Novius Niger got to his feet so quickly that his much-prized ivory chair fell over. "What is the meaning of this?" he shrilled.
"WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?" roared Caesar.
Everyone backed away; the jury shifted uneasily, shivered.
"Who do you think are?" Caesar repeated more softly, but in a voice which could be heard halfway across the Forum. "How dare you, a magistrate of mere aedilician rank, admit evidence into your court concerning your senior in the hierarchy? Evidence, what is more, from the mouth of a paid informer? Who do you think you are? If you don't know, Novius, then I will tell you. You are a legal ignoramus who has no more right to preside over a Roman court than the dirtiest trollop hawking her fork outside Venus Erucina's! Don't you understand that it is absolutely unheard of for a junior magistrate to act in a way which could result in the trial of his senior? What you were stupid enough to say to that piece of sewer refuse Vettius deserves impeachment! That you, a mere aedilician magistrate, would attempt to convict me, the urban praetor, in your court? Brave words, Novius, but impossible to fulfill. If you have cause to believe that a magistrate senior to yourself is criminally implicated in proceedings going on in your court, then you suspend your court immediately and you take the whole matter to that senior magistrate's peers. And since I am the praetor urbanus, you go to the consul with the fasces. This month, Lucius Licinius Murena; but today, Decimus Junius Silanus."
The avid crowd hung on every word while Novius Niger stood, face ashen, his hopes for a future consulship tumbling down about his incredulous ears.
"You take the whole matter to your senior's peers, Novius, you do not dare to continue the business of your court! You do not dare to continue to admit evidence about your senior, grinning all over your face! You have held me up before this body of men as if you have the right to do so! You do not. Hear me? You do not! How glorious a precedent you set! Is this what senior magistrates are to expect from their juniors in the future?''
One hand went out, pleading; Novius Niger wet his lips and tried to speak.
"Tace, inepte!" cried Caesar. "Lucius Novius Niger, in order to remind you and every other junior magistrate of his place in Rome's scheme of public duties, I, Gaius Julius Caesar, praetor urbanus, do hereby sentence you to one market interval of eight days in the cells of the Lautumiae. That should prove long enough to think about what is your rightful place, and to think of how you will manage to convince the Senate of Rome that you should be allowed to continue as iudex in this special court. You will not leave your cell for one moment. You will not be allowed to bring in food, or have your family visit you. You will not be let have reading or writing materials. And while I am aware that no cell in the Lautumiae has a door of any kind, let alone one which locks, you will do as you are told. When the lictors are not watching you, half of Rome will be." He nodded to the court lictors abruptly. "Take your master to the Lautumiae, and put him in the most uncomfortable cell you can find. You will stay on guard until I send lictors to relieve you. Bread and water, nothing else, and no light after dark."
Then without a backward glance it was across to the tribunal belonging to the urban praetor, where Lucius Vettius waited atop its platform, a lictor on either side. Caesar and the four lictors still attending him mounted the steps, now avidly trailed by all the members of Novius Niger's court, from the jury to the scribes to the accused. Oh, what fun! But what could Caesar do to Lucius Vettius save put him in the next cell to Novius Niger?
"Lictor," he said to Fabius, "unbind your rods."
And to Vettius, still clutching the letter, “Lucius Vettius, you have conspired against me. Whose client are you?"
The crowd twittered and fluttered, amazed, awestruck, torn between watching Caesar deal with Vettius and watching Fabius the lictor squatting down to dismember the bundle of birch rods tied in a ritual crisscross pattern with red leather thongs. Thin and slightly whippy, thirty for the thirty Curiae lay within the neat circular bundle, for they had been trimmed and turned until each one was as round as the whole cylinder called the fasces.
Vettius's eyes had widened; he couldn't seem to tear them from Fabius and the rods.
"Whose client are you, Vettius?" Caesar repeated sharply.
It came out in an agony of fear. “Gaius Calpurnius Piso's."
