Unsure how many of these countryfolk understood how amazing it was that Rome’s senior consul had been a knight at the time he was elected (and did not become a senator until he, was inaugurated on New Year’s Day), Pompey had resolved to use the parade of the Public Horse to reinforce this fact. Thus had his tame censors Clodianus and Gellius revived the transvectio, as the parade was called, though it had not been held after the time of Gaius Gracchus. Until the consulship of Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, who wanted to make a public splash with his Public Horse.
It began at dawn on the Ides of Quinctilis in the Circus Flaminius on the Campus Martius, where the eighteen hundred holders of the Public Horse offered to Mars Invictus—Undefeated Mars—whose temple lay within the Circus. The offering made, the knights mounted their Public Horses and rode in solemn procession, century by century, through the gate in the vegetable markets, along the Velabrum into the Vicus Iugarius, and thence into the lower Forum Romanum. They turned to ride up the Forum to where, on a specially erected tribunal in front of the temple of Castor and Pollux, the censors sat to review them. Each man when he drew close to the tribunal was expected to dismount and lead his Public Horse up to the censors, who minutely inspected it and him. Did it or he not measure up to the ancient equestrian standards, then the censors were at liberty to strip the knight of his Public Horse and expel him from the eighteen original Centuries. It had been known to happen in the past; Cato the Censor had been famous for the stringency of his inspections.
So novel was the transvectio that most of Rome tried to jam into the Forum Romanum to watch it, though many had to content themselves with seeing the parade pass by between the Circus Flaminius and the Forum. Every vantage point was solid with people—roofs, plinths, porticoes, steps, hills, cliffs, trees. Vendors of food, fans, sunshades and drinks scrambled through the masses in the most precarious way crying their wares, banging people on the head with the corners of their neck—slung open boxes, giving back as much abuse as they collected, each one with a slave in attendance to replenish the box or keep some sticky—fingered member of the crowd from pilfering the goods or the proceeds. Toddlers were held out to piss on those below them, babies howled, children dived this way and that through the masses, gravy dribbled down tunics in a nice contrast to custard cascades, fights broke out, the susceptible fainted or vomited, and everybody ate nonstop. A typical Roman holiday.
The knights rode in eighteen Centuries, each one preceded by its ancient emblem—wolf, bear, mouse, bird, lion, and so on. Because of the narrowness of some parts of the route they could ride no more than four abreast, which meant that each Century held twenty-five rows, and the whole procession stretched for nearly a mile. Each man was clad in his armor, some suits of incredible antiquity and therefore bizarre appearance; others (like Pompey’s, whose family had nudged into the eighteen original Centuries and did not own ancient armor they would have cared to try to pass off as Etruscan or Latin) magnificent with gold and silver. But nothing rivaled the Public Horses, each a splendid example of horseflesh from the rosea rura, and mostly white or dappled grey. They were bedizened with every medallion and trinket imaginable, with ornate saddles and bridles of dyed leather, fabulous blankets, brilliant colors. Some horses had been trained to pick up their feet in high—stepping prances, others had manes and tails braided with silver and gold.
It was beautifully staged, and all to show off Pompey. To have examined every man who rode, no matter how rapid the censors were, was manifestly impossible; the parade would have taken thirty summer hours to ride past the tribunal. But Pompey’s Century had been placed as one of the first, so that the censors solemnly went through the ritual of asking each of some three hundred men in turn what his name was, his tribe, his father’s name, and whether he had served in his ten campaigns or for six years, after which his financial standing (previously established) was approved, and he led his horse off to obscurity.
When the fourth Century’s first row dismounted, Pompey was in its forefront; a hush fell over the Forum specially induced by Pompey’s agents in the crowd. His golden armor flashing in the sun, the purple of his consular degree floating from his shoulders mixed with the scarlet of his general’s degree, he led his big white horse forward trapped in scarlet leather and golden phalerae, his own person liberally bedewed with knight’s brasses and medallions, and the scarlet plumes in his Attic helmet a twinkling mass of dyed egret’s feathers.
