“He came around to see you on the day of the Bona Dea,” she said sternly, “to tell you that he was going to western Sicily as quaestor, and wanted to do well. It was the day of Bona Dea, I know it was! You told me he’d come to ask for a few tips.”
“My dear, you’re mistaken!” Cicero had managed to gasp. “The provinces weren’t even assigned until three months after that!”
“Rubbish, Cicero! You know as well as I do that the lots are fixed. Clodius knew where he was going! It’s that trollop Clodia, isn’t it? You won’t testify because of her.”
“I won’t testify because I have an instinct that this is one sleeping beast I ought not to arouse, Terentia. Clodius has never cared overmuch for me since I helped to defend Fabia thirteen years ago! I disliked him then. I now find him detestable. But he’s old enough to be in the Senate, and he’s a patrician Claudius. His senior brother Appius is a great friend of mine and Nigidius Figulus’s. Amicitia must be preserved.”
“You’re having an affair with his sister Clodia, and that’s why you refuse to do your duty,” said Terentia, looking mulish.
“I am not having an affair with Clodia! She’s disgracing herself with that poet fellow, Catullus.”
“Women,” said Terentia with awful logic, “are not like men, husband. They don’t have just so many arrows in their quivers to shoot. They can lie on their backs and accept an arsenal.”
Cicero gave in and testified, thereby breaking Clodius’s alibi. And though Fulvia’s money bought the jury (which acquitted him by thirty-one to twenty-five votes), Clodius had neither forgiven nor forgotten. Added to which, when Clodius immediately afterward assumed his seat in the Senate and tried to be witty at Cicero’s expense, Cicero’s unruly tongue had covered him in glory and Clodius in ridicule—yet one more grudge Clodius harbored.
At the beginning of this year the tribune of the plebs Gaius Herennius—a Picentine, so was he acting on Pompey’s orders?—had begun to make moves to have Clodius’s status changed from patrician to plebeian through the medium of a special act in the Plebeian Assembly. Clodia’s husband, Metellus Celer, had looked on in some amusement, and done nothing to countermand it. Now Clodius was heard everywhere saying that the moment Celer opened the booth for elections in the Plebs, he would be applying to stand as a tribune of the plebs. And that once he was in office he would see Cicero prosecuted for executing Roman citizens without a trial.
Cicero was terrified, and not ashamed to say so to Atticus, whom he begged to use his influence with Clodia and have her call her little brother off. Atticus had refused, saying simply that no one could control Publius Clodius when he was in the mood for one of his revenges. Cicero was his choice of the moment.
Despite all of which, those chance encounters happened. If a consular candidate was not allowed to give gladiatorial games in his own name and with his own money, there was nothing to stop someone else’s giving a grand show in the Forum in honor of the candidate’s tata or avus, provided that tata or avus was also an ancestor or relation of the games giver. Therefore none other than Metellus Celer the senior consul was giving gladiatorial games in honor of a mutual ancestor of his and Bibulus’s.
Clodius and Cicero were both escorting Lucceius as he moved through the lower Forum canvassing mightily, and found themselves thrown together by movements among those immediately surrounding Caesar, canvassing nearby. And since there was nothing else for it than to put on a good face and behave nicely to each other, Cicero and Clodius proceeded to do so.
“I hear you gave gladiatorial games after you returned from Sicily,” said Clodius to Cicero, his rather bewitching dark face transformed by a big smile, “is that right, Marcus Tullius?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I did,” Cicero said brightly.
“And did you reserve places on the special seating for your Sicilian clients?”
“Er—no,” said Cicero, flushing; how to explain that they had been extremely modest games and the seating not adequate for his Roman clients?
“Well, I intend to seat my Sicilian clients. The only trouble is that my brother-in-law Celer isn’t co-operating.”
“Then why not apply to your sister Clodia? She must have plenty of seats at her disposal, surely. She’s the consul’s wife.”
“Clodia?” Her brother reared up, his voice becoming loud enough to attract the attention of those in the vicinity who were not already listening to these two avowed enemies being terribly nice to each other. “Clodia? She wouldn’t give me an inch!”
Cicero giggled. “Well, why should she give you an inch when I hear that you give her six of your inches regularly?’’