"Thank you, that is all I need to know." Caesar turned to face the men assembled below him, front ranks filled with senators and knights. "Fellow Romans," he said, pitching his voice high, "this man on my tribunal has borne false witness against me in the court of a judge who had no right to admit his evidence. Vettius is a tribunus aerarius, he knows the law. He knows he ought not to have done that, but he was hungry to put the sum of two talents in his bank account—plus whatever his patron Gaius Piso promised him in addition, of course. I do not see Gaius Piso here to answer, which is just as well for Gaius Piso. Were he here, he would join Lucius Novius in the Lautumiae. It is my right as the praetor urbanus to exercise the power of coercitio upon this Roman citizen Lucius Vettius. I hereby do so. He cannot be flogged with a lash, but he can be beaten with a rod. Lictor, are you ready?"
"Yes, praetor urbanus," said Fabius, who in all his long career as one of the ten prefects of the College of Lictors had never before been called upon to untie his fasces.
"Choose your rod."
Because ravenous animalcules chewed through the rods no matter how carefully they were tended—and these were among the most revered objects Rome owned—the fasces were regularly retired amid great ceremony to be ritually burned, and were replaced by new bundles. Thus Fabius had no difficulty unlashing his rods, nor needed to sort through them to find one sturdier than the rest. He simply picked the one closest to his trembling hand, and stood up slowly.
"Hold him," said Caesar to two others, "and remove his toga."
"Where? How many?" whispered Fabius urgently.
Caesar ignored him. "Because this man is a Roman citizen, I will not diminish his standing by stripping away his tunic or baring his backside. Lictor, six strokes to his left calf, and six strokes to his right calf." His voice dropped to ape Fabius's whisper. "And make them hard or it'll be your turn, Fabius!" He twitched the letter from Vettius's slack grasp, glanced briefly at its contents, then walked to the edge of the tribunal and held it out to Silanus, who was substituting this day for Murena (and wishing he too had had the sense to come down with a blinding headache). "Senior consul, I give this evidence to you for your perusal. The handwriting is not mine." Caesar looked contemptuous. "Nor is it written in my style—vastly inferior! It reminds me of Gaius Piso, who never could string four words together."
The beating was administered to yelps and skips from Vettius; the chief lictor Fabius had liked Caesar enormously from the days when he had served him as curule aedile and then as judge in the Murder Court. He had thought he knew Caesar. Today was a revelation, so Fabius hit hard.
While it went on Caesar strolled down from the tribunal and went into the back of the crowd, where those of humble origin stood enthralled. Anyone wearing a shabby or homespun toga to the number of twenty individuals he tapped on the right shoulder, then brought the group back to wait just below his platform.
The chastisement was over; Vettius stood dancing and sniffling from pain of two kinds, one for the bruises on his calves, the other for the bruises on his self-esteem. Quite a number of those who had witnessed his humiliation knew him, and had cheered Fabius on deliriously.
“I understand that Lucius Vettius is something of a furniture fancier!" Caesar said then. "To be beaten with a rod leaves no lasting memory of wrongdoing, and Lucius Vettius must be made to remember today for a long time to come! I therefore order that a part of his property be confiscated. Those twenty Quirites I touched on the shoulder are authorized to accompany Lucius Vettius back to his house, and there to select one item of furniture each. Nothing else is to be touched—not slaves nor plate nor gilding nor statuary. Lictors, escort this man to his house, and see that my order
s are carried out."
Off went the hobbling and howling Vettius under guard, followed by twenty delighted beneficiaries, already chortling among themselves and dividing the spoils—who needed a bed, who a couch, who a table, who a chair, who had the room to fit in a desk?
One of the twenty turned back as Caesar came down off his tribunal. "Do we get mattresses for the beds?" he yelled.
"A bed's no use without a mattress, no one knows that better than I, Quiris!" laughed Caesar. "Mattresses go with beds and bolsters go with couches, but no cloths to cover them, understand?"
Caesar went home, though only to attend to his person; it had been an eventful day, the time had gone nowhere, and he had an assignation with Servilia.
An ecstatic Servilia was an exhausting experience. She licked and kissed and sucked in a frenzy, opened herself and tried to open him, drained him dry then demanded more.
It was, thought Caesar as he lay flat on his back, mind cooling into sleep, the best and only way to eliminate the kind of driving tension days like today provoked.
