John Roberts - The Tribune's curse

“Clodius said almost the same thing to me earlier today.”

“Even that little weasel is capable of wisdom from time to time.”

“I’d rather not be known as another of Crassus’s toadies, even if some of the other Caecilians have given in.” My family, although still powerful in the Assemblies, had produced no men of great distinction recently. Metellus Pius was dead and his war against Sertorius all but forgotten. The conquest of Crete by Metellus Creticus really hadn’t amounted to much. The Big Three understood that only recent glory counted for anything.

“It’s a chancy time just now,” he admitted. “It’s hard to know exactly how to maneuver and how to vote. I find it all truly enjoyable, but a few years from now things are going to get vicious. Caesar, Pompey, and Crassus will all be heading for Rome and trying for the Dictatorship.”

“They wouldn’t dare!” I protested, with no great conviction.

He smiled indulgently. “Marius dared. Sulla dared. They’ll dare. It’s the main reason I support Cicero so strongly. He’s a strict constitutionalist. If Caesar becomes Dictator, he’ll get rid of me and make Clodius his Master of Horse.” This ancient title meant the Dictator’s number-two man and enforcer.

“And if it’s Crassus or Pompey?”

“Then it’s exile or execution for Clodius and me both. As long as they’re engaged in foreign lands, they need men like us to control the City for them. With the Dictatorship they have it all, and they don’t need us.”

“You’re talking about the death of the Republic,” I said, shivering.

“It’s been dying for a long time, Decius. Now come along. Cast off this gloom. Let’s go talk to my men. Twenty of my best have agreed to fight in your funeral munera for Metellus Celer at a minimum charge, as a favor to me.”

This cheered me, and I tried to shake off my mood of foreboding. Milo had some great retired champions working for him, men who were accustomed to getting huge fees to come out of retirement to fight in special Games. I grabbed another cup as we walked back toward his meeting hall.

“You drank too much again,” Julia informed me as we crawled into our detestably expensive litter.

“Do you think I don’t know that, my dear? It’s been an unsettling evening.”

“You thought so? I had a wonderful time. Fausta has given me so many ideas.”

“I feared that,” I said, pinching the bridge of my long, Metellan nose.

“And Lisas is such an amusing dinner companion. You really must get us an invitation to the next reception at the Egyptian Embassy. I hear it is the most astonishing place.”

“Such an invitation will be forthcoming. Lisas is now cultivating me, even though an aedile has nothing to do with foreign affairs.”

“He knows you’re on your way up,” she said, patting my knee complacently. “So what soured your evening?”

“A little interview with our esteemed consul.” I described our ominous conversation.

“That loathsome creature!”

“Oh, I don’t know, someday I’ll be old and decrepit, too, if the gods grant me a long life.”

“That is not what I mean, and you know it!” she said, swatting me with her fan. “I knew him when I was a little girl, and he was still only middle-aged and relatively handsome. He was loathsome even then, the money-grubbing miser!”

“We can’t all be patricians. As it occurs, I fully agree with your assessment of his character. Years ago, Clodia told me that Roman politics was a game in which all contended against all and there must eventually be one winner.”

“She is an odious woman.”

“But politically astute. It seems to be the general consensus that Crassus is soon to be removed from the playing board. All the rest have died or dropped out except for Caesar and Pompey. I fear civil war in the offing.”

“Nonsense. Pompey is a political dolt, and he has separated himself from his veterans for too long. If Uncle Caius is forced to assume the Dictatorship-which is, I remind you, a constitutional office-I am sure that he will take only whatever measures are necessary to restore the Republic. He will then dismiss his lictors and hand his extraordinary powers back to the Senate, like all our great Dictators of the past.”

So spoke the doting patrician niece. Her pessimistic, plebeian husband was far less confident. But he had many other things on his mind just then.

By the next morning I was a bit fuzzy headed from the wine but otherwise ready to face another agreeable day of campaigning. Any day that began without the trumpets blowing to signal a dawn attack by the Gauls was a good day, as far as I was concerned. I left Julia snoring delicately and aristocratically behind me, splashed some water on my face, and went in search of breakfast. In my bachelor days I breakfasted in bed, but that luxury had gone the way of most of my bachelor habits.

Eating breakfast was one of those degenerate foreign practices to which I subscribed enthusiastically. Cassandra had laid a small table in the courtyard with melon slices, cold chicken, and warm, heavily watered wine. Nearby, Hermes, stripped to a loincloth, ran in place, warming up for a morning at the ludus . I noticed a slight hitch in his steps and looked for the cause.

“Come here, boy,” I said. Apprehensively, he came to my table, and I saw that he had a fresh, two-inch cut high on his left thigh, neatly stitched.

“That’s Asklepiodes’ needlework, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes. He said it’s nothing, just a skin cut. Didn’t even nick the muscle. In fact-”

I brought my palm crashing down on the table, nearly upsetting my wine, which Hermes rescued. “I have ordered you never to train with sharp weapons! I’ll not have my property risked needlessly!”

“But all of the top men of the school-”

“You are none such! Practice with sharp weapons is strictly for veterans, the victors of many combats. They are men who earn fortunes by their skill and have no prospect of a future. As long as you belong to me, you are to stick to wooden swords. Sharp swords are for when we’re in a war zone.”

“It won’t happen again, I promise,” he said contritely. The evil little wretch was planning to disobey me at the first opportunity. He always did.

“It was Leonidas, wasn’t it?”

He looked surprised. “How did you know?”

“That backhand slice with the tip of the sica is his trademark. You were leading with your left leg and holding your shield too high. He always watches for that. If it had been a serious fight, he could have taken your leg off. The man’s won thirty-two fights that I know of. You have no business sparring with him. Stick to the regular trainers and students of your own level. Do you understand me?”

He hung his head with total insincerity. “Yes, sir.”

“Then be off with you, and thank all the gods that you don’t have to attend my morning calls.” He was out the front door without bothering to put on his tunic. I returned to my breakfast, not totally displeased. If a champion like Leonidas thought Hermes was worth sparring with, he must be coming along nicely. Leonidas could behead flies buzzing around his helmet. The nick on the thigh had been a well-meant warning.

My clients met me in my atrium, and we went off to my father’s house. As always it was mobbed with his clients. Since I was standing for office, I usually just paid my respects at the door, but this time his steward said that the old man wanted to speak with me. Knowing that this boded ill, I went in.

My father, the elder Decius, was one of the head men of gens Caecilia. He had held every public office including the Censorship and had commanded armies in the field, and his voice was one of the most respected in the curia . It was his continued longevity that kept me a legal minor. He could have manumitted me with a simple ceremony, but the old villain wasn’t about to relinquish his hold. I found him alone in his study.