

“Welcome, Senator Metellus. I fear that my husband cannot be here to give you a proper greeting.” She appeared to be in her early twenties and was therefore far younger than her husband. Nothing unusual about that. Patrician girls were often married off at fifteen or sixteen to politicians in their fifties. She was beautiful in a rather severe way, with hard-planed, regular features. Her clothing was of fine make but proper and old-fashioned. She was as far from Fulvia as she could be and still be Roman.

“What could be more proper than a greeting from the distinguished Lady Octavia?”

“You are diplomatic, but then that is the reputation of your family. My husband is out with the rest of the Senate inspecting my great-uncle’s horde.”

Her use of the word was not lost on me. “You don’t approve of Caesar’s sending his soldiers here? They are citizens, after all.”

“When I married Caius Claudius I cut my ties with the Julian family. Like my husband and his brother, I perceive Caesar as a potential tyrant.”

“But I understand he contemplates adopting your brother.”

“I barely know my brother. I haven’t seen him since he was an infant.” She shook her head. “Forgive me. I forget my manners. Please come in, Senator.”

Hermes remained in the atrium. It was just a few paces to the peristyle, where the statues surrounding the pool ran to figures like Camillus, Cincinnatus, and various ancestral Claudians. Not quite as lively as Fulvia’s decor. We sat and a slave brought the obligatory watered wine and small loaves. I took enough to satisfy etiquette and determine that the wine was excellent, even though I couldn’t identify it.

“Is it possible that I may help you?” she asked.

“Possibly. I am investigating the death of a man named Marcus Fulvius. You may have heard that he was accusing me of corruption, and that I am a suspect in his murder.”

She shook her head. “I don’t follow City gossip.”

“Admirable. I’ve learned that he was living in a house owned by your husband, a property near the Temple of Tellus. Might you know anything about the man?”

“Like most men of quality, my husband owns a great deal of property both urban and rural. I suppose he must have a hundred residential properties within the old walls alone, and a great deal more outside and across the river. I know very little about them, and I doubt he does. His stewards manage all that for him. State business takes up all his time and energy.”

“Service to the Senate and People is a demanding calling. Among his holdings, does he by chance number any estates in Baiae?”

“Why do you ask?” The question was blunt, and her look was direct.

“This man Fulvius was from Baiae, recently arrived in Rome. I wondered if he might be a family client of your husband.”

“I know of no family named Fulvius among my husband’s clientela. I believe the Fulvias are in some way connected to the Claudia Pulchri, but not to the Claudia Marcella.”

“I see. Do you know if your husband has dealings with the Tribune of the People, Marcus Manilius?”

“I don’t know the man, but my husband stands firmly with the optimates and I can hardly imagine him having anything to do with a tribune. Those jumped-up peasants have brought the Republic to the brink of ruin. Sulla should have abolished the office when he had the power to.”

“I see I’ve troubled you needlessly,” I said, rising.

“I am truly sorry I couldn’t help you, Senator. I do hope you don’t think me rude.” Her smile was like the smile carved on a statue.

“Not at all. I’ll just see if I can locate your husband, our future consul. If I miss him, please extend my regards when he returns home.”

“I’ll be sure to do so.”

I collected Hermes and we left the house.

“Did you catch all that?” I asked him.

“Every word. I didn’t think they made Roman matrons like that anymore.”

“They don’t. I’m sure almost everything she said was a lie.”

“That’s a relief. A Roman woman who doesn’t follow City gossip-it’s like saying the sun comes up in the west.”

We found a tavern at the base of the Palatine where the soldiers were celebrating among admiring citizenry and took seats outside. The immense bulk of the Circus Maximus reared its arches skyward just a few paces away. An overworked girl brought us a pitcher and cups. It wasn’t like the wine served in a great house, but it was adequate.

“What have I taught you about criminal investigations, Hermes?”

“Everyone lies.”

“Exactly. What must the investigator do?”

“Sort through the lies to find the truth?”

