John Roberts - A Point of Law

I patted her on the back as I led her from the Rostra. After a while the hiccups subsided and she could talk.

“They waited for him outside my house. My house , Decius!” As if she would have been less offended had they picked some other street.

“It is because they knew he was to be found there. How badly is he hurt?”

“I left him weak and bleeding badly. I know you think I’m heartless for leaving him there and coming down here, but my personal physician is with him. You needn’t have brought your Greek. It was very thoughtful of you though.”

“It was the least I could do.”

“It was just too much! ” she went on, getting her breath back as I led her down the steps with an arm about her shoulders. “I mean, first Grandfather and Great-Uncle Tiberius, then Clodius, now Curio! Are they determined to leave me entirely bereft?” It did not escape me that she had not included her late brother among those for whom she grieved.

“Fulvia,” I said soothingly, “you are a high-born Roman lady, and you must learn to accept the fact that, in the course of your life, about half your menfolk are going to die violently.”

I looked around and what I saw wasn’t greatly reassuring. Everywhere there were senators, many of them pointing and glaring at Fulvia. But even more of them were frowning in the direction of the soldiers, and the words I overheard weren’t pretty. They would not soon forget that Caesar’s legionaries had shown such insolence and disrespect toward senators and had handled them violently.

As for the soldiers, those tough, battle-scarred men seemed not at all abashed by this senatorial hostility. They looked as if they had rather enjoyed the little tussle and were now back to basking in the admiration of the populace. The plebs and a few senators who were Caesar’s supporters saluted Fulvia respectfully. It had been a bravura performance. After this, the upcoming elections were sure to be anti-climactic.

“You weren’t entirely candid with me, Fulvia,” I chided her. “You said you had no gift for public speaking.”

“It isn’t from training or inclination,” she said. “It is just that sometimes I get so angry! It isn’t rhetorical polish you hear, it’s passion.”

“Well, we’re all doomed if you ever take it up as a profession.” I saw someone coming toward us like a thundercloud. “Uh-oh, here comes Pompey. Let me talk to him, keep your eyes modestly downcast and your mouth shut.”

“Why? Do you think I should be afraid of him?”

Pompey gave me a curt nod. “That was excellently done, Metellus. We tend to forget how dangerous it is, having so many people in the City as we do at this time of year.” He turned his glowering countenance toward Fulvia. “As for you, you indecent young woman, it is your great luck that I choose not to have you arrested for creating a public scandal. It is a pity that you’re a widow because by rights your father or husband should flog you like a rebellious slave. As it is, I ought to-”

She raised her blotched, tear-stained face and stared him fearlessly in the eyes. “Why don’t you go screw yourself, you pompous, jumped-up toad! And by what right do you address a single word to me? You have no imperium here in Italy, only in Spain. You are only allowed your lictors by courtesy. Everyone else in Rome has gotten used to jumping when Pompey speaks, but I don’t! Now step aside and keep out of my way or I’ll set my slaves on you.” As if she had any with her.

Pompey looked as if someone had dropped an anvil on his head. Everyone within hearing range gasped, scandalized and delighted. When he had his voice back, Pompey spoke to me.

“Metellus, get this woman to her home and chain her up. The Republic is not safe while she’s walking around loose.” He whirled around and stalked off, his spine actually trembling with fury. People sprang from his path as if they’d discovered hot coals under their feet.

“You don’t take advice very well, do you, Fulvia?” I said.

“Never. Escort me home, Decius.”

Like a deferential valet, I obeyed her. Hermes joined us, smiling hugely. A day like this didn’t come along very often. And I was pondering this new side of Fulvia. I had known her, slightly, for years, but only as a member of that almost laboriously scandalous social set headed by Clodius and Clodia. This fearless, determined woman who could not be cowed or intimidated was new to me.

As we crossed the Forum from west to east, headed toward the Palatine and her home, we acquired an escort of citizens, among them a number of Caesar’s soldiers. It was the last thing I wanted, but it was unavoidable. Romans prized this means of showing their support for someone they respected, and a great man sometimes found himself embarrassed by a self-appointed escort of thousands. By the time we reached the Clivus Victoriae there were several hundred in our train, and nobody seemed to think it odd that I, Clodius’s deadly enemy, was taking his widow home.

At her door Fulvia thanked them graciously, feigning hoarseness to avoid a prolonged oration. Then she went inside, closely followed by Hermes and me. As soon as the door was closed behind us she turned and removed my toga.

“Here, Decius, and I thank you for the loan.”

I took it from her hands and, with Hermes, goggled as she went about the atrium, calling for her slaves. We were seeing only what the whole city of Rome had just seen, but somehow, in this private setting, it seemed far more intimate. Her slaves, frightened and astonished, hustled her into the rear of the house while she called for her wardrobe mistress and her cosmetician and her hairdresser.

“Well,” Hermes said, “we don’t get to see something like that very often.”

“As well for our hearts that we don’t,” I told him. “My own is near apoplexy as it is. Now, where is Curio? I want a few words with him.”

“I saw Asklepiodes’s litter up the street by a fountain, with the bearers and the fighters lounging around it, so he must be here somewhere.”

I caught sight of Echo, the comely Greek housekeeper, and beckoned her over. She led us to a bedroom that opened off the peristyle, where Asklepiodes stood by a bandaged Curio, while a man in Syrian robes looked on with disapproval. This had to be Fulvia’s personal physician, resentful at being usurped by the illustrious Greek.

“Decius Caecilius!” Curio said, seeming quite spirited for a man at death’s door. “How good of you to come. My new friend, Asklepiodes, tells me that my betrothed took my injury rather too much to heart.”

“You would have enjoyed the spectacle,” I told him. “I hope someday she will perform my funeral oration. I’d like to be remembered for something. I take it that the severity of your wounds is not as great as has been feared? If so, I rejoice at the news.”

“No, I’m fine, but don’t tell anybody. This will do me endless credit at the election.” He wore a bandage around his temples and some blood was seeping through it. “The scalp wound made it look bad. You know how copiously they bleed. The rogues set upon me as soon as I stepped out the doorway, and when I staggered back inside I looked like I’d been through a taurobolium.” He referred to the odd initiation ceremony practiced by the Phrygian cult of Mithras. New members pledge themselves to the god by standing in a pit covered by a bronze grate. A bull is led onto the grate and its throat cut, showering the novices with its blood.

“How many were there? Did you get a good look at them?”

“It was only beginning to get light. To be truthful I was still half asleep and a little the worse for last night’s drinking and-well, other things. I think there were three of them, armed with daggers and clubs.”