“Believe me,” I said, “I am not polluted with the blood of Fulvia’s brother. I didn’t even step in it. I came to ask about him, since I may have to defend myself in court.”
“I’m sure Decius didn’t do it,” Fulvia said. “His reputation is that of a forthright brawler, not a murderer.”
“I’ve heard that manly combat is the technique of heedless youth, careful assassination that of maturity. But I am certain that you are right, my dear. The fact that you entertain Decius in your house proclaims his innocence.”
“If you believe it,” I said, “why not bring it up at the contio this afternoon?”
“I shall do so,” he said, smiling.
“Oh, don’t,” Fulvia said wearily. “Everyone will just take it as further proof that I’m the most disreputable woman in Rome.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “I’ve already undertaken to rehabilitate your reputation. I’ll lay all your indiscretions at the feet of Clodius and his sisters. You were their helpless, unfortunate victim.”
I arched an eyebrow toward Fulvia. She just shrugged. He turned to me.
“Have you any idea why Fulvius chose to attack you? Other than the usual political motives, I mean?”
“None at all. I’d never heard of the man before yesterday. Of course, the City is always full of politically ambitious men, and never more so than at this time of year. Why he should pick me out of all the others he could choose from I can’t guess. Give any well-informed Roman a chance to name the most distinguished men of the Republic, and he’ll be reeling off names for an hour before he thinks of me.”
“You are too modest,” Fulvia assured me. “Even if you aren’t famous for conquering barbarians, you’ve always been popular here in the City, both as a public prosecutor and as an administrator. Not as incorruptible as Cato, I understand, but you’re believed to be relatively honest; and everyone enjoyed the games you celebrated.”
“No one is as incorruptible as Cato, as he’ll tell you himself. And if my games were a hit, it’s because I enjoy them myself.”
“You see?” Curio said. “The people like you because they know you share their tastes. I’m surprised you never sought the tribuneship yourself.”
“My family discussed the possibility a few years ago,” I told him, “but I was in Gaul during the desired year. I was probably safer there. In Gaul you can recognize your enemies from a distance.”
“The tribuneship is not to everyone’s taste,” Curio said.
“Speaking of that office,” I said, “do you know Manilius, the one who’s called the contio to discuss the murder?” I was curious to hear what Curio had to say about the man.
“A good man. I’ve been assisting him all year, sort of an apprenticeship prior to taking on the job myself.” This was not an uncommon practice. Officials always needed helper, and these were often men in training for the same office. Except for a few public slaves, such as those at the Archive and the Treasury, the Republic supplied no staff to assist the elected officials in their work. Instead, they were expected to supply their own, at their own expense.
“He has only a few days left in office,” I said. “I wonder that he wants to take on what could turn into a major case so late.”
“His last major act in office is what will stick in peoples’ minds at the next elections.”
“Where do his ambitions lie?” I asked. “The legions? The courts? Provincial administration?” In earlier times a Roman in public life was expected to be adept at everything. He was supposed to be a soldier, a speaker, a lawyer, a farmer, and many other things. But the Republic had grown huge and complex since the days of our forefathers. It had turned into an Empire, and its public business was too complicated for one man to master it all. The tendency was for men to specialize, so that now we had prominent men who were lawyers undistinguished in war, like Cicero and Hortalus, full-time soldiers like Pompey, and businessmen like Crassus. Caesar was something of a throwback: a man who seemed able to do everything well.
“Manilius acts as if his only ambition is to serve in whatever capacity the Roman people see fit to bestow upon him,” Curio said. “This may be sincere or a pose; I don’t know him well enough to say. Like most of us he started out as a Tribune of the Soldiers. He was with Gabinius in Syria and Egypt. He seems to have served honorably, but I never heard that he earned great distinction. I get the impression that Gabinius didn’t entrust him with as much responsibility as he thought he deserved.”
