John Roberts - The Tribune's curse

He smiled conspiratorially. “What could be more common and vulgar than wealth?”

“I wouldn’t know. Such vulgarity as I’ve achieved has been in spite of my poverty.”

He laughed heartily, a real feat for a man with no sense of humor. “But money is very necessary. We must have money if the Republic is to live. We need money to buy votes in the Assemblies and to bribe the juries in our lawsuits. You’re embarked upon a tenure of the most costly of offices. And you have a new, patrician wife. You’ll find that they have expensive tastes.”

I took another swallow of his wine, which was tasting better as I drank. Everything he’d said was damnably true. “I get the impression that you’re leading up to something, Publius.”

“Just that there is no need for you to suffer unduly for your service to the State. I think it’s disgraceful that citizens should be enslaved to moneylenders.”

“You’ll never lose votes by flogging the moneylenders,” I said. “But I don’t see how that affects my case.”

“Don’t be dense, Decius. Wouldn’t you rather owe one man who will never come dunning you for payment than be beholden to fifty little bankers? I know some of the men in your family are willing to ease the burden, but relatives are worse than usurers when it comes to lending money.”

“I know you aren’t speaking on your own behalf, Publius. You aren’t that rich. In fact, there is only one man in Rome who has both the money and the interest to assume my debts so casually.”

“I knew you were only pretending to be dense.”

I sighed. “You weren’t always a friend to Crassus.”

“Nor am I now. But Caesar, Pompey, and Crassus have an agreement. Caesar, your new uncle by marriage, wants me to give Crassus every assistance in getting his Parthian war under way. That means smoothing his relations with the Senate, the tribunes, and the Assemblies.”

It was beginning to make sense. “And a large bloc of the Senate and the Assemblies would cease to give him trouble if the Caecilian clan were to drop their opposition.”

He beamed. “There you are!”

“Does Crassus fully understand in what minuscule esteem my family holds me? Does he really believe that I can sway them?”

“The prospect of not having to help pay for your Games could improve their disposition immensely.” He refilled my cup. “I hear that you will be celebrating the munera for Metellus Celer. He was a great man. People must expect a celebration commensurate with his prominence.”

The very thought could still make me gasp. “Publius, you are ruining what began as an extraordinarily splendid day.”

“It could be the most important day of your life, Decius. Just come over to Crassus’s side and clear all your debts. He’ll give you liberal terms.”

“He’ll want far more than you are saying for that much aid I’ll be his lackey for life.”

“And what of that? He’s old, Decius; he can’t live much longer. Even if his war is successful, he’ll probably keel over and croak during his triumph from the sheer excitement.”

“But,” I said, growing more and more exasperated because the prospect was so tempting, “I abhor the whole idea of this war, as does my family!”

“Be realistic, Decius! There is nothing you can do about it. Crassus has his war. The Senate has given him permission to make war on Parthia, he already has his own army, and the Assemblies aren’t stopping him. Only some die-hard tribunes and recalcitrant senators are making a fuss. He would much rather not be embarrassed by this opposition, and he doesn’t want people here working against him while he is out of the City. Give him your support. You lose nothing by it, and you gain everything.”

“I must consider it,” I said, stalling. “I will confer with my family.” I had no intention of supporting Crassus, but I had enough political experience to know that a flat no would be unwise. A conditional no was always better.

He nodded. “Do that. And avoid those fools, Gallus and Ateius. They are beginning to stir up serious trouble. They should be arrested as a menace to public order.” Hearing Clodius say something like that was worth putting up with his company. With a hearty, hypocritical clap on my shoulder, Clodius took his leave and went off to find someone he could bully and intimidate.

I refused to let him cast a shadow over my excellent day. With the wine buzzing pleasantly in my head, I repaired to the Aemilian Baths. This was a very imposing establishment, built upon a block of ground near the Forum that had been conveniently cleared by a catastrophic fire two years previously. It was completed and dedicated the year before by the praetor Marcus Aemilius Scaurus to the glory of his ancestors. It was the first of the really huge baths to be built in Rome, and included exercise yards, lecture halls, a small library, and a gallery for paintings and sculpture, all of it surrounding a main hot pool big enough for a battle between triremes. I pitied Sardinia, which Scaurus had been sent to govern, if he was using the opportunity to recoup his expenses on the place.

I was just dozing off on the massage table when a vaguely familiar man flopped onto the one next to mine. The Nubian assigned to that table commenced his ministrations, but the familiar slap of cupped palms was in this case somewhat muffled because the man was as furry as a bear. He had a wide, coarse-featured face that was just then smiling at me, showing big, yellow teeth through broad lips.

“Good day, Senator,” he said. “I don’t believe we have met. I am Caius Sallustius Crispus.”

“Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger,” I said, extending a hand. “I’ve seen your name on the roll of the magistrates. One of the year’s quaestors, aren’t you?”

“That is correct. I’m assigned to the Grain Office.” I saw now that he was perhaps in his late twenties. His crude visage and hirsuteness had given the impression of an older man.

“I’ve missed the last few elections,” I admitted. “I’ve been with Caesar in Gaul.”

“I know. I’ve been following your career.”

“Oh? Why is that? It hasn’t been very distinguished so far.” In fact, I wasn’t much interested. I didn’t like the look of the man. I’ve always found ugliness to be an excellent reason for disliking someone.

“I am of a literary turn of mind,” he explained. “I intend to write a comprehensive history of our times.”

“My part in the affairs of Rome has been modest beyond words,” I assured him. “I can’t imagine what you’d find to write about me.”

“But you were involved in Catilina’s failed coup,” he said, still smiling. “On both sides, I’m given to understand. That calls for a rare political dexterity.”

I didn’t like the insinuating tone that he disguised with disingenuous friendliness. And I disliked discussing that ugly incident that had killed so many, ruined careers, and destroyed reputations and that still caused hard feelings after eight years.

“I was, as always, on the side of the Senate and People,” I told him. “And too much is made of the disgraceful business as it is.”

“But I hear Cicero is writing his own history of the rebellion.”

“As is his right. He was the central figure, and his actions preserved the Republic at the cost of his reputation and his career.” Cicero had been exiled for the execution without trial of the chief conspirators. Even at that time he was not truly safe in Rome despite the protection of Milo’s thugs. Much as it pains me to say anything good about Cato, his exertions on Cicero’s behalf had been heroic and made him even more unpopular than he had been, which is saying something.

“But he will naturally slant the facts in his own favor,” Sallustius said. “A more balanced account will be needed.”