“That’s only part of it. One of the biggest mistakes you can make is to assume that everyone is lying for the same reason. Sometimes they’re covering themselves; sometimes they’re covering for other people. But sometimes they’re hiding something you aren’t even looking for. The fact is just about everyone is guilty of something, and when someone like me comes snooping around they reflexively assume that they’re the target and try to hide their guilt.”

“It gets confusing.”

“Nothing that can’t be solved by a first-class mind and a little inspiration,” I assured him. I took another sip of inspiration and pondered for a while. This called for another sip. It really was inferior wine, not nearly as fine as the unknown vintage Octavia had served-

Abruptly, a god (or my special muse) visited me. In moments like this I have a special radiant, or perhaps stunned look. After awhile I noticed that fingers were waving in front of my face.

“Decius,” Hermes was asking, “are you still there?”

“Let’s order some food,” I said. “I’m going to need a little fortification.”

Mystified, he fetched flat bread, sausage, and preserved onions from the food counter and brought it to the table. I wasn’t really hungry, but I put it away like a starving legionary.

“What’s this all about?” Hermes wanted to know.

“We’re going to visit the Brotherhood of Bacchus.”

He blinked. “The wine merchants?”

“Exactly.”

“You intend to get drunk and stay that way until this is all over?”

“A splendid idea, now that you suggest it, but not my intention.” I was absurdly pleased with myself.

Hermes shrugged, knowing what I was like in this mood. “Whatever you say.”

We left the tavern, rounded the northern end of the Circus, and turned left along the river. This district was devoted to the river trade, a great sprawl of wharves and warehouses with few temples or public buildings. Among the latter was the huge porticus of the Aemilian family, where a great deal of the river trade was conducted informally.

The warehouse of the Brotherhood of Bacchus stood between the porticus and the river. In the little square between the buildings stood one of my favorite statues in all of Rome. It depicted, about twice life-size, the god Bacchus. He stood in the conventional pose of a Greek god, but this was the Italian Bacchus, not the Greek Dionysus. He was portrayed as a handsome young man, but his features were slightly puffy and pouch eyed, his fine, athlete’s body a little potbellied, his smile a bit silly. He looked like Apollo gone to seed. In one hand he held aloft a huge cluster of grapes. In the other, a wine cup. The cup was tilted and the sculptor, with marvelous skill, had depicted a tiny bit of wine slopping over the rim. His pose was a trifle off-balance, his garland of vine leaves just the tiniest bit askew.

“There stands a real Roman god,” I said to Hermes. “None of that stuffy, Olympian solemnity about him.”

We passed the god and went inside. The interior was cavernous, with massive, wooden racks stretching off in all directions, holding thousands of clay amphorae from every district of the world where grapes grow. The racks were labeled by district and year. Everywhere, slaves in pairs, stripped to loincloths, carried amphorae here and there, bringing them from the boats tied up to the wharf outside or from the racks to wagons waiting in the street out front. Each pair carried a pole on their brawny shoulders, the amphora suspended from the pole by ropes passed through the thick handles molded to each side of its neck. The slaves accomplished this seemingly awkward task with wonderful celerity and skill.

A fat man wearing a toga spotted my senator’s stripe and hustled over. “Welcome, Senator. What may the Brotherhood of Bacchus do for you? I am Manius Maelius, steward of the Brotherhood, at your service.”

“I’m of a mind to buy some wine for my household. Of course, my steward will be along later to make the purchase, but I want to try the vintage first.”

“Of course, of course. What is your pleasure? Here we have wine from Iberia, from Greece and all the islands: Cyprus, Rhodes, Cos, Lesbos-some fine Lesbian just arrived today, Senator-Delian, Cretan, the list goes on. We have Asian, Syrian, Judean, wine from Egypt, from Numidia and Libya and Mauretania, from Cisalpina-”

“My taste runs a bit closer to home,” I said, interrupting his circumnavigation of the Middle Sea.

“We have wine from every district of Italy,” he assured me. “From Verona, Ravenna, from Luca and Pisae-”

I could see he was starting with the north, so I stopped him again. “Something more southerly, I think.”

“Good choice. We bought almost the entire production of Sicily, we have Tarentine and some interesting new products of Venusia-”

“I prefer vineyards north of that area.”

