Steven Saylor - Catilina's riddle

They smiled in return when they recognized Rufus, and nodded to Marcus Mummius. For the moment Meto and myself and the rest were invisible to them. Those who wear purple acknowledge one another first; others come later.

'Rufus!' said the Pontifex Maximus.

'Caesar!' said Rufus, bowing his head. He made the same gesture of obeisance to the white-bearded augur who stood beside the Pontifex Maximus, dressed like Rufus in a trabea with saffron stripes. Within their college a younger augur always defers to an elder.

I took a close look at the face of our Pontifex Maximus. Not yet forty, Gaius Julius Caesar had already established himself as a force to be reckoned with in the Republic. His patrician heritage was impeccable; his family ties to the dictator Sulla's old enemy Marius, once a death sentence, had become a part of his credentials as a leader of the populist movement. If Cicero was the master of rhetoric, able to get what he wanted by the sheer force of argument, Caesar was said to be the master of pure politics, a genius at comprehending the multitudinous and often obscure strands of the ages-old web that bound together the state and the priesthoods. He understood the most arcane and cumbersome rules of procedure within the Senate, and could invoke them at the most unexpected moments to the consternation of his enemies; he knew the intricate workings of the ever-growing bureaucracy that carried out (or as often confounded) the will of the Senate and the people; as Pontifex Maximus he oversaw the maze of religious offices and brotherhoods that interpreted omens and sacred texts and thus exercised power over the Senate, the army, and commerce by allowing or not allowing these institutions to function on a given day.

Caesar was not a handsome man, but in no sense was he plain. His narrow face was striking, but beauty did not figure into it. It was the vitality of his eyes that impressed, along with the patrician austerity of his high cheekbones and forehead, and the drawn tension of his thin lips, that seemed perpetually to smile at some ironic jest. His erect carriage and steady gait marked him as a man in absolute control of his every movement, fully conscious of his own fluid grace and quietly pleased with the image he presented to the world. I have met only a handful of men (and some women) with such a way about them, and they have all been either wealthy, eminently well-educated patricians, or else slaves who possess the natural charm of the unlearned along with the remarkable beauty that sweeps every other consideration before it. We mortals in the middle can never hope to possess the perfect grace of these god-blessed others higher and lower than ourselves. It conies from power, I suppose, political or sexual — not simply possessing it, but instinctively knowing how to use it, and having the capacity to enjoy using it. Catilina had a measure of that grace, but in him it was mixed with something else, an imperfection of some sort that made him all the more fascinating. In Caesar, that grace was undiluted. He seemed to me to be power personified, and thus he projected (like the beautiful) the illusion of being indestructible and immortal. Rend his mortal vessel with wounds, cut him open to show the blood and bones within, slice his head from his shoulders — still, it seemed, his lips would wear that same effortless smile.

Somehow I had glimpsed his companion from the corner of my eye, or perhaps had recognized his gait from a distance, for I knew that the man was Marcus Licinius Crassus before I reluctantly set my eyes on him. There were few men whom I less desired to meet by chance on this of all days. As Rufus turned to greet him, Crassus's restless gaze fell on me. He knew me in an instant, though it had been almost nine years since the affair at Baiae. Things there had not gone as he had wished, thanks to me, and Crassus was a man accustomed to having his own way in everything to do with lesser men; from the glint in his eye I saw that the memory still rankled. Catilina had indicated that Crassus respected me in a begrudging way, but if so, he was good at concealing it. His eyes had a cold gleam without a trace of humour.

He had grown noticeably older since I had last seen him so close — older and richer and more powerful, his ambitions held in check only by the conflicting ambitions of men as shrewd and ruthless as himself. His hair was half-grey and his face was too stern to be handsome. His countenance displayed a perpetual discontent; he was a man who could never succeed enough for his own satisfaction. 'Crassus, Crassus, rich as Croesus,' went the popular ditty, comparing him to the miser of legend, but to me he was Sisyphus, forever rolling the boulder uphill, watching it tumble down and beginning again, achieving wealth and influence far beyond the measure of other men but never achieving enough to earn his rest. He had been vying for power with Pompey for years; with Caesar he seemed to be on excellent terms, at the moment at least.

'We've just come down from the Arx,' said Caesar, meaning the northern summit of the Capitoline Hill. Like the acropolis in Athens, the Arx was the high place chosen by Rome's founders on which to build their citadel and their most sacred temples. From the Arx a man can see all Rome below, and can in turn be seen unobstructed by the gods.

'We've been taking the auspices for today's convocation of the Senate. A pity that you weren't available to perform the augury, Rufus.'

'Today I perform a private augury,' said Rufus, indicating those of us behind him with the slightest tilt of his head. 'I take it that the auspices for the Senate were favourable, as you wished?'

"They were indeed,' said Caesar. The ironic smile seemed to say that the auspices could hardly have been otherwise. 'A hawk flew up from the west, and then dipped towards the north. The augur Festus assures us this presages a good day for the Senate to convene.'

'For myself' said Crassus dryly, 'I thought it more significant that a crow flew over the Senate House, cackling and complaining but going in circles, as if he were not going to have his way no matter how much he squawked. That crow reminded me of someone — could it be Cicero? But then I'm not privy to the secret knowledge of the augurs and am hardly qualified to make an interpretation.' His smile did little to soften his sarcasm.

Rufus ignored this veiled insult to his profession. 'Will things go well in the debate today?' he asked Caesar.

'Oh, yes,' Caesar said with a sigh. 'Cicero hasn't the votes to censure Catilina, and he certainly hasn't the support he needs to postpone the elections again. It's not what happens today, but what the voters will do tomorrow that's worrisome. We shall see. But what's this you're up to, a young man's coming of age?' He smiled and nodded amiably in our direction, but did not press for an introduction. 'Speaking of Cicero, if you're on your way up to the Arx, you'll pass both of our esteemed consuls on their way down.' He glanced over his shoulder. 'Cicero should be right behind us; he was eager enough to have the auspices done with so that he could convene the Senate. The debate will begin at any moment. You will miss the opening arguments, Rufus, and you as well, Marcus Mummius.'

'We'll come later,' said Rufus.

'It's likely to be brief. Cicero is just doing it for show; he’ll want to get it over with and make use of what's left of the day to harangue the crowd in the Forum — his last chance to sway the voters against Catilina. You should use the day to do some final campaigningyourself, Rufus. I intend to. I'm counting on you to serve with me as praetor next year.'

'Don't worry, after I've performed my augury I shall change into my candidate's toga at once!' Rufus laughed.

Caesar and Crassus began to move on. Our little party stepped aside to make way for their retinues. Crassus had not said a word to his estranged confederate Mummius, and apparently did not intend to. But he did look steadily at me as he stepped past, then paused as his eyes fell on Meto.