“He was lucky it wasn’t Caesar,” I said. “Caesar treats his tribunes like none-too-bright schoolboys—tells them to keep their mouths shut and watch the real soldiers at work. A tribune can be with Caesar for a year without being given so much as a squadron of cavalry to command.”
“Is that because he thinks they’re incompetent or because most of them are sons of his political enemies?”
This was a very astute question. Whatever his debts and disreputable history, there was nothing wrong with Curio’s political instincts.
“Both, I believe. Everyone knows the contempt in which Caesar holds the Senate. He also makes it a policy to exalt the centurionate and the common soldiers. This reinforces his influence with the populares. Of course,” I added, “everyone who’s ever soldiered knows what an embarrassment an eighteen-year-old tribune can be. They rarely perform as well as young Cassius did in Syria this year.”
“That boy could become a power in Rome when he returns,” Curio noted. “The Senate may be stingy with the honors it owes him, but he’s sure to be a darling of the plebs for that very reason.”
“I doubt it,” Fulvia said. “I know Cassius. He’s a handsome young man, very bright, but as upright and old-fashioned as Cato. He’ll side with the aristocrats even while they kick him in the face.” There was nothing wrong with Fulvia’s evaluation of men either. Cassius did exactly as she predicted.
Our conversation may seem frank and unguarded for two men who did not know each other, but there was nothing truly unguarded about what we said. We both expected to hold office in the following year. We would have to work with one another, so it made sense to feel one another out while we had this opportunity.
“In recent years,” Curio said, “you’ve been known to break with your family’s optimate stance. Do you intend to switch to the populares?”
“I have no faction,” I intoned gravely. “I always vote for the good of Rome.” This mealy mouthed protestation raised a good laugh. It was what every last politician in Rome always claimed. You never belonged to a faction. Your opponents belonged to factions. Truthfully, I detested the faction politics of the times, but you had to choose one sooner or later. “My family tolerates a little leeway,” I went on, more seriously. “After all, we’ve been anti-Pompeians in the past, but Nepos has never been shut out of family councils even though he’s been Pompey’s lifelong friend and supporter. If I sometimes lean toward the popular cause, it’s always on an issue my family can live with. I suspect that, should it come to a clear break between the factions, I’ll side with my family as always.”
“That would be a pity,” Curio said. “Because the Metelli are sure to stick with the aristocratic side, and the day of the aristocrats is past. Power now lies with the plebs. Clodius knew it, I know it, Caesar most surely knows it.”
“And yet I understand that, until very recently, you stood solidly with the optimates.”
“For a long time I held a young man’s belief in the wisdom of his elders. But we must all grow up sooner or later. Recently, I had a very illuminating talk with Caesar, and I knew it was time to change sides.”
“Caesar covered your debts, too, I hear.”
“There’s no disgrace in that,” he said, quite unembarrassed. “Pompey offered to do as much. The disgrace is in accepting a man’s patronage and then betraying him. Admit it, Decius Caecilius: Wouldn’t it be better for a man like Caesar to manage Rome and Rome’s Empire for the good of all citizens, than for a few dozen dwindling old families t
o run it all for their own benefit, as if Rome were still a little city-state controlled by a few rich farmers?”
“You’re not haranguing the consilium plebis,” I told him. “There is something in what you say, but there’s also great danger. The optimales often behave foolishly and selfishly, but so do the populares. Any degree of mismanagement is better than civil war, which is what we’ll have if it comes to a contest between the two. We’ve had too much of that already.”
“So we have,” he said reasonably. “Well, let’s hope it never comes to that.”
We drank to that fond wish, and I rose. “You two have funerary arrangements to attend to so I’ll trouble you no longer.”
“Let me know how your investigation goes,” Curio said. “I’ll speak up in the contio against your being charged with the murder.”
“I thank you for that. I suspect you’ll be hearing all about my findings. Fulvia, I thank you for your hospitality at such a difficult time.”
“Echo,” she called, “the senator is leaving. Decius Caecilius, please call again when you can spend more time.”
