John Roberts - A Point of Law

As a candidate for an office with imperium, it was my first order of business to greet the candidates I was supporting for the junior offices in order to take each by the hand and tell everyone what a splendid fellow he was.

First to get my hand was Lucius Antonius, standing for quaestor that year. Accompanying him was his brother Caius, who was himself serving as quaestor and would be standing down with the upcoming election. These were the brothers of the famous Marcus Antonius, who was serving with Caesar in Gaul. I had always gotten on well with these brothers, who were bad men but good company.

“Best of luck, Lucius!” I exclaimed, clapping him on the shoulder and raising a cloud of chalk dust. There was always a temptation to overdo it with the chalk when standing for office.

“And to you, Decius,” the younger brother said, his eyes slightly unfocused and his voice a bit unsteady. At the wine already, I thought. Typical Antonian.

“I suppose you have your purple-bordered toga already ordered,” Caius said, referring to my aforementioned certainty of election.

“As luck would have it, there was some Tyrian dye among the items I acquired in Cyprus,” I said. No harm in reminding everybody who’d missed my monument dedication of my latest distinction. “Julia wove me a new toga and dyed the border herself. It’s on the drying rack right now. A very handsome garment, I might add.” Well, my wife had supervised her women while they did the actual weaving, and, of course she had called in a professional dyer to do the border. That purple dye is the most expensive substance in the world, even more dear than saffron or silk.

“Some people have all the luck,” said Lucius. “By the time our brother gets through with Gaul there won’t be any gold, wine, or good-looking women left to steal.”

“It’ll be another ten years before there’s more pirate loot to pick up,” Caius said tipsily. “If Pompey conquers Parthia, there’ll be nothing left for the rest of us.”

“I suppose there’ll always be India,” I said, not really serious. I had no ambitions to be a conqueror so I didn’t take the problem as seriously as those two dedicated thieves.

“Too far,” Caius said. “You have to march for a year just to get there. Now Egypt-”

“Forget it,” I said. “The Senate will never let even an Antonius take Egypt.” This was a statement fraught with great portent, had I but known it.

“Yes, just getting elected quaestor is problem enough for now,” Caius said. “And, Decius, don’t worry about Fulvius. You know how to handle people like him.”

“Yes,” said Lucius, “the man is nothing. Don’t let him distract you from the election.”

“What? Fulvius?” But they were already turning away to return the greetings of the latest batch of well-wishers.

I walked away wondering at this enigmatic advice. Which Fulvius did they mean? There were ten or twelve senators of that name known to me, and any number of equites . Which of them had it in for me?

I took up my place with the other candidates for the praetorship. After an hour of loud hailing and greeting, I was approached by one of my least favorite Romans, Sallustius Crispus. The year before he had been Tribune of the People, and in that powerful office had established himself as Caesar’s champion. Upon the death of Clodius, he had tried to fill those vacated sandals. Since he considered me Caesar’s man, too, he acted as if we were great friends.

Sullustius fancied himself a historian, and for twelve years he had tried to weasel from me everything I knew about the sorry Catiline business. He was an insinuating, sleazy wretch with overlarge ambitions. Actually, I suppose he was a typical Roman politician of the day and no worse than many others I knew. I just couldn’t help disliking him.

One thing was for certain: with his love of gossip, Sallustius would know who this Fulvius might be and what sort of grievance he had.

“Fine day for politicking, eh, Decius Caecilius? I’d have been at your monument dedication, but I was seeing my brother off.” His younger brother, surnamed Canini for some reason I never learned, had been another of the year’s quaestors.

“Where is he bound?” I asked, waving heartily to a band of my Subura neighbors who were there to support me and others of our district standing for office that year.

“Syria. He’s to be proquaestor for Bibulus.”

“He’ll be safe, then. Bibulus is a cautious man. He’s doing as little fighting as possible and leaving what there is to his legates.” Bibulus had been careful to arrive late to take up administration of his province. Young Cassius Longinus, a mere proquaestor who had survived the debacle at Carrhae, had been successfully driving the Parthians back until he arrived. The boy deserved a triumph for it; but with the tiny forces at his command he had been unable to score a decisive victory, and he was considered too young and too low-ranking for such an honor. So little praise for so much accomplishment may well account for his later hostility toward Caesar-but I get ahead of myself.

“Just as well,” Sallustius was saying. “The talents of my family lie in the literary field, not the military.” I would have said neither, but I didn’t.

“A little while ago I was told to ignore somebody named Fulvius. Who is he and why should I ignore him?”

“You haven’t heard?” he said gleefully. Sallustius loved to be the bearer of bad news. “This morning one Marcus Fulvius denounced you before the extortion court for corruption and plundering in Cyprus and adjacent waters.”

“What!” At my shout heads turned so violently that you could hear vertebrae popping all over the Forum.

“Calm yourself, Decius.” He smiled. “The man’s just an aspiring politician out to make a name for himself. Prosecuting a successful man for corruption is how it’s usually done. It’s how Cicero made his reputation, you know.”

“Yes, but Verres really did plunder Sicily with legendary thoroughness. I did nothing of the sort in Cyprus!”

“What difference does that make?” he asked, honestly puzzled. “You should be glad it’s an accusation of extortion and plunder. It might’ve been for screwing a Vestal Virgin, and think how undignified the trial would’ve been then.”

“I’m to take it that his accusation contained more than just a lot of noise and wind?”

“He says he has a number of witnesses to back him up.”

“Cyprians? He’ll be laughed out of Rome if he hauls a pack of half-Greek mongrels before a Roman jury.”

“He claims he has Roman citizens ready to swear before the gods what a bad boy you were.”

“Damn!” I had offended a number of Romans during my stay on Cyprus. Most were businessmen and financiers, who were profiting handsomely from the pirates’ activities. “Who is this man and where is he from?” I suspected Sallustius would know, and he didn’t disappoint me.

“He’s from Baiae, been here in Rome for the last few months, making connections and learning politics from high-placed friends. I don’t doubt he’s had some expert advice as to how to go about it.”

“I’ve spent so much time away from Rome these past few years it’s hard to keep track of everyone. Baiae, you say?” I tried to make some sort of connection. Then it dawned on me. “Is this man Clodius’s brother-in-law?”

He grinned his ugly grin. “He’s Fulvia’s brother.”

Fulvia, the widow of my old enemy, had quite possibly the worst reputation of any woman in Rome.

“But since Clodius was killed, she’s taken up with Marcus Antonius, and he bears me no ill-will. It doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re just a convenient target, Decius. You’re just back from overseas with a little glory and a lot of money, and you’re standing for praetor. Why assume that it’s personal?”