John Roberts - Oracle of the Dead

For breakfast we had cherries in cream to go along with the fresh, hot bread I insisted on every morning. Cherries had been introduced into Italy only about seventeen years before this time, and they were still something exotic and a bit of a luxury. Lucullus had brought cherry trees from Asia as part of his triumphal loot after his victories over Mithridates and Tigranes. He had planted a lavish orchard, and had made seedlings and cuttings available at nominal cost.

Julia finished a dish of them and called for more. “Long after people have forgotten who Mithridates was,” she said wistfully, “they will praise Lucullus for the gift of cherries.” She was passionately fond of the little fruit, and had a cook whose only employment was dreaming up new ways to prepare and present them.

“An estimable accomplishment,” I admitted. “It’s been my misfortune to campaign in places already well picked over, or else that have nothing of culinary interest to offer. Britannia is just more of Gaul, only colder, and the Germans eat little except meat.” These two being the only places I had visited ahead of most Romans. Egypt and Cyprus and the rest were well-worn territory where we’d already looted whatever was useful.

Along with her second helping, Julia received a letter. She opened it and read while popping cherries into her mouth. As usual she took her time. From Uncle Julius she had learned the useful skill of reading silently, something I had never fully mastered. I dipped hot bread in a pot of honey and waited, knowing that it was no use trying to hurry her. From the intensity of her attention, I knew that it was something significant. Making me wait was annoying to me, something she enjoyed.

“Well, who’s it from?” I demanded at last.

“It’s from my aunt Atia.” This woman was actually a niece of Julius Caesar, married to Caius Octavius, who had been proconsul in Macedonia and had died about eight years previously. Octavius had been what we called novus homo, a “new man,” meaning that he was the first of his family to achieve curule rank at Rome. After his death she had married the very distinguished Lucius Marcius Philippus.

“Well, what does she say?”

“She tells me that young Octavius is the darling of the public. You’ll recall that he delivered the eulogy at his grandmother’s funeral last year. Everyone was astonished that so young a boy could speak with such dignity and eloquence.”

“I remember the event.” I had attended the funeral, since there was a family connection, but I was busy politicking for the office of praetor and paid little attention to the speakers.

“Atia hints that Caesar may wish to adopt young Octavius.”

This almost made me choke on a cherry. It wasn’t so surprising that Caesar might want to adopt. He was famously infertile, despite his multiple marriages and innumerable affairs. The death of his single, beloved daughter had devastated him and severed the last connection between him and her husband, Pompey. But little Octavius?

“Why would Caesar want to adopt that wretched little brat?” I exclaimed.

“He is of the noblest lineage, at least on his mother’s side,” Julia said. “Caesar has spent a great deal of time with him and is clearly impressed with his intelligence and potential.”

“Then he’s losing his grip. There are plenty of others with family connections that are better candidates for adoption. Even Brutus, dull as he is.”

“You only think he’s dull because he’s a serious student of philosophy. Do you know what I think? I think you secretly imagined that Caesar might favor you.”

“Me!” I sputtered.

“Admit it! You’ve been close to him, you married his niece, you were his closest confidant in Gaul, you practically wrote his account of the Gallic War yourself.”

“I was a glorified secretary, transcribing his wretched scrawl into something readable. At best I amused him, which is a poor recommendation for adoption. Besides, he’s barely ten years older than I am.”

“That is a nonsensical objection. Men adopt sons older than themselves, for sound political reasons. Clodius, for instance, was a patrician. He wanted to stand for the office of Tribune of the People, which is barred to patricians. So he had himself adopted into a plebeian family, his adoptive father a man his own age.”

“That particular adoption was met with a good deal of senatorial opposition.”

“It was an extreme example, I admit. But it was done, and the adoption of young Octavius by Julius Caesar makes far more political sense.”

“I suppose,” I sighed, no longer very interested. “After all, what is there to inherit? It’s not as if he’s passing on his offices, which must be won politically. He’s built a substantial fortune where he used to have a mountain of debt, that’s something. Otherwise, there’s the prestige of a very ancient patrician name. He’ll get nominated for some of the priesthoods, at least.”

“Decius, envy ill becomes you.”

“Envy? Where did that come from?” However, she would say no more, for which I was thankful.

That morning, I held court. Ordinarily, I would have sat in one of the nearby towns, but it seemed that the countryside had come to me instead, so I employed my temporary tribunal on the temple site. Since it had become as noisy as a Greek funeral, I had my lictors call for silence. When the noise abated a little, I addressed the mob.

“This is not a festival day, no matter what people around here seem to think. It is a day appointed for official business. I won’t put a stop to your activities, but I insist upon decorum and quiet. Anything boisterous will be heavily fined.” A threat to a man’s purse is usually more effective than a threat to his body. Things quieted down and I proceeded with what was almost a routine court day: a Syrian merchant accused of selling an inferior dye as the pure murex (I dismissed the case for lack of evidence); a Cretan slave dealer who accused his citizen colleague of embezzlement (I sentenced the citizen to be sold into slavery, and would have liked to give the Cretan the same treatment).

I was about to adjourn for the afternoon when I saw an odd group of men making their way toward my podium. There were about a dozen of them, all wearing togas, some with senator’s stripes on their tunics, a few wearing red sandals with the ivory crescent of the patrician fastened at the ankle. In the forefront was a man who walked barefoot. He wasn’t even wearing a tunic, just an old-fashioned toga wrapped around his stocky, muscular body.

I covered my eyes and groaned. “The gods have deserted me. Cato is here.”

“Did you forget to sacrifice?” Hermes asked.

“It must have been a greater offense than that.” Marcus Porcius Cato was my least favorite senator and almost my least favorite Roman, now that Clodius was dead. The men who constantly accompanied him were what we had come to call “Catonians”; men who admired or professed to admire Cato’s harsh, abrasive style. Most of them were just looking for an excuse to be rude.

“Hail, Praetor!” Cato yelled, saluting. He was always a stickler for the honors due public office.

“And a fine afternoon to you, Marcus Porcius. I think it’s time to break for lunch. Will you join me?” My lunch was already laid out beneath an awning nearby. A praetor usually has guests, so there was always at least enough for twenty people on the tables. As soon as I left the podium, the fair went back to full roar.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” I said, as we took our seats. No couches for an informal luncheon like this.

“I didn’t expect to find you presiding over a country fair.”

“Sometimes these things happen. Are you on your way to Sicily?” He had served as praetor a few years before, during the consulship of Domitius and Claudius.