But though temporarily sated, Servilia had no intention of letting Caesar sleep. Annoying that he had no pubic hair to tweak; she pinched the loose skin of his scrotum instead.
"That woke you up!"
"You're a barbarian, Servilia."
"I want to talk."
"I want to sleep."
"Later, later!"
Sighing, he rolled onto his side and threw his leg over her to keep his spine straight. "Talk away."
"I think you've beaten them," she said, paused, then added, "for the time being, anyway."
"For the time being is correct. They'll never let up."
"They would if you'd grant them room for their dignitas too."
"Why should I? They don't know the meaning of the word. If they want to preserve their own dignitas, they should leave mine alone." He made a noise both scornful and exasperated. "It's one thing after another, and the older I get, the faster I have to run. My temper is fraying too easily."
"So I gather. Can you mend it?"
"I'm not sure I want to. My mother used to say that that and my lack of patience were my two worst faults. She was a merciless critic, and a strict disciplinarian. By the time I went to the East I thought I'd beaten both faults. But I hadn't met Bibulus or Cato then, though I did encounter Bibulus very quickly after. On his own I could deal with him. Allied to Cato, he's a thousand times more intolerable."
"Cato needs killing."
"Leaving me with no formidable enemies? My dear Servilia, I am not wishing either Cato or Bibulus dead! The more opposition a man has, the better his mind works. I like opposition. No, what worries me is inside myself. That temper."
"I think," said Servilia, stroking his leg, "that you have a very peculiar sort of temper, Caesar. Most men are blinded by rage, whereas you seem to think more lucidly. It's one of the reasons why I love you. I am the same."
"Rubbish!" he said, laughing. "You're coldblooded, Servilia, but your emotions are strong. You think you're planning lucidly when your temper is provoked, but those emotions get in the way. One day you'll plot and plan and scheme to achieve some end or other, only to find that having attained it, the consequences are disastrous. The knack is in going exactly as far as is necessary, and not one fraction of an inch further. Make the whole world tremble in fear of you, then show it mercy as well as justice. A hard act for one's enemies to follow."
"I wish you had been Brutus's father."
"Had I been, he would not be Brutus."
"That's what I mean."
"Leave him alone, Servilia. Let go of him a little more. When you appear he palpitates like a rabbit, yet he's not all weakling, you know. Oh, there's no lion in him, but I think he has some wolf and some fox. Why see him as a rabbit because in your company he is a rabbit?''
"Julia is fourteen now," she said, going off at a tangent.
"True. I must send Brutus a note to thank him for his gift to her. She loved it, you know."
Servilia sat up, astonished. "A Plato manuscript?"
"What, you thought it an unsuitable present?" He grinned and pinched her as hard as she had pinched him. “I gave her pearls, and she liked them very well. But not as much as Brutus's Plato."
"Jealous?"
That made him laugh outright. "Jealousy," he said, sobering, "is a curse. It eats, it corrodes. No, Servilia, I am many, many things, but I am not jealous. I was delighted for her, and very grateful to him. Next year I'll give her a philosopher." His eyes quizzed her wickedly. "Much cheaper than pearls too."
"Brutus both fosters and harbors his fortune."
"An excellent thing in Rome's wealthiest young man," agreed Caesar gravely.
Marcus Crassus returned to Rome after a long absence overseeing his various business enterprises just after that memorable day in the Forum, and eyed Caesar with new respect.
"Though I can't say that I'm sorry I found good excuse to absent myself after Tarquinius accused me in the House," he said. "I agree it's been an interesting interlude, but my tactics are very different from yours, Caesar. You go for the throat. I prefer to amble off and plough my furrows like the ox I'm always said to resemble."
"Hay tied well in place."
"Naturally."
"Well, as a technique it certainly works. It's a fool tries to bring you down, Marcus."
"And a fool tries to bring you down, Gaius." Crassus coughed. "How far in debt are you?"
Caesar frowned. "If anyone other than my mother knows, you do. But if you insist upon hearing the figure aloud, about two thousand talents. That's fifty million sesterces."
"I know that you know that I know how many sesterces there are in two thousand talents," said Crassus with a grin.