“Name?” asked Clodianus, who was the senior censor.
“Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus!” hollered Pompey.
“Tribe?”
“Clustumina!”
“Father?”
“Gnaeus Pompeius Strabo, consul!”
“Have you served in your ten campaigns or for six years?”
“Yes!” screamed Pompey at the top of his voice. “Two in the Italian War, one defending the city at the Siege of Rome, two with Lucius Cornelius Sulla in Italy, one in Sicily, one in Africa, one in Numidia, one defending Rome from Lepidus and Brutus, six in Spain, and one cleaning up the Spartacani! They are sixteen campaigns, and every one of them beyond cadet status took place under my own generalship!”
The crowd went berserk, shouting, cheering, applauding, feet drumming, arms flailing; wave after wave of acclamation smote the stunned ears of the censors and the rest of the parade, setting horses plunging and some riders on the cobbles.
When the noise finally died down—it took some time to do so, because Pompey had walked out into the center of the open space in front of Castor’s, his bridle looped over his arm, and turned in slow circles applauding the crowds—the censors rolled up their screeds and sat regally nodding while the sixteen Centuries behind Pompey’s rode past at a trot.
“A splendid show!” snarled Crassus, whose Public Horse was the property of his elder boy, Publius, now twenty. He and Caesar had watched from the loggia of Crassus’s house, this having originally belonged to Marcus Livius Drusus, and owning a superb view of the lower Forum. “What a farce!”
“But brilliantly staged, Crassus, brilliantly staged! You must hand Pompeius top marks for inventiveness and crowd appeal. His games should be even better.”
“Sixteen campaigns! And all beyond his cadetship he claims he generaled himself! Oh yes, for about a market interval after his daddy died at the Siege of Rome and during which he did nothing except ready his daddy’s army to march back to Picenum—and Sulla generaled him in Italy, so did Metellus Pius—and Catulus was the general against Lepidus and Brutus—and what do you think about that last claim, that he ‘cleaned up the Spartacani’? Ye gods, Caesar, if we interpreted our own careers as loosely as he’s interpreted his, we’re all generals!”
“Console yourself with the fact that Catulus and Metellus Pius are probably saying much the same thing,” said Caesar, who hurt too. “The man’s a parvenu from an Italian backwater. ’’
“I hope my ploy with the free grain works!”
“It will, Marcus Crassus, I promise you it will.”
*
Pompey went home to his house on the Carinae exultant, but the mood didn’t last. On the following morning Crassus’s heralds began proclaiming the news that on the feast of Hercules Invictus, Marcus Licinius Crassus the consul would dedicate a tenth of everything he owned to the god, that there would be a public feast laid out on ten thousand tables, and that the bulk of the donation would be used up in giving every Roman citizen in Rome five free modii of wheat during September, October and November.
“How dared he!” gasped Pompey to Philippus, who had come to compliment him upon his performance at the transvectio—and to see how the Great Man would swallow Crassus’s ploy.
“It’s very clever,” said Philippus in an apologetic voice, “especially because Romans are so quick at reckoning up how much anything costs. Games are too abstruse, but food is common knowledge. They know the price of everything from a licker—fish to a salt sprat. Even when they can’t afford the salt sprat, they’ll ask its cost in the market.
Human curiosity. They’ll all know how much Crassus paid for his wheat too, not to mention how many modii he’s had to buy. We’ll be deafened by clicking abacuses.”
“What you’re trying to say without actually saying it is that they’ll conclude Crassus has spent more on them than I have!” said Pompey, a red glint in his blue eyes.
“I am afraid so.”
“Then I’ll have to set my agents to gossiping about how much games cost.” Pompey glanced at Philippus from under his lids. “How much will Crassus lay out? Any idea?”
“A thousand talents or thereabouts.”
“Crassus? A thousand talents?”
“Easily.”
“He’s too much the miser!”
“Not this year, Magnus. Your generosity and showmanship have evidently stung our big ox into goring with both his horns.”
“What can I do?”
“Very little except turn on absolutely wondrous games.”