The shapely Greek saw me to the door, and I found Hermes standing outside. His eyes popped when he saw the housekeeper, and she smiled at him as she closed the door.
“Don’t go looking for likely prospects in that house,” I warned him.
He sighed. “They say the best-looking women in Rome live in that house.”
“I wouldn’t bet against it.”
“Did you get anything accomplished?” he asked me.
“I’ve just been talking politics.”
“With Fulvia?”
We began to walk toward the Temple of Tellus, and Hermes wouldn’t tell me what he’d found out until he heard all about my visit.
“Why is this man Curio being so helpful?” Hermes wanted to know.
“He knows I’m in Caesar’s good graces and married to his niece. He’s Caesar’s man now, and he thinks that by siding with me in this odd case he’ll be driving me further into Caesar’s camp, which is the last place I want to be.”
It was not a long walk down the slope of the Palatine, across the Via Sacra, and up the slope of the Oppian Hill toward the temple. The Carinae district had some fine houses in it, and we stopped before one of the more modest of them. It was part of a three-story block, and looming above it could be seen the bronze roof of the temple.
Such buildings were the typical dwellings of Rome’s more prosperous inhabitants, those not wealthy enough to own their own homes but able to afford the rent on the better class of apartments.
The poor lived in towering, rickety insulae and endured a precarious, dangerous existence without amenities.
“Who owns it?” I asked.
“Claudius Marcellus.”
“The consul?”
“No, the one standing for next year’s consulship: Caius Claudius, not Marcus Claudius.”
“I never have any luck with that family,” I complained. “There are entirely too many of them around lately.”
“The building is divided into four large apartments, each having three floors. It doesn’t have separate, upper-floor apartments rented out to poor families. The ground floor has water piped in. There’s a central pool shared by all.” A fairly typical arrangement for such a dwelling.
“Prosperous merchants live in houses like this,” I said. “How did a penniless political adventurer like Fulvius afford it?”
“That’s your specialty,” Hermes said. “I just found out what I could about the place.”
“Who was your informant?”
He pointed to a barber who had his stool placed on a corner across from the house. The man was shaving a customer while another stood by waiting his turn. Barbers are among the best informants an investigator can have. They often occupy the same spot for many years, they shave most of the men in the neighborhood, they see everything that happens on the street, and they collect all the gossip.
I didn’t know a great deal about this particular Claudius Marcellus. He was only a distant relation of Clodius and his sisters, the Claudia Marcella having split off from the Claudia Pulchri back somewhere in the dim mists of antiquity. He was known in the Senate as one of the more virulent anti-Caesarians.
“Let’s have a look at the place,” I said.
We crossed the street and Hermes rapped on the door. Nobody answered. He gave it a push and it opened easily. He looked at me inquiringly, and I gestured for him to go in. I followed. Hermes vented a shrill whistle. Still no reply.
“Looks like nobody’s home,” he observed.
“That’s odd. In the Forum he seemed to be well-supplied with friends. Why aren’t any here, protecting his property? And where are his slaves?” Granted the man was poor, but he would have to be destitute indeed not to have at least a janitor to man the front door and a housekeeper. A bachelor can get along without a cook, relying on street vendors, taverns, and cadging meals. A valet is not absolutely necessary, although a would-be senator cuts a poor figure carrying his own books and papers, and hauling his own towel, oil flask, and scraper to the baths. Three to five household slaves were generally considered the absolute minimum for respectability. I got along for years with only two or three, but I also fell short of most other standards of respectability.
“Maybe he borrowed slaves as he needed them,” Hermes said, following my own line of thought. He had been with me so long we thought alike in these matters.
“Probably from the same man who must have let him have this place rent free,” I said. “Let’s look around.”