"What are you getting at, Marcus?"
"You're going to need a really lucrative province next year, is what I'm getting at. They won't let you fix the lots, you're too controversial. Not to mention that Cato will be hovering like a vulture above your carcass." Crassus wrinkled his brow. "Quite frankly, Gaius, I can't see how you'll do it even if the lots are favorable. Everywhere is pacified! Magnus has cowed the East, Africa hasn't been a danger since—oh, Jugurtha. Both the Spains are still suffering from Sertorius. The Gauls have nothing much to offer either."
"And Sicily, Sardinia and Corsica aren't worth mentioning," said Caesar, eyes dancing.
"Absolutely."
"Have you heard I'm going to be dunned at law?"
"No. What I do hear is that Catulus—he's much better, so they say, he'll be back making a nuisance of himself in Senate and Comitia shortly—is organizing a campaign to prorogue all the current governors next year, leaving this year's praetors with no provinces at all."
"Oh, I see!" Caesar looked thoughtful. "Yes, I should have taken a move like that into consideration."
"It might go through."
“It might, though I doubt it. There are a few of my fellow praetors who wouldn't take at all kindly to being deprived of a province, particularly Philippus, who might be a bit of an indolent Epicurean, but knows his worth too. Not to mention me."
"Be warned, is all."
"I am, and I thank you."
"Which doesn't take away from your difficulties, Caesar. I don't see how you can begin to pay your debts from a province."
"I do. My luck will provide, Marcus," said Caesar tranquilly. "I want Further Spain because I was quaestor there, and I know it well. The Lusitani and the Callaici are all I need! Decimus Brutus Callaicus—how easily they award those empty titles!—barely touched the fringes of northwestern Iberia. And northwestern Iberia, in case you've forgotten—you shouldn't, you were in Spain—is where all the gold comes from. Salamantica has been stripped, but places like Brigantium haven't even seen a Roman yet. But they'll see this Roman, so much I promise!"
"So you'll stake your chances on your luck in the lots." Crassus shook his head. "What a strange fellow you are, Caesar! I don't believe in luck. In all my life I've never offer
ed a gift to Goddess Fortuna. A man makes his own luck."
"I agree unconditionally. But I also believe that Goddess Fortuna has her favorites among Roman men. She loved Sulla. And she loves me. Some men, Marcus, have Goddess-given luck as well as what they make for themselves. But none have Caesar's luck."
"Does your luck include Servilia?"
"Come as a surprise, did it?"
"You hinted at it once. That's playing with a firebrand."
"Ah, Crassus, she's marvelous in bed!"
"Huh!" grunted Crassus. He propped his feet up on a nearby chair and scowled at Caesar. “I suppose one can expect nothing else from a man who publicly talks to his battering ram. Still and all, you'll have more latitude to exercise your battering ram in the months to come. I predict people like Bibulus, Cato, Gaius Piso and Catulus will be licking their wounds for a long time."
"That," said Caesar, eyes twinkling, "is what Servilia says."
2
Publius Vatinius was a Marsian from Alba Fucentia. His grandfather was a humble man who had made a very wise decision and emigrated from the lands of the Marsi well before the Italian War broke out. Which in turn meant that his son, a young man then, was not called upon to take up arms against Rome, and consequently upon the conclusion of hostilities could apply to the praetor peregrinus for the Roman citizenship. The grandfather died, and his son moved back to Alba Fucentia possessed of a citizenship so shabby it was hardly worth the paper it was written on. Then when Sulla became Dictator he distributed all these new citizens across the thirty-five tribes, and Vatinius Senior was admitted into the tribe Sergia, one of the very oldest. The family fortunes prospered mightily. What had been a small merchant business became a large landholding one, for the Marsian country around the Fucine Lake was rich and productive, and Rome close enough down the Via Valeria to provide a market for the fruits, vegetables and fat lambs the Vatinius properties produced. After which Vatinius Senior went in for growing grapes, and was shrewd enough to pay a huge sum for vine stock yielding a superb white wine. By the time Publius Vatinius was twenty, his father's lands were worth many millions of sesterces, and produced nothing save this famous Fucentine nectar.
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