John Roberts - The Sacrilege

The next morning, at the house of Celer, I eyed the callers most closely. Clodius was not there, nor was Nero. Neither was Caesar, but he might have been busy divorcing his wife. I saw my kinsman Creticus and went to pay my respects. He wasn't much of a figure as the senior members of my family went, but he had once stood up to Pompey and came out on his feet, for which I respected him greatly.

"Decius, good to see you," he said. "Odd business the other night, wasn't it?" Nobody in Rome was talking about anything else.

"What does Felicia tell you?" I asked. Felicia was the daughter of Creticus.

"She just takes a smug attitude and claims she can say nothing while hinting she knows things we men can only dream about. What's your wife say?"

"I'm not married, Uncle," I said. He wasn't Father's brother, but I had always called him that. He was actually a second cousin, or perhaps it was a third.

"Lucky you. Well, my money is on Clodia as the instigator, and Felicia and Clodia are as close as two women can be, but I can't get a thing out of the girl. I've told her husband to put a stop to it, but the boy dotes on her and won't say a word to offend her."

The boy was the younger Crassus, and it was true. His love for Felicia was the talk of Rome. They had been united in a typical political marriage, but some people are just meant for each other. When she died he built her the most splendid tomb ever seen in Rome.

"When it comes to Clodia," I said, "it is often best not to inquire too closely."

"Jove has spoken," he vowed. Our conversation was interrupted when Celer beckoned for me to join him. I went over, and he excused the two of us from a knot of magistrates and foreign ambassadors. We walked not merely to a private corner of the atrium but all the way out into the peristylium, where we could be sure even the slaves wouldn't overhear.

"Decius," he said, "I'm taking you off all political duties. I have a job of investigation to be done, and I know you're the best for that. Your father acts like it's unworthy, but he takes a real pride in your accomplishments. When I broached my problem at the family council last night, he recommended you as the one to appoint."

"I am flattered," I said. I had not been informed that a family council had been called, but I didn't amount too much in those days.

"Here is the task: You know what everybody knows about the profanation of the rites of the Good Goddess by my odious little brother-in-law. Today the college of the pontifexes meets to officially declare the charge of sacrilege. That means nothing. All they can do is turn it over to the courts. A trial will be-messy. I would rather not see it happen. As for Clodius, it would not bother me greatly if the little swine were to die on the cross. But I don't want my wife involved. Do you understand?"

This was discomforting. "I understand, sir. But I cannot guarantee that I will be able to-"

He grabbed me by the upper arm, painfully. "Decius, find out what happened. Find out who was responsible, compile evidence, but keep Clodia out of it! Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, sir," I said. It was not the first time I had been told to suppress evidence. It was the first time the demand had come from my family, though. It seemed odd, since they should have known better than anybody else that I couldn't do it. It was not that I was especially honest, or that I did not want to act as demanded. It was just that some mischievous genius in me made me ferret out the truth and make it public. It was another part of that faculty Asklepiodes and I had discussed. One thing I could be sure of. My father had no illusions about me. If he had recommended me for the job, he understood what might come of it.

The truth of the matter was that this caused me no great crisis of conscience. The profanation of the Bona Dea ceremonies seemed ludicrous rather than shocking. I did not classify mere scandal as crime, whatever the pontifexes might think. Besides, she was not really one of the official state deities. When someone was trying to poison me, the indignation of some highborn Roman ladies seemed a small matter, indeed.

"What is to be my official capacity in all this?" I asked him.

"Oh, say that you're acting on my behalf as Consul-elect."

"I can't do that! Granted you'll win the election, but if you assume the authority so far ahead of time, people will regard it as high-handed. They'll vote against you out of spite."

"You're not going to be making speeches to the Centuriate Assembly," he said testily. "You're going to be questioning in the houses of Senators, discreetly and in privacy. They know how these things work."

"Where should I start?"

"You're the investigator. I leave it up to you."

I took a deep breath. "I will have to question Clodia."

He glared from beneath his bristly eyebrows. "If you must," he all but muttered. "Just keep my admonitions in mind."

"Well," I said, "I'll be about it." I dreaded confronting Clodia, but the chance of doing Clodius a bad turn was too good to miss.

I didn't question Clodia first, though. I left Celer's house and made for the Forum, with Hermes dogging my steps. The day was blustery and the law courts had moved indoors. I found Cicero in the Basilica Porcia, the oldest of our permanent law courts. He had been listening to a defense conducted by one of his students and readily stepped aside with me into one of the aisles. I briefly sketched my commission from Celer and asked Cicero's opinion, wanting to be sure of my legal ground.

"Since no official investigator has been named, you may do what you like as an interested citizen. Celer, of course, has no authority, and I suspect that he is motivated primarily by personal interests."

"Keeping Clodia out of it, you mean?"

"Not that any involvement of hers matters greatly," he added rather hastily. "If she had anything to do with it, the pontifexes may reprimand her, but no more. The sacrilege was committed by Clodius, who as a man was forbidden to look upon the rites. If formal charges are brought, they will be against him alone."

"That sets my mind at ease, a little," I said.

"Has Celer indicated his preference for a colleague?" Cicero asked, changing the subject rather abruptly. He was a politician, and power interested him far more than ritual matters.

"He asked me to broach the matter to Mamercus Capito," I told him.

"Now disqualified."

"Decidedly. The main contender now seems to be Lucius Afranius," I said. "Did I just hear you groan, sir?"

"I groan because I am not a philosopher," Cicero said, "and only a philosopher could look upon Lucius Afranius without groaning. The man is a nonentity."

"I think that's what Celer likes about him," I admitted.

"These times call for firm direction from our Consuls. I shudder to think of Afranius in such a position."

"It will essentially be a one-man administration, and Celer will be the man," I said. "You must admit that his withdrawal of opposition to the Pompeian demands was a wise political move, however much he may have disliked it."

Cicero shook his head. "No, no, I mean no disrespect to your kinsman, but he is too firm an adherent of the aristocratic party. It was foolish to oppose the triumph, that is obvious. But the settlements for the demobilized veterans are another matter entirely. This involves land, and lowborn men getting control of it, a thing that horrifies the extreme aristocrats. And it means a landed power base for Pompey, whom the aristocrats hate. Believe me, Decius, by this time next year Quintus Caecilius Metellus Celer will be firmly aligned with the extreme end of the aristocratic party."

It did not escape me that Cicero spoke of the "extreme" aristocrats. He was an adherent of that party himself, despite the fact that many of its leaders openly snubbed him. Cicero had an ideal of a Republic led by the "best" men, who would be drawn from the prosperous and propertied classes of free citizens, who would educated, patriotic and concerned with the welfare of the state. It was a fine ideal, but Plato had had such a concept and had not had conspicuous success in convincing his fellow Greeks to adopt it as a governing principle.