Oh, he’d done it this time! Why was his tongue such a traitor? The whole lower Forum suddenly lay down on the ground in helpless paroxysms of laughter, Caesar leading, while Clodius stood turned to stone and Cicero succumbed to the deliciousness of his own wit even in the midst of a bowel-watering panic.
“You’ll pay for that!” Clodius whispered, gathered what he could of dignity about him and stalked off with Fulvia on his arm, her face a study in rage.
“Yes!” she shrieked. “You’ll pay for that, Cicero! I’ll make a rattle out of your tongue one day!”
An unbearable humiliation for Clodius, who was to find that June was not his lucky month. When his brother-in-law Celer threw open his booth to plebeian candidates and Clodius lodged his name as a candidate for the tribunate of the plebs, Celer refused him.
“You’re a patrician, Publius Clodius.”
“I am not a patrician!” said Clodius, hands clenched into fists. “Gaius Herennius procured a special enactment in the Plebs removing my patrician status.”
“Gaius Herennius wouldn’t know the law if he fell over it,” Celer said coolly. “How can the Plebs strip you of patrician status? It isn’t the prerogative of the Plebs to say anything about the Patriciate. Now go away, Clodius, you’re wasting my time. If you want to be a plebeian, do it the proper way—get yourself adopted by a plebeian.”
Off went Clodius, fuming. Oh, that list was growing! Now Celer had earned a prominent place on it.
But revenge could wait. First he had to find a plebeian willing to adopt him, if that was the only way to do it.
He asked Mark Antony to be his father, but all Antony did was roar with laughter. “I don’t need the million I’d have to charge you, Clodius, not now I’m married to Fadia and her tata has an Antonian grandchild on the way.”
Curio looked offended. “Rubbish, Clodius! If you think I’m going to go around calling you my son, you’ve got another think coming! I’d look sillier than I’m making Caesar look.”
“Why are you making Caesar look silly?” Clodius asked, curiosity aroused. “I’d much rather the Clodius Club supported him to the last member.”
“I’m bored,” Curio said curtly, “and I’d really like to see him lose his temper—they say it’s awesome.”
Nor was Decimus Brutus about to oblige. “My mother would kill me if my father didn’t,” he said. “Sorry, Clodius.”
And even Poplicola baulked. “Have you calling me tata! No, Clodius, no!”
Which of course was why Clodius had preferred to pay Herennius some of Fulvia’s limitless supply of money to procure that act. He hadn’t fancied being adopted; it was too ridiculous.
Then Fulvia became inspired. “Stop looking among your peers for help,” she said. “Memories in the Forum are long, and they all know it. They won’t do something that might see them laughed at later on. So find a fool.”
Well, there were any number of those available! Clodius sat down to think, and found the ideal face swimming in front of his gaze. Publius Fonteius! Dying to get into the Clodius Club but constantly rebuffed. Rich, yes; deserving, no. Nineteen years old, no paterfamilias to hamper him, and clever as a bit of wood.
“Oh, Publius Clodius, what an honor!” breathed Fonteius when approached. “Yes, please!”
“Of course you understand that I can’t acknowledge you as
my paterfamilias, which means that as soon as the adoption is over you’ll have to release me from your authority. It’s very important to me that I keep my own name, you see.”
“Of course, of course! I’ll do whatever you want.”
Off went Clodius to see Caesar Pontifex Maximus.
“I’ve found someone willing to adopt me into the Plebs,” he announced without preamble, “so I need the permission of the priests and augurs to procure a lex Curiata. Can you get it for me?”
The handsome face considerably above Clodius’s own did not change its mildly enquiring expression, nor was there a shadow of doubt or disapproval in the pale, dark-ringed, piercing eyes. The humorous mouth didn’t twitch. Yet for a long moment Caesar said nothing. Finally, “Yes, Publius Clodius, I can get it for you, but not in time for this year’s elections, I’m afraid.”
Clodius went white. “Why not? It’s simple enough!”
“Have you forgotten that your brother-in-law Celer is an augur? He did refuse your application to stand for the tribunate.”
“Oh.”
“Be of good cheer, it will happen eventually. The matter can wait until he goes to his province.”
“But I wanted to be tribune of the plebs this year!”
“I appreciate that. However, it isn’t possible.” Caesar paused. “There is a fee, Clodius,” he added gently.
