John Roberts - A Point of Law

“You’re probably right. I’ll just handle him the usual way.” Since a serving magistrate couldn’t be prosecuted, my best tactic would be to stall until after the elections. By the time I stepped down, this pest would have found somebody else to plague.

“Like most ambitious men,” Sallustius said, “he’s poor. He may be amenable to a bribe to drop the charges. Would you like me to sound him out?” How like Sallustius. If I’d shown a liking for his sister, he’d have offered to act as pimp.

“No, I’ll avoid the trouble if I can, but I refuse to buy my way out of a charge of which I’m innocent.”

“I don’t see why not. Innocence rarely exempts a man from the consequences of a false accusation. Counterattack is usually the way to go. Don’t tell me you’ve spent all your money already?”

“Thank you for the news and advice, Sallustius. I’ll deal with this my way.”

I looked around until I spotted Hermes, near Vulcan’s altar, talking me up to a little group of voters. One of the rules was that a candidate could not canvass for votes personally. Instead, our clients and freedmen did it for us. I caught his eye and beckoned.

“You don’t want a drink already, do you?” he asked as he joined me. “It’s going to be a long day.” This insolence was the result of his years as my personal slave. Also, he knew me all too well.

“It’s about to get longer, wretch. Go get my father and any other men of the family who may be standing around and my highest-placed supporters. There’s going to be trouble.”

He grinned. “An attack?” Hermes was an inveterate brawler.

“Not the kind you enjoy. A political offensive from an unexpected quarter.”

“Oh,” he said, downcast. “I’ll find them.”

My mind seethed even as I smiled and shook hands with well-wishers. How serious was this man’s support? How would I counter his charges? How much support could I get behind me? How long could I stall? I was going to need legal advice. For this I would automatically have gone to Cicero, but a sea lay between us that year.

Father limped toward me, his face as grim as a thundercloud. Hortensius Hortalus was with him, as were Metellus Scipio and Creticus and even Cato. Much as I disliked Cato, I was ready to welcome anyone’s support.

“We’ve already heard,” Father said, before I could speak. “How did a worm like Marcus Fulvius set this up without us knowing of it?”

“Because we’ve paid him no notice at all, I don’t doubt,” Hortalus rumbled.

“Whose court was it?” I asked.

“Juventius,” Cato said. He meant Marcus Juventius Laterensis, once a close friend of Clodius.

“Wonderful,” I said. “Even dead, Clodius can cause me trouble.”

“Time is on your side,” Cato said. “With the election coming up, the court will be sitting for only four more days.”

“If Juventius is willing to move fast,” I pointed out, “four days is plenty of time to prosecute me.” I didn’t have to point out that a guilty verdict could prevent me from taking my place among the candidates on election day. Even if I were to be voted in anyway, I could be prevented from assuming office on the new year.

“We have to get your backside planted on that curule chair before the bugger can haul you before a court,” said the eminently practical Creticus.

“Tonight,” Hortalus said, “I’ll go outside the walls and take the auguries. Perhaps I’ll see a sign that the courts can’t meet for the next few days.”

“You’re known as my father’s closest friend,” I said. “You’ll be denounced before the Senate for falsifying auguries, even if you see a thunderbolt strike a night-soaring eagle.”

“I’ll take Claudius Marcellus with me. Nobody will question his auguries.” He did not refer to the Claudius Marcellus who was one of that year’s consuls, nor to the Claudius Marcellus who was to be one of the next year’s consuls, nor yet to the Claudius Marcellus who was consul the year after that, but rather to yet a fourth Claudius Marcellus, who was the oldest member of the College of Augurs and trusted the way we always trust men who are too old to do much harm.

I looked out over the Forum crowd. No uproar yet. I didn’t really expect one. Scurrilous accusations against candidates were among the more common entertainments of any election. Strolling entertainers and vendors were everywhere, doing a great business as always when the voters thronged the City. I wished that I could consult with Julia, whose political acumen exceeded even that of my own family. But she had gone back home. In any case, it would have been a scandal beyond redemption had I been seen discussing politics with my wife right out in public.

“Here he comes!” It was the excited voice of Sallustius. He was still standing close by, eager to pick up gossip from the Metellan faction.

I followed his pointing finger and saw a commotion within the crowd. In the sea of scalps I detected a motion heading our way, the way a shark’s fin cuts the water. As it got closer, the motion resolved itself into a little knot of men striding along purposefully in our direction. In their lead was a tall, light-haired man who had the look of a Forum warrior-the sort who does all of his fighting in the courts. I recognized some of the men behind him as old followers of Clodius. The others were strangers to me.

“Decius Caecilius Metellus!” the man cried as he reached us.

“That’s me,” Father said. “What do you want?”

For an instant the man was nonplussed. His timing had been upset. “Not you! I meant your son.” He leveled a skinny finger toward me.

“Then why didn’t you say so, you whey-faced buffoon? Until I croak, he’s Decius the Younger.” Our faction whooped and clapped. People began to pack the already crowded area, sensing a good show.

“He’s talking to your whelp, you bald-headed old fart!” shouted one of the man’s flunkies.

Father squinted in the man’s direction. “Who’s that? Oh, I remember you. I had your mother flogged from the City for whoring and spreading disease.” Of course, he had no idea who the man was, but he would never let a trifling detail like that stop him.

I was maintaining a dignified silence, which the light-haired man duly noted.

“Can’t you speak Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger? I accuse you of bribery, corruption, oppression of Roman citizens, and collusion with enemies of Rome during your naval operations on Cyprus!”

“And you would be-?” I inquired.

“I am Marcus Fulvius.” He drew himself to his full height, adopting an orator’s pose.

My mouth dropped open. “Not the Marcus Fulvius? The Marcus Fulvius who is renowned in Baiae for public fornication with goats? The Marcus Fulvius who took on an entire auxilia cohort of Libyan perverts until the oil supply ran out? To think Rome has been graced with such a celebrity.” Now the whole Forum was laughing. The man’s face reddened, but he held his ground. He was about to shout something when Cato stepped forward, seized his hand, and turned it palmside up.

“Here’s a hand that never held a sword,” he said with withering scorn, and nobody could pour on the scorn more witheringly than Marcus Porcius Cato. “Listen to me, you small-town nobody. Go put in some time with the legions, distinguish yourself in arms before you dare come to Rome and accuse a veteran of Gaul and Iberia, the crusher of pirates and exposer of a score of traitors.”

This was making a bit much of my military and court record, but the words were deadly earnest and nobody was laughing now. I doubt that it was affection for me speaking. Cato despised men who came from out of town to make their reputations in Rome.