John Roberts - The Year of Confusion

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“This calendar is only one of his reforms. He has a great many more to institute, and some of them are huge and radical. He is going to completely rebuild the city: new forums, expanded walls, vast public works, even a permanent stone amphitheater.”

“So? Such changes are long overdue. Rome is the hub of a great empire and it is little more than an Italian city-state. That needs to change.”

“That’s the least of it. He wants to reform the Senate as well.”

“I can’t say that’s a bad idea either.”

“He plans to bring in provincials. Not just long-time provincials like those in northern Italy and southern Gaul, but Spaniards and Gauls from his newly conquered provinces. All of them his own clients, of course, because he is the one who got the citizenship for them.”

That sobered her. “So soon? I knew he had plans for them, but I had thought in a generation, perhaps two, after they have had a chance to become fully Romanized, and then just the sons of chieftains who have been his allies. Does he really plan to extend the franchise to this generation?”

“Within the next year,” I told her, “and the Germans won’t be far behind. Who knows what plans he has for the Parthians.” At that time Caesar was about to embark upon a war with Parthia, to recover the eagles lost by Crassus at Carrhae and retrieve Roman honor in that part of the world.

“It is radical,” Julia agreed, “and it won’t go down well with the remaining conservatives, the Brutii and their allies.”

“It won’t go down well with anyone in Rome,” I said, “but Caesar thinks his position as dictator makes him unassailable. I know otherwise.”

“I must speak with him.”

“He doesn’t listen to anyone any more, not even his favorite niece. Give it a try, by all means, but don’t expect results. Caesar listens only to Caesar these days.”

The next few days I spent arguing or fleeing as whole delegations of aggrieved citizens came to protest about the new calendar. At first it was businessmen, whose rents or other income were customarily calculated by the month, concerned about the phantom months so blithely dismissed by Caesar. Furthermore, word got about with incredible swiftness and soon the priests of a hundred temples descended upon Rome, furious that festivals had to be delayed or eliminated altogether, and what was I going to do about it? Then there were the officials of towns who depended upon the crowds of celebrants who came to town for those same festivals every year and left a great deal of money in their passing.

Like Roscius, there were many prominent men who had planned munera for December to honor their deceased ancestors, that being the traditional month for such obsequies, and the commons were furious at being cheated out of these shows, which had become as popular as any of the official games.

Then there were the heirs. The law was quite strict concerning the waiting time between the death of a propertied man and the day his heirs could claim their inheritance. A good many were supposed to lay their hands upon the old man’s money and property during those three missing months, and their patrimonies and all bequests were now in a state of uncertainty. Naturally, they all blamed me .

From a position of great esteem, I had suddenly become the most unpopular man not just in Rome, but in the whole of Italy. Naturally, I took my distress to Caesar who, just as naturally, was highly unimpressed.

“They will grow used to it,” he told me. “Just wait them out.”

“They won’t grow used to it anytime soon,” I said. “And then it will be too late for me. I am being threatened with massive lawsuits by men who believe that I have cost them a fortune.”

“They cannot sue. You have broken no law.”

“Since when has that meant anything to rich men faced with the prospect of growing less rich? They want to hurl me from the Tarpeian Rock then drag me on a hook down the Tiber steps! There is no greater crime than costing rich men money!”

“They’ll make it all back in the next year,” Caesar insisted.

“They don’t understand that! Our old calendar was unwieldy and difficult to understand, but it was customary and people were used to it. Now they have to learn something new. People hate to have to learn something new.”

“All too true,” Caesar sighed. “A new calendar, a new constitution, a new vision of Rome and the world, people balk at these things. They must be guided by those of us who have vision.”

“You’re getting philosophical again,” I warned. “They don’t want philosophy. They want their money and their amusements. Withhold these things from them and they withhold their favor, and that is something even a dictator must avoid.”

He sighed. “Send the worst cases to me. I will somehow find time to hear their complaints and satisfy them. I have truly momentous matters demanding my attention, but I suppose I must deal with these people, if you can’t.”

If this last was supposed to shame me, it was one of Caesar’s rare failures. I didn’t care in the least if he considered me incapable. The less work he saddled me with the better, as far as I was concerned. Of course, he’d just find something else for me to do.

Senators had little rest during Caesar’s dictatorship. He thought an idle Senate was a breeding ground for plotters and that senators owed Rome service in return for their privileged status. In truth, the Senate had grown disgracefully lethargic in the previous years. Except for occasional military or governing duties, both of which were expected to be profitable, few senators felt inclined to bestir themselves on behalf of the state.

With Caesar in charge, we were allowed no such lassitude. Every man who wore the senator’s stripe had to be ready at all times to undertake demanding duties and to travel to any part of our empire to perform them. From overseeing repair work on the roads of Italy to curbing the behavior of a client king to planning a giant banquet for the whole citizenry, we had to be ready to carry out his orders at once. The senators didn’t like it, but they also disliked the prospect of being dead, which was a distinctly likely alternative.

So I continued to press the advantages of the new calendar upon a sullen public, and Caesar was able to placate or intimidate the worst complainers. I thought the worst was over when, on the first day of the new year and the new calendar, Hermes came to me with distressing news.

“There’s been a murder,” he said without preamble.

“I believe there is a court to handle just such cases.”

“It’s a dead foreigner.”

“That narrows it. Let the praetor peregrinus handle it.”

“A dead foreign astronomer,” he told me.

I knew things were going too well. “Which one?”

“Demades.”

I sighed mournfully. “Well, he’s too old for it to be an aggrieved husband. I don’t suppose he just wandered into the wrong alley and got his throat cut for whatever was in his purse?”

“I think we’d better go look,” he said.

“It’s the first day of the year,” I told him. “I should go sacrifice at the Temple of Janus.”

“You never bothered to before,” he pointed out.

“That’s irrelevant. Today I’d rather sacrifice than go see some old dead Greek.”

“You want to wait until Caesar orders you to?”

He was right. Caesar held those astronomers in high esteem and would take the murder of one as a personal affront. “Oh, well. I suppose I must. Who brought the news?”

He called in a slave from the Temple of Aesculapius, identifiable by the little serpent-wound staff he carried as a sign that he had permission to leave the temple enclosure. I questioned him but the man knew only that Demades was dead and he had been sent to summon me. He insisted that there was no slave gossip about the matter. I sent him back with word that I would be there soon and turned to Hermes.