He beamed. “Of course, you desire Campanian. The very heart of Italian wine country. Naturally, we have wine from Mount Massicus, especially the always-reliable Falernian, grown on its southern slope. We have wine from Terracina and Formiae, and some rather good Capuan, although its yield has been rather inferior these last years due to excessive rainfall.”

Hermes had finally caught on. “The senator has a weakness for the vineyards around the Bay of Neapolis.”

The fat man clapped his hands in approval. “Ah, the incomparable slopes of Vesuvius! There is nothing to compare with volcanic soil, a steep slope, and perfect sunshine. Vesuvius is even better than Aetna. We have Stabian, Pompeiian-”

“I think,” Hermes said, “if you have some really good product from near, say, Baiae, that you’ll make a sale.”

“I see that the senator is a real connoisseur. Not many people understand the qualities of Baiaean. Small vineyards, very low yield, so little is exported. Only wealthy vacationers ever try them, and they keep the news to themselves because they don’t want a rush to start, driving the price up, as happened with Caecuban a few years ago. It just so happens that we have a few amphorae from a select group of the very best vineyards.”

I clapped him on the shoulder. “Lead on, Manius Maelius!”

We took a long walk down the rows of jugs, the skylights admitting the afternoon sun in bars of light divided into small lozenges, the result of the bronze fretwork that protected the warehouse from intruding pigeons.

We ended up in a shed built onto the southern end of the warehouse. It contained no more than a few hundred amphorae, all of them with the characteristic color of Campanian pottery. The racks were labeled by town, the amphorae by vineyard. A single rack bore the name of Baiae.

“We cannot, of course, unseal these amphorae for tasting,” Maelius said. “But, since the finest vintages are bought only by persons of quality, we have an arrangement with each vineyard to supply a small quantity of each vintage for tasting purposes.” He gestured to a table along one wall. It resembled the serving counter in a wineshop, with jugs resting in holes cut in the table, a dipper and a stack of tiny cups beside each jug.

The steward began at one end of the table. “Now this is from a vineyard owned by ex-consul Cicero himself.” He dipped out a cupful and handed it to me ceremoniously.

I sipped. Immediately I knew I was right. It was very similar to the wine Octavia had served. Soil and sunlight will always tell. I reflected that Cicero had never served this vintage when I’d visited him. Keeping it to himself, was he? This confirmation alone would have made the trip a success, but I decided to press my advantage. When the gods have shown you exceptional favor, it makes sense to determine just how much they love you.

“Excellent,” I told him, “but not quite what I’m looking for.”

I tried one from the Puteoli district, then several others, each time closing in on the bay itself.

“This is an especially fine one, Senator.”

He handed me the cup and I tasted. Perfect. It was the very vintage I had tasted earlier that day. My palate is infallible in these matters.

He caught my smile but misinterpreted it. “Ah, I see that this is exactly what you are searching for. Excellent choice, Senator. This wine is from the Baiaean vineyards owned by the great family of Claudius Marcellus.”

“The consul?”

He squinted at the label on the jug. “No, this estate is owned by his cousin, Caius Claudius. He is the one standing for next year’s consulship.” He looked at the rack that held the big amphorae. “You are just in time, Senator.”

“How is that?”

“In previous years we’ve usually managed to get six or seven amphorae from that small estate. This year we got only three and there is one left. Shall I have it set aside for you?”

“Please do so. I’ll send my steward to pick it up tomorrow or the next day.” We left him beaming.

“Do you really intend to buy it?” Hermes said, as we left. “Julia will have your hide off for buying such expensive wine.”

“That’s why you are going to pick it up and take it to the country house. It really is excellent wine. Do you know why they only got three amphorae this year?” As we passed Bacchus I kissed my fingertips and touched them to his toes. He must have been the god who sent my inspiration.

Hermes thought a moment. “Because, last year, a part of the estate went to Manilius.”

“Exactly.”

“But was Manilius being bribed for a specific favor or was it just for his cooperation during his year as tribune?”

“An excellent question. You really are learning how to do this, Hermes. Next year, when I’m praetor, you’ll make me a first-class investigator.”

