“Exactly,” I put in. “But a grown citizen is expected to be able to take care of himself. If someone tries to kill you, you should kill him first. You’re a poor prospect for the legions if you’re unable to defend yourself.”
“There are exceptions,” Julia pointed out. “Murder by subterfuge, especially if poison or magic are involved, are not tolerated. Likewise, violence toward sacrosanct personages, such as Tribunes of the People or Vestals, draws harsh punishment.”
“Ordinary senators, on the other hand,” I said, “get no such consideration. In really rough times, I’ve seen as many as half a dozen senators carried dead out of alleys. There are always plenty more where they came from. The Curia is too crowded as it is.”
“I see. And these political marriages of yours: Just what is the point of them since they are so easily dissolved?”
“They’re traditional,” I told her. “They hark back to a day when divorce was much more difficult. At one time only patricians had full citizenship, and they had a special form of marriage-conferratio-that was indissoluble. In those days a political marriage genuinely bound the two families.”
“We Roman women of the great families put up with a great deal from our men,” Julia said. “It is bad enough being pawns in a political game, but it would be nice if we were at least pawns that counted for something.”
“Between your multiple marriages and divorces, and your habit of adopting each other’s sons, I’m surprised you bother with these family names at all. They can hardly have much meaning by this time.”
“It is odd, isn’t it?” I agreed. “Yet we still behave as if our names were of utmost significance.”
“I suspect,” Julia put in, “that is because adoption takes place only among a limited number of families, ones that have traditional relationships and a good deal of shared blood.”
“That’s true,” I said. “Metellus Scipio, for instance, is the last of the Cornelia Scipiones, but he is a Metellus on his mother’s side, so he’s a cousin with or without the name.”
“I find it all very confusing,” Callista said.
“Be happy that you don’t have to worry about such things,” Julia advised her.
“Greek women have been known to seek revenge when treated in such a fashion. We remember Medea.”
“Upper class Roman wives are usually ready for a change of husbands after a year or two.” I saw Julia glowering at me. “There are exceptions, of course.”
For another hour or so Julia and Callista talked of philosophical subjects upon which I wisely declined to intrude, save to make occasional noncommittal noises, as if I were following their discussion intently. To my great amazement, Julia seemed to genuinely like the Alexandrian woman. Of course, she had come calling that morning to see what sort of woman I was visiting. She must have been surprised to find a kindred spirit instead of some foreign temptress. Not that Callista wouldn’t have made a fine foreign temptress had she chosen to adopt that role.
Then Hermes returned, having flown upon winged heels, as promised. He entered the peristyle with a bulky bundle over one shoulder and grinning like an African ape.
“I told you to bring back that scroll,” I told him, “not to sack the house.”
“I thought as long as I was taking one book, I might as well take them all.”
“There’s no stopping a born thief,” I said. “Actually, it isn’t such a bad idea. One of these others might be the key.”
Callista had her servants bring a large table into the peristyle and we spread Hermes’s loot out for inspection. There were about fifteen books altogether, some of them being sizable volumes requiring more than one scroll.
“Here’s the one you asked for,” Hermes said, taking the scroll from inside his tunic.
I unrolled it on the table, and we studied it first. Like most books of better quality, it was written on Alexandrian papyrus of the finest sort. I had seen papyrus being manufactured in Egypt, and it is a most exacting process. The versatile papyrus plant is split open and its pith is peeled away in long strips. A layer of strips is laid side-by-side, slightly overlapped. A second layer is laid atop the first, at right angles to it. This delicate mat is soaked, then pressed between planks with a great weight laid atop the upper plank. The resulting sheet, now bound together firmly by the natural glue in the plant, is placed in the sun to dry and bleach until it is almost white.
The best quality of papyrus is made from the largest plants, so that the fewest strips are needed for the upper surface, the one that is written on. On this surface the strips run in the same direction as the writing. No matter how well the papyrus is rubbed with pumice to obliterate irregularities, the joins between the strips always tend to catch the tip of the pen.
For books of the best sort, the papyrus is trimmed into sheets about ten inches by twelve. They may be written upon as individual sheets, then glued together along their shorter sides into long sheets suitable for binding into scrolls, or they can be purchased ready-made in the form of blank scrolls, ready to be written upon. Each method has advantages and disadvantages, but the latter is now the most common.
While I studied this, Julia and Callista looked over the other books. “I see Cicero here,” Julia said, “and Hortalus. Here’s a study of the Twelve Tables, together with commentaries and disputes concerning interpretation.”
“This,” said Callista, “seems to be a text on the use of the Sybilline Books in Roman law, written almost two hundred years ago by one Valgus of Lanuvium.”
“Single-minded bastard, wasn’t he?” I said. “It sounds like he was planning a Caesar-like conquest of the Roman legal profession.”
“Let me see this,” Callista said. She began to examine the opening sheets of the scroll. Its first sheet, in the usual fashion, gave the title, Certain Points of Law, and its author, who was indeed Aulus Sulpicius Galba. Apparently it was written before he became duumvir of Baiae, for he did not include this dignity among his honors.
It also contained the usual dedication: “This work I dedicate to the immortal gods and the muses, to my revered ancestors, and to my esteemed friends and patrons, Publius Fulvius Flaccus and Sextus Manilius.”
“Manilius!” I said. “I knew I’d trip over that name sooner or later.”
“It could be a coincidence,” Julia said. “It’s not an uncommon name.”
“When did you start believing in coincidence?” I asked her. “Fulvius and Manilius right here on the same page? That sounds like conspiracy to me. What do you want to bet these two are the fathers of the dead man and our young Tribune of the People?”
“I know better than to take a bet like that.”
Callista wasn’t interested in the dedication. She was scanning the text with great speed. She was one of those people who could read silently, a talent I have always admired.
“What are you looking for?” I asked her.
“The first sheet that contains every letter in the Latin alphabet. That one is most likely to be the key.”
She had lost me again. I rose and beckoned to Hermes. “Ladies, I will take my leave of you now.”
“I’ll stay here and help Callista with this,” Julia said. “What will you do now?”
“I’m going to find out what I can about young Manilius. Come, Hermes.”
We left them absorbed in their work, their heads together like two lifelong friends.
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.
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