“You’re holding something back, Philippus.”
The fat jowls wobbled, the dark eyes flickered. Then he sighed, shrugged. “Oh well, better it comes from me than from one of your enemies. It’s the free grain will win for Crassus.”
“What do you mean? Because he’s filling empty bellies? There are no empty bellies in Rome this year!”
“He’ll distribute five modii of free grain to every Roman citizen in Rome during September, October and November. Count up! That’s two one—pound loaves a day for ninety days. And the vast majority of those ninety days will occur long after your entire—gamut of entertainment is over. Everyone will have forgotten you and what you did. Whereas until the end of November, every Roman mouth taking a bite out of a loaf of bread will make an invocation of thanks to Marcus Licinius Crassus. He can’t lose, Magnus!” said Philippus.
It had been a long time since Pompey had last thrown a tantrum, but the one he threw for the sole edification of Lucius Marcius Philippus was one of his best. The hair came out in hanks, the cheeks and neck were raw with scratches, the body covered in bruises where he had dashed various parts of his anatomy against the floor or the walls. Tears ran like rain, he broke furniture and art into small pieces, his howls threatened to lift the roof. Mucia Tertia, hurrying to see what had happened, took one look and fled again. So did the servants. But Philippus sat in a fascinated appreciation until Varro arrived.
“Oh, Jupiter!” whispered Varro.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” asked Philippus. “He’s a lot quieter now. You ought to have seen him a few moments ago. Awesome!”
“I’ve seen him before,” said Varro, edging around the prone figure on the black—and—white marble tiles to join Philippus on his couch. “It’s the news about Crassus, of course.”
“It is. When have you seen him like this?”
“When he couldn’t fit his elephants through the triumphal gate,” said Varro, voice too low for the supine Pompey to hear; he was never sure how much of a Pompey tantrum was contrived, how much an actual travail which really did blot out conversation and action around him. “Also when Carrinas slipped through his siege at Spoletium. He can’t bear to be thwarted.”
“The ox gored with both horns,” said Philippus pensively.
“The ox,” said Varro tartly, “has three horns these days, and the third is—so feminine rumor has it!—far the biggest.”
“Ah! It has a name, then.”
“Gaius Julius Caesar.”
Pompey sat up immediately, clothing shredded, scalp and face bleeding. “I heard that!” he said, answering Varro’s unspoken debate about his tantrums. “What about Caesar?”
“Only that he masterminded Crassus’s campaign to win huge popularity,” said Varro.
“Who told you?’’ Pompey climbed lithely to his feet and accepted Philippus’s handkerchief.
“Palicanus.”
“He’d know, he was one of Caesar’s tame tribunes,” said Philippus, wincing as Pompey blew his nose productively.
“Caesar’s thick with Crassus, I know,” said Pompey, tones muffled; he emerged from the handkerchief and tossed it to a revolted Philippus. “It was he did all the negotiating last year. And suggested that we restore the tribunate of the plebs.” This was said with an ugly look at Philippus, who had not suggested it.
“I have enormous respect for Caesar’s ability,” said Varro.
“So does Crassus—and so do I.” Pompey still looked ugly. “Well, at least I know where Caesar’s loyalties lie!”
“Caesar’s loyalties lie with Caesar,” said Philippus, “and you should never forget that. But if you’re wise, Magnus, you’ll keep Caesar on a string despite his ties to Crassus. You’ll never not need a Caesar, especially after I’m dead—and that can’t be far off. I’m too fat to see seventy. Lucullus fears Caesar, you know! Now that takes some doing. I can think of only one other man whom Lucullus feared. Sulla. You look at Caesar closely. Sulla!”
“If you say I ought to keep him on a string, Philippus, then I will,” said Pompey magnanimously. “But it will be a long time before I forget that he spoiled my year as consul!”
*
Between the end of Pompey’s victory games (which were a great success, chiefly because Pompey’s tastes in theater and circus were those of a common man) and the beginning of the ludi Romani, the Kalends of September intervened, and on the Kalends of September the Senate always held a meeting. It was always a significant session, and this year’s session followed that tradition; Lucius Aurelius Cotta revealed his findings at it.