“If you’re praetor next year. If you’re alive next year, for that matter.”

“Such are the vagaries of politics. But the gods are on my side, and maybe they’ll continue to favor me.” By this time we were past the Porticus Aemilia and turned rightward along the old Servian Wall toward the Ostian Gate.

“What do we know about the Claudia Marcella?” I asked as we passed beneath the portal.

“Not much,” Hermes answered. “I’ve got a feeling we’d have heard a lot about them if we’d spent more time in Rome these last few years.”

“That is what I think. We need someone who specializes in gossip, the more scurillous the better. Not a respectable type, mind you. We can’t use anyone whose party affiliation compels him to exalt his own side while defaming the others. We need someone who is shameless about vilifying anyone at all. We need-”

“We need Sallustius.”

“Exactly. I loathe the man, but I loathe him for precisely the same qualities I am in need of now. Run on ahead to the Forum, look into the baths. He’ll be wherever the news is to be had, maybe out on the Campus Martius where the legionaries are pitching their tents.”

“That’s a lot of territory to cover,” he complained.

“Sallustius won’t be hard to spot. When you’ve located him, come back and find me and lead me to him. I’ll be making a more dignified progress toward the Forum. I’ll wait for you at the Rostra.”

He dashed off and I ambled my way up the old street past the Temple of Flora and around the northern end of the Circus, stopping to chat with citizens as I went. It was still election time after all. Nobody seemed to be disturbed by my suspect status. So far, so good.

The day was getting on, but there was still plenty of daylight left. My head buzzed pleasantly from the recent wine tasting. I always take satisfaction in mixing business with pleasure.

By the time I reached the Rostra, Hermes was standing there, and Sallustius was with him. I put on my biggest, most sincere false smile and took his oily hand and clapped his hairy shoulder.

“Caius Sallustius,” I shouted, “you are just the man I wanted to see!”

“So I presumed, since you sent your man to fetch me.” He tried for a sardonic smile, but on his face it was merely ugly. “I take it that this has something to do with your current difficulty?”

I gave him a surprised look. “You mean that silly business with the late Fulvius? Not at all! I simply wished to call upon your matchless-ah, scholarship concerning the political personages of our Republic.”

“I see,” he said, not buying a bit of it. “And just what would you know?”

“Well, since I’m to be one of next year’s praetors-”

“Assuming you aren’t in exile,” he interrupted.

“I wish people would stop saying that. This murder charge is false. Less than nothing.”

“Indeed.” He put a wealth of disbelief into the word.

“Anyway, it is almost certain that one of next year’s consuls will be Caius Claudius Marcellus. It occurs to me that I know very little about the man whom I shall have to work with for the next year. I don’t know much about the family, for that matter. They’ve always been around, but they’ve become uncommonly prominent of late.”

“That,” he said, “is because they’ve made themselves spokesmen for the anti-Caesarian bloc in the Senate.”

“I’ve deduced that much. How did this come about?”

“For one thing, you Metelli abandoned leadership of the anti-tyrannical party.”

I winced. That arrow had been straight at the mark. My family’s hedging and trimming, once the sign of statesmanlike willingness to compromise, was beginning to look like timidity and weakness.

“So the Claudii have thrust their family forward as champions of good old Republican liberty, eh? They seem to have a lot of people convinced.”

“And they’re willing to go to extremes to prove it.”

We had begun strolling toward the Basilica Aemilia, where the work of restoration went noisily on despite the general holiday atmosphere. Soldiers swarmed everywhere, strutting about to great admiration.

“What sort of extremes?” I asked him.

“Did you hear about the man from Novum Comum?”

The name sounded familiar. “Isn’t that one of the colonies Caesar founded in Gaul?”

“It is. Anyway, a few months ago Marcellus-our current consul Marcellus, that is-tried to bring up the prospect of a successor to Caesar in Gaul. This, of course, was opposed, not only by Caesar’s faction in the Senate, but by the other consul and by Pompey. One senator who spoke up was from Novum Comum. Marcellus went into an immoderate fury, had his lictors drag the man from the chamber, strip him of his insignia, and scourge him publicly with the rods of their fasces.”

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.