John Roberts - A Point of Law

“If he turns out to be Syrian or Egyptian, I will be of little use to you, I fear.”

“I strongly doubt that the author knew any such language. He was of an old Latin family. His sister has lived in Rome for many years. The family is distinguished but not for scholarship. I would venture to say that he would be lost in any language save Greek or Latin.”

“That will simplify things. Would it be possible to leave these letters with me?”

“They are of no use in my possession, and any excuse to call upon you again is welcome.”

“You need no excuse, Senator. Please feel free to call upon me anytime. I have no lectures scheduled for tomorrow. I find that election time in Rome is not a good time for much of anything. I’ll devote the morning to this. If you can come by tomorrow afternoon, perhaps I’ll have made some headway.”

“Depend upon it, I’ll be here,” I told her.

I found Hermes waiting outside. He had brought along a small bodyguard of men from my neighborhood who were under obligation to me.

“I believe the lady is rather taken with you,” Asklepiodes said slyly as he took his leave.

“If this were another city, and if I were not as married as I am, I would be greatly taken with her,” I said. “But I think I am in enough danger as it is.”

“Life’s little complexities keep us from growing old too soon,” he assured me. “Please keep me informed how this fascinating business progresses.”

We walked home without incident, and I dismissed my little guard with my thanks. Julia was waiting up when I went inside.

“I hear you’ve been up to your old activities,” she said, as she took my toga and directed the slaves to lay out a late supper. “It’s been a long time since you practiced house breaking and burglary and escaping through the alleys and over rooftops.”

“You’ve been listening to Hermes. That’s always a mistake.”

“He’s acting innocent as a sacrificial lamb. It’s the rest of the City buzzing about your activities.”

“Oh. Well, gossip is unreliable, you know.” I picked up a chicken leg.

“Tell me your news, and I’ll tell you mine. And stop evading.”

So I began with my visit to Fulvia’s house and my encounter with Curio.

“He is a man with a scandalous history,” she commented, “but very courageous, and it looks as if he’s chosen the right side now. He spoke up for you in the contio this evening by the way.”

“He said that he would. Tell me about that.”

“When you’ve told me the rest of your day’s doings. Have some of that soup. It will keep you from catching cold running around like this in the winter.”

Obediently, I sipped at a cup of her grandmother’s cold remedy. It was broth of stewed chicken laced with garum and vinegar. Not bad, actually. I told her about our visit to the goldsmith’s guild and the lapidary.

“That was a waste of time,” she commented.

“You never know. Then, of course, I went to get those encoded letters examined by an expert.”

“Which one?” she asked.

“Well, I went to Asklepiodes first, and he recommended Callista.”

Julia was silent for a moment. “Callista?” The name sounded ominous in her mouth.

“Yes, she’s an Alexandrian, quite brilliant in-”

“I know who she is. She’s said to be quite beautiful.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Her nose is a little long for my taste. Anyway, I didn’t call on her for her looks, but for her expertise in Greek and mathematics.”

“You went to the home of a foreign woman at night, without invitation?” The dark clouds were gathering.

“It’s a sort of open salon she holds for intellectual sorts.” I floundered about for something to allay her suspicions, which were all too justified. “My dear,” I said, “Marcus Brutus was there.”

The clouds seemed to recede. “Brutus. Well, the gathering must have been respectable anyway.”

“Boringly so. Incidentally, Brutus seems to regard Caesar with some hostility.” I told her what he had said. Nothing distracted Julia as effectively as an insult to her revered uncle. But she didn’t seem concerned.

“Brutus has some foolishly old-fashioned notions. Caesar thinks the world of him. He’ll come around. Now tell me what Callista said about the letters.”

So I told her what the woman had said. “I’ll call on her tomorrow to find out what she’s learned.”

“Not if you’re under arrest, you won’t.”

“What?” I all but choked on my wine, a light Falernian, as I recall.

“The vote in the contio was close, but you are to be tried for the murder of Marcus Fulvius.”

“Ridiculous! There is no evidence!”

To my surprise, she leaned over and kissed me tenderly. “Decius, I think I love you most of all when you are being foolish and naive. Surely you understand that you are the only man in Rome who cares about things like evidence. Trials are not about evidence. They are not about guilt or innocence. They are about friends and enemies. Do you have more friends than enemies?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Then you’ll probably be vindicated. But you may also find that you have enemies you knew nothing about.”

“I’ve already discovered one: Marcus Fulvius, although he’s no longer numbered among the living. And whoever is behind him.” Another thought struck me. I told her about Caesar’s veterans arriving.

She clapped her hands like a child. “Wonderful! They all know you. We can count on their support.” Then she frowned. “But men who’ve spent years in Gaul won’t be in the jury pool.”

“What form is the trial to take?”

“You’re to be tried before the concilium plebis , with a jury of three hundred equites.” Very large juries were the rule at that time. It was thought to be difficult to bribe so many people.

“When?”

“On the third day from this.”

“What? We only found the bugger dead this morning! It’s customary to give an accused man ten days to get his defense together.”

“Do you want to be praetor or not? They could delay the election no longer than that. Conviction or acquittal, the election goes ahead in four days.”

That was that. Nothing to be done about it. “What was the mood of the crowd? Did your sources say?”

“It’s a sideshow to the general spectacle of the elections. You’re a popular man with the plebs and nobody knew Fulvius, so there was no crowd baying for your blood. Some good people spoke up for you, and the ones demanding a trial appealed to hatred of the aristocrats.”

“Running according to form then,” I said, refilling my cup. “What about the Tribune, Manilius? Was he rabble-rousing?”

“From what I heard, he conducted it well, shutting up anyone who spoke too long, putting a quick stop to shouting matches.”

“I wonder which side he’s on,” I said.

“That one is easy,” she said. “Until he proves otherwise, consider him your enemy.”

By morning no lictors had appeared to arrest me, so I presumed I was free to go around as I pleased, which I proceeded to do.

That morning featured a new distraction for the citizens, the arrival of Caesar’s men on the Campus Martius. For the moment I was forgotten as everyone flocked out through the northwestern gates to the old drill field to welcome the heroes of Gaul. Being under arms they could not enter the City, but elections were held on the Campus Martius so they didn’t have to.

The field had become greatly built up in the last generation, with the homes and businesses around the Circus Flaminius and Pompey’s theater complex, which was practically a village in itself, but there was still plenty of ground devoted to military drill. By the time I got there, at least two cohorts’ tents were already pitched, and more soldiers were arriving, an endless stream of them coming down the Via Flaminia.