The place was not palatial, but it was better than the house I lived in when I began my political career. In truth Rome had few truly splendid houses in those days. Even the very wealthy men like Hortalus and Lucullus spent lavishly on their country villas but maintained fairly modest establishments in the City. Voters took it ill when a senator chose to live like a prince. In the City the rule was to spend freely on public works and stingily on yourself. Lucullus had made himself unpopular by building himself a pretentious mansion in the City after his Asian victories. He quickly demolished it and turned the grounds into a public garden, thus restoring his popularity with the plebs.
The triclinium was spacious, with excellent furnishings, as if Fulvius had expected to do a fair amount of entertaining there. The wall-paintings were fine and new, the subject matter patriotic rather than the more fashionable mythological themes. One wall featured the Oath of the Horatii, another the colorful story of Mucius Scaevola, a third was Cincinnatus at his plow. The fourth wall was pierced by the door so its decoration was floral.
“Odd decoration for a dining room,” Hermes observed. “Where are the feasting gods and goddesses and the satyrs chasing nymphs?”
“Perhaps Fulvius wanted to encourage serious dinner-table discussion,” I hazarded. “Nymphs and satyrs are frivolous. Just ask Cato.” Cato’s prudery was the butt of jokes wherever Romans met.
“If he has old patriots decorating his bedroom we’ll know there was something strange about the man,” Hermes observed.
“Actually I’m more interested in his papers than in his taste in interior decorating. Let’s see what he used for a study.”
Not every house had a study. Some men just kept their papers in a chest and did all their reading and writing in the peristyle or a garden. It was commonly thought that reading by any light other than direct sunlight would ruin your eyes. Some sought to further preserve their eyesight by having trained slaves read to them. Some kept secretaries to take dictation and never personally set hand to pen.
Fulvius, as it occurred, had used his bedroom for this purpose. One side of it opened onto a small balcony overlooking the street. This was a common arrangement in multistory houses such as this one. The ground floor contained the atrium, kitchen, and dining room, and opened onto the central garden. It was the public part of the house. The second floor held the family’s sleeping quarters, and the third floor was for storage and slaves�
� quarters. The balcony was another feature common to such houses. It offered a quick escape in case of a fire. All Romans went in dread of fire, and those who lived in the towering insulae were the most fearful of all.
The door to the balcony was flanked by a pair of large, latticed windows and beneath one of these was his desk. It was a very fine one, Egyptian work of ebony inlaid with ivory. Next to it was a wooden honeycomb that held scrolls, rolled papers, and wax tablets. A silver-mounted horn tube held reed pens, and a fine crystal stand held different colors of ink in little pots shaped like lotus flowers.
Lying on the desk, half unrolled as if put down in the midst of reading, was a book whose excellent parchment was supple and slightly ragged at the edges, a clear sign that this was a favorite work, often read. It appeared to be a speech or collection of speeches arguing points of law. Such books were the inevitable texts for training aspiring lawyers.
Folded on a cupboard next to the desk lay his wardrobe. Among the tunics, most bore the narrow purple stripe of an eques, but two had the broad stripe to which a senator was entitled. There were two togas. One was white, doubtless the one he’d worn when berating me in the Forum the previous day. The other was the toga praetexta, with the broad purple border of curule office.
“He came prepared,” I remarked. “And he certainly had confidence. He expected admission to the Senate and a curule chair. Like that Greek athlete who showed up at Olympia with his statue already made. At least he didn’t lay in a supply of tnumphator’s robes. I suppose even his presumption had limits.”
“Look at this,” Hermes said. Accomplished thief that he was, he’d found a small drawer cleverly hidden among the decorative carvings of the desk. It held a signet ring; a massive thing of solid gold, its surface oddly but attractively granulated. Its large stone was pure sapphire with a Medusa head carved intaglio. It looked to me like Greek work. I examined it briefly and tossed it back to him.
“The man was full of surprises, wasn’t he? Can his correspondence be less interesting?” I began to pull papers out and spread them on the desk. “Well, I might have expected it,” I said disgustedly.
SPQR X: A Point of Law Page 7