“What?” Clodius asked warily.
“Persuade young Curio to stop prating about me.”
Clodius stuck his hand out immediately. “Done!” he said.
“Excellent!”
“Are you sure there’s nothing else you want, Caesar?”
“Only gratitude, Clodius. I think you’ll make a splendid tribune of the plebs because you’re enough of a villain to be aware of the power in Law.” And Caesar turned away with a smile.
Naturally Fulvia was waiting nearby.
“Not until Celer goes to his province,” Clodius said to her.
She put her arms about his waist and kissed him lasciviously, scandalizing several bystanders. “He’s right,” she said. “I do like Caesar, Publius Clodius! He always reminds me of a wild beast pretending to be tamed. What a demagogue he’d make!”
Clodius experienced a twinge of jealousy. “Forget Caesar, woman!” he snarled. “Remember me, the man you’re married to? I am the one who’ll be the great demagogue!”
*
On the Kalends of Quinctilis, nine days before the curule elections, Metellus Celer called the Senate into session to debate the allocation of the consular provinces.
“Marcus Calpurnius Bibulus has a statement to make,” he said to a crowded House, “so I will give him the floor.”
Surrounded by boni, Bibulus rose looking as majestic and noble as his diminutive size allowed. “Thank you, senior consul. My esteemed colleagues of the Senate of Rome, I want to tell you a story concerning my good friend the knight Publius Servilius, who is not of the patrician branch of that great family, but shares the ancestry of the noble Publius Servilius Vatia Isauricus. Now Publius Servilius has the four-hundred-thousand-sesterces census, yet relies entirely for this income upon a rather small vineyard in the Ager Falernus. A vineyard, Conscript Fathers, which is so famous for the quality of the wine it produces that Publius Servilius lays it down for years before selling it for a fabulous price to buyers from all over the world. It is said that both King Tigranes and King Mithridates bought it, while King Phraates of the Parthians still does. Perhaps King Tigranes still does too, given that Gnaeus Pompeius mistakenly called Magnus took it upon his own authority to absolve that royal personage of his transgressions—in Rome’s name!—and even let him keep the bulk of his income.”
Bibulus paused to gaze about. The senators were very quiet, and no one on the back tier was napping. Catullus was right—tell them a story and they’d all stay awake to listen like children to a nursery maid. Caesar sat as always very straight on his seat, face wearing a look of studious interest, a trick he did better than anyone else, telling those who saw him that secretly he was absolutely bored, but too well mannered to let it show.
“Very good, we have Publius Servilius the respected knight in possession of one small yet extremely valuable vineyard. Yesterday able to qualify for the four-hundred-thousand-sesterces census of a full knight. Today a poor man. But how can that possibly be? How can a man so suddenly lose his income? Was Publius Servilius in debt? No, not at all. Did he die? No, not at all. Was there a war in Campania nobody told us about? No, not at all, A fire, then? No, not at all. A slave uprising? No, not at all. Perhaps a neglectful vigneron? No, not at all.”
He had them now, except for Caesar. Bibulus lifted himself upon his toes and raised his voice.
“I can tell you how my friend Publius Servilius lost his sole income, my fellow senators! The answer lies in a large herd of cattle which were being driven from Lucania to—oh, what is that noisome place on the Adriatic coast at the top of the Via Flaminia? Licenum? Ficenum? Pic… Pic… It’s coming, it’s coming! Picenum! Yes, that’s it, Picenum! The cattle were being driven from the vast estates Gnaeus Pompeius mistakenly called Magnus inherited from the Lucilii to the even vaster estates he inherited from his father, the Butcher, in Picenum. Now cattle are useless creatures, really, unless one is in the armaments business or makes shoes and book buckets for a living. No one eats them! No one drinks their milk or makes cheese from it, though I do believe the northern barbarians of Gaul and Germania make something called butter from it, which they smear with equal liberality upon their coarse dark bread and their squeaky wagon axles. Well, they don’t know any better, and they live in lands too chill and inclement to nurture our beautiful olive. But we in this warm and fertile peninsula grow the olive as well as the vine, the two best gifts the Gods gave to men. Why should anyone need to keep cattle in Italy, let alone to drive them hundreds of miles from one pasture to another? Only an armaments king or a cobbler! Which one do you suppose Gnaeus Pompeius mistakenly called Magnus is? Does he make war or shoes? Then again, perhaps he makes war and military boots! He could be both armaments king and cobbler!”