“I have acquitted myself of the commission which you laid upon me early in the year, Conscript Fathers,” Lucius Cotta said from the curule dais, “I hope in a manner you will approve. Before I go into details, I will briefly outline what I intend to ask you to recommend into law.”
No scrolls or papers resided in his hands, nor did his urban praetor’s clerk seem to have documents. As the day was exceedingly hot (it still being midsummer by the seasons), the House breathed a faint sigh of relief; he was not going to make it a long—drawn meeting. But then, he was not a long—drawn person; of the three Cottae, Lucius was the youngest and the brightest.
“Candidly, my fellow members of this House,” Lucius Cotta said in his clear, carrying voice, “I was not impressed by the record of either senators or knights in the matter of jury duty. When a jury is composed entirely of senators, it favors those of the senatorial order. And when a jury is composed of knights who own the Public Horse, it favors the equestrian order. Both kinds of jurors are susceptible to bribes, chiefly because, I believe, all a man’s fellow jurors are of his own kind—either senatorial or equestrian.
“What I propose to do,” he said, “is to divide jury duty up more equitably than ever before. Gaius Gracchus took juries off the Senate and gave them to the eighteen Centuries of the First Class who own a Public Horse and a census of at least four hundred thousand sesterces per annum in income. Now it is incontrovertible that with few exceptions every senator comes from a family within the ranks of the eighteen Centuries at the top end of the First Class. What I am saying is that Gaius Gracchus did not go far enough. Therefore I propose to make every jury a three—way forum by having each jury composed of one—third senators, one—third knights of the Public Horse, and one—third tribuni aerarii—the knights who comprise the bulk of the First Class, and have a census of at least three hundred thousand sesterces per annum in income.”
A hum began, but not of outrage; the faces turned like flowers toward the sun of Lucius Cotta were astonished, but in a thoughtful way.
Lucius Cotta grew persuasive. “It seems to me,” he said, “that we of the Senate grew sentimental over the years which elapsed between Gaius Gracchus and the dictatorship of Lucius Cornelius Sulla. We remembered with longing the privilege of jury duty without remembering the reality of jury duty. Three hundred of us to staff every jury, against fifteen hundred knights of the Public Horse. Then Sulla gave us back our beloved jury duty, and even though he enlarged the
Senate to cope with this, we soon learned that each and every one of us resident in Rome was perpetually chained to some jury or other. Because, of course, the standing courts have greatly added to jury duty. Trial processes were far less numerous when most trial processes had to be individually enacted by an Assembly. I think Sulla had reasoned out that the smaller size of each jury and the greater size of the Senate itself would overcome the vexations of perpetual jury duty, but he underestimated the problem.
“I entered upon my enquiry convinced of that one fact only—that the Senate, even in its enlarged condition, is not a body numerous enough to provide juries for every trial. And yet, Conscript Fathers, I was loath to hand the courts back to the knights of the eighteen Public Horse Centuries. To do that, I felt, would have been a betrayal of two things—my own senatorial order, and the truly excellent system of justice which Sulla gave us in his permanent standing courts.”
Everyone was leaning forward now, rapt: Lucius Cotta was speaking absolute sense!
“At first, then, I thought of dividing jury duty equally between the Senate and the eighteen senior Centuries, with each jury composed of fifty percent senators and fifty percent knights. However, a few calculations showed me that the onus of duty for senators was still too heavy.”
Face very serious, eyes shining, both hands out, Lucius Cotta changed his thrust slightly. “If a man is to come to sit in judgement on his fellow man,” he said quietly, “no matter what his rank or status might be, then he should come fresh, eager, interested. That is not possible when a man has to serve on too many juries. He grows jaded, skeptical, disinterested—and more prone to accept bribes. For what other compensation, he might ask himself, can he obtain except a bribe? The State does not pay its jurors. Therefore the State ought not to have the right to suck up huge quantities of any man’s time.”
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