John Roberts - The Year of Confusion

“Julia had the same question. Right now, I’d just as soon not be a close friend of Caesar.”

From the tavern, full of squid and our heads buzzing pleasantly with the wine, we went to the bathhouse. It was one of my favorites, though there were finer ones in Rome by that time. I did not pick it idly that day. It was a great favorite with the Senate generally, and I was looking for one senator in particular. He was seldom to be found at home. He spent most of his time prowling for inside information, useful intelligence, and gossip. I had little liking for him, but he was a fount of information on the doings of the highest people, the ranker the better. I was looking for Sallustius Crispus.

As I had expected, he was there, lolling in the hot bath. I undressed and joined him while Hermes went off to take the cold plunge in the frigidarium , an austerity I had never favored, but which gladiator lore insisted was essential for good muscle tone.

“Decius Caecilius!” Sallustius said with a broad, insinuating grin. He always managed to look like he knew all your guiltiest secrets. There was no doubt that he knew some of mine. A few years previously the censor Appius Claudius and his colleague had expelled Sallustius from the Senate for immorality in their general housecleaning. He was accused of a staggering list of transgressions and insisted that he was guilty of no more than half of them. He weaseled his way into Caesar’s good graces and was soon back in the Senate.

“Good day, Sallustius,” I said, settling into the water beside him.

“Aren’t you looking into the death of that Greek?” he said. Naturally he knew about it.

“Among the other duties on my busy schedule. Speaking of which, what has Caesar got you doing?”

“I am to go to Africa as governor,” he said. “It is perfect, because Catilina was governor there, and I’ll be able to interview the people who knew him then.” He fancied himself a historian and had been working for years on his history of the Catilinarian conspiracy. The thought of Sallustius governing a province was appalling, but he’d probably be no worse than Catilina.

“Congratulations. I’m sure you’ll find your province both interesting and lucrative.”

“So I hope. You rarely seek my company unless you’re looking for information, Decius.”

“What a coincidence. I’ve noticed the same thing about you.”

He grinned again. “Trade?”

“First let’s see if you have anything to trade.” I told him most of what I knew already. There was little sense in trying to withhold information from Sallustius. The fact that I was asking would pique his interest and he would soon weasel out everything anyway. I even mentioned the fool who tried to bring suit against Polasser. He leaned back against the rim of the great pool and gazed at the ceiling. Around us other men, many senators, the rest mostly wealthy equites , relaxed or splashed about, gossiping and making business or political deals. They ignored us.

“I may have something for you,” he said at length. “If you think my information valuable, I would like very much to know more about Caesar’s doings back at the beginning of the war in Gaul, when you were his secretary.”

“Actually, I was a cavalry commander,” I informed him. “I only worked in the praetorium when I was being punished for insubordination and Caesar wanted to protect me from being killed by his other officers.”

“Still, you’ve seen him at one of the most significant stages of his life at a proximity few can boast, and you were writing down his thoughts. You are what I call a valuable source.”

“A new book?”

“I’ve finished my study of the Jugurthine War and I’m almost done with my Catilina. What greater subject can I have for my next book than the life of Rome’s greatest man?”

“Greater than Scipio or Horatius or the first Brutus?” I asked.

“I meant the greatest man of our time, but I suspect that he will be greater than all of them together. Who else has accomplished as much?”

“There are many who dislike what he’s accomplished,” I noted.

“What of that? The resentments of lesser men are of no consequence. Do we remember those who resented Alexander or Philip? What of the enemies of Pericles? Only when peers struggle, as Achilles with Agamemnon, do we care. Otherwise, only greatness is worthy of notice.”

“I suppose that is true; you’re the historian. All right. If you can be of any help to me, I’ll inform you about anything Caesar won’t kill me for telling.”

“Who can ask for more than that? Very well, then. Who would you think are Rome’s most enthusiastic adherents of the cult of astrology?”

I thought about it for a while. “I know of few men who care for it. Most of those I have known who give it much credence are highborn women.”

“Precisely. The wives of senators and great equites are almost uniformly bored and they are barred by custom from most male amusements like gladiator fights and politics. So they relieve their tedium by taking up foreign fads. If they involve religion or mysticism, so much the better. The great mystery cults such as the Eleusinian and the Delphic require foreign travel, but there are plenty of practitioners here in Rome to keep them amused. Astrology in particular has been all the rage in recent years.”

“Has Polasser of Kish or any of Caesar’s other pets been among their idols?”

“Let’s draw back and look at this from a certain distance. We’ll get down to details later.”

I took a deep breath and settled down in the water. Sallustius had a habit of circuitous discourse, but he usually got to the point eventually, and when he did you realized that none of what had gone before was extraneous. He could be an infuriating person, but he had an incisive mind and a fine way of organizing information.

“This fad for astrology has been active in Rome for some time. There have been many practitioners hustling among our bored ladies. What is required to unite these women into something resembling a cult is a really highborn woman who is a part of their circle and has a wonderful knowledge of the subject.”

I ran the list through my mind and came up with nothing. Sallustius was watching me, smirking knowingly and then I realized I was wrong in considering only Roman women. “Cleopatra!”

His eyebrows went up. “You are quick, I confess it. Yes, despite their resentments of her foreignness and her seductive wiles, Rome’s women are fascinated with the Queen of Egypt. The common rabble think she is a native Egyptian, but of course she is actually Greek, and well-born Greeks are respectable.”

“Actually she’s Macedonian, but that’s close enough. I hadn’t considered it. For such an intelligent and educated woman, she is crazed by every form of mysticism imaginable. And I’ve visited that temple in Egypt that has the zodiac set into the ceiling. Astrology made its way from Babylonia to Egypt centuries ago.”

“So for many months now Cleopatra and her Roman friends have been having stargazing parties at her house out on the Janiculum. Her astrologers are always on hand to deliver nebulous pronouncements, advise the ladies on their love lives and their husbands’ careers, and what the future holds for their children.”

“And are some of these astrologers among the calendar crowd on the island?”

“Ah, here is my boy Apollo with some refreshment!” His “boy” Apollo was perhaps the ugliest old man in Rome, a lifelong retainer of the Sallustius family who, according to long rumor, had as a youth been incredibly handsome, hence his name. Whatever his history, he carried wine not in a skin, but in an enormous bottle of green glass that was worth a fortune. The cups he carried were of fine hammered gold and he poured us each a cup. It was wonderful Caecuban.