How fascinating, thought Caesar, maintaining that look of studious interest. Is it me he’s after, or is it Magnus? Or is he killing two birds with the same stone? How utterly miserable the Great Man appears! If he could do it without being noticed, he’d get up right now and leave. But somehow this doesn’t sound like our Bibulus. I wonder who’s writing his speeches these days?
“The enormous herd of cattle blundered on into Campania, tended by a few scallywag shepherds, if those who escort cattle can be termed shepherds,” said Bibulus in a storytelling manner. “As you all know, Conscript Fathers, every municipium in Italy has its special routes and trails reserved for the movement of livestock from one place to another. Even the forests have trails demarcated for livestock—for moving pigs to the acorns in oak woods during winter—for moving the sheep from high to low grazing as the seasons change—and most of all for driving beasts to the greatest market in Italy, the yards of the Vallis Camenarum outside the Servian Walls of Rome. These routes and trails and tracks are public land, and livestock using them are not allowed to stray onto privately owned lands to destroy privately owned grass, or crops, or… vines.’’
The pause was very long. “Unfortunately,” said Bibulus with a doleful sigh, “the scallywag shepherds who tended the herd of cattle didn’t quite know whereabouts the proper trail was—though, I add, it is always a good mile wide! The cattle found succulent vines to eat. Yes, my dear friends, those vile and useless beasts belonging to Gnaeus Pompeius mistakenly called Magnus invaded the precious vineyard belonging to Publius Servilius. What they did not eat, they trampled into the ground. And, in case you are not aware of the habits and characteristics of cattle, I will now tell you one more fact about them: their saliva kills foliage, or else, if the plants are young, prevents regrowth for as long as two years. But the vines of Publius Servilius were very, very old. So they died. And my friend
the knight Publius Servilius is a broken man. I even find it in me to weep for King Phraates of the Parthians, who will never again drink that noble wine.”
Oh, Bibulus, can you possibly be going where I think you are going? asked Caesar silently, his face and posture unchanged.
“Naturally Publius Servilius complained to the men who manage the vast holdings and possessions of Gnaeus Pompeius mistakenly called Magnus,” Bibulus went on with a sob, “only to be told that there was no possibility of compensation being paid for the loss of the world’s finest vineyard. Because—because, Conscript Fathers, the route along which those cattle were being driven had last been surveyed so long before that the boundary markers had vanished! The scallywag shepherds hadn’t erred, because they had no idea where they were supposed to be! Surely not in a vineyard, I hear you say. Quite so. But how easily can any of this be proven in a court of law or before the urban praetor’s tribunal? Does anyone in each municipium even know where the maps are showing the routes and tracks and trails reserved for traveling livestock? And what of the fact that about thirty years ago Rome absorbed the whole of peninsular Italy into her own domains, giving in exchange the full citizenship? Does that make it Rome’s duty to delineate the stock routes and trails and tracks from one end of Italy to the other? I think it does!”
Cato was leaning forward like a hound on a leash, Gaius Piso had succumbed to silent laughter, Ahenobarbus was snarling; the boni were obviously preparing for a victory.
“Senior consul, members of this House, I am a peaceful man who has acquitted himself faithfully of his military duty. I have no desire in my prime to march off to a province and make war on hapless barbarians to enrich my own coffers far more than Rome’s. But I am a patriot. If the Senate and People of Rome say I must take up provincial duty after my consulship is over—for I will be consul!—then I will obey. But let it be a truly useful duty! Let it be a quiet and self-effacing duty! Let it be memorable not for the number of floats which roll along in a triumphal parade, but for a desperately needed job finally well done! I ask that this House apportion to next year’s consuls exactly one year of proconsular duty afterward, surveying and properly demarcating the public routes, trails and paths for Italy’s traveling livestock. I cannot restore Publius Servilius’s murdered vines to him, nor hope to heal his rage. But if I can persuade all of you to see that there can be more to proconsular duty than making war in foreign parts, then in some small way I will have made a kind of reparation to my friend the knight Publius Servilius.”
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