Saturnalia (9 page)

He chuckled. “Very true. No, I spoke of the offices that hold
imperium:
praetor and consul. Most specifically, propraetor and proconsul. A one-year stint governing a province was one thing when our holdings were just a few days’ march from Rome, but it’s utterly obsolete now. You can take weeks if not months just getting to your province. Just about the time you’ve learned your way around, it’s time to go home.”

“You can usually get a command prorogued for another year or two,” I said.

“But you never
know!
” he said with some heat. “And if you want to stand for office again, you have to drop everything and hurry back to Rome, even if you’re in the middle of a war. This new way is better. Caesar goes to Gaul knowing he has five years to sort out that situation and bring it to a satisfactory conclusion. Plus, he has
imperium
over both Gauls plus Illyricum; so if he has the barbarians on the run, they can’t just duck across the border where he’ll have to coordinate with another proconsul.” It was one of the rules that a promagistrate
wielded
imperium
only within the borders of his assigned province. If he tried to use it outside them he risked being charged with treason.

“It is a well thoughtout policy,” I admitted.

“Believe me, it is the only policy from here on,” he insisted. “And we need further legislation to allow a serving promagistrate to stand for office in absentia. If a legate can run a province or an army in the magistrate’s absence, why not one to conduct an election campaign back home?”

There was considerable justice in his reasoning. The truth was that our ancient system of republican government was dreadfully awkward and unwieldy. It was aimed at thwarting the dangerous practice of concentrating too much power in the hands of one man. Sensible as his solution was (and I had no doubt that it was Caesar’s solution, not his), I still hated the idea of giving anyone that much power for that long a time. After five years, especially if he was victorious in battle, all the legions in Gaul would belong solely to Caesar and to no other. Not that this was anything new. Pompey’s legions were Pompey’s, not Rome’s.

“Oh, and you must know the aedile Calpurnius Bestia,” Clodia said.

“We spoke just this morning,” Bestia said. “Did you find your fortune-teller, Decius?” His beefy, intelligent face creased into a smile as he took my hand.

“Fortune-teller?” said Clodia, lifting an eyebrow in my direction. “Decius, you’ve changed. What happened to your renowned scepticism?”

“Egypt does that to you,” I said. “It puts you in touch with otherworldly things.”

“Come along, Decius,” she said, tugging at my arm. “If you’re going to lie to me, you might as well get drunk and do
it convincingly.” She took me to a table that was covered with goblets and picked one up and handed it to me. “Now, who haven’t you met?” As she scanned the room I set the goblet down and picked up another. She gestured and a tiny, stunningly voluptuous young woman came to us.

“Decius, have you met Fulvia? She and my brother are to marry.”

“Yes, I met her here about two years ago. You are more beautiful than ever, if that is possible, Fulvia. But I expected you to be married by now.” She truly was stunning, with white-blonde hair piled atop her head in the latest style, held in place by tortoise shell combs and silver skewers.

“Clodius intends to celebrate our nuptials after he takes office.” I remembered that furry, palpitation-inducing voice. “He plans to throw a vast celebration for the whole populace, with games and a free distribution of food and oil and everyone’s attendance at the baths paid for for the whole month.”

“Sounds like a wonderful party,” I said, trying to figure out what such a thing would cost.

“He’s hired more than a hundred gladiators from Capua to come up to Rome to fight another troupe from the Statilian school,” Fulvia said with unmaidenly relish.

“Munera
at a wedding?” I said, aghast.

“Oh, technically the
munera
will be in honor of our late father, to keep everything legal,” Clodia explained, “and they’ll be on a day set aside solely for that purpose, but everyone will know that it’s part of the wedding celebration.”

“And it will win Clodius no end of popularity, I’m sure,” I said.
Oh, well,
I thought,
so what if the old boy died almost twenty years ago. It’s never too late for funeral games.

“He’s already the most popular man in Rome,” Clodia
purred. “This, plus his enactions in office, will make him the next thing to king of Rome.”

This was just the sort of thing I liked to hear. Yes, next year would definitely be a good one to stay as far from Rome as possible. If, of course, I survived this year. I was about to make some ill-considered remark about the annually sacrificed King of Fools when I was saved by the arrival of another guest, none other than Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives, third of the Big Three after Caesar and Pompey and richer than the other two and the rest of the world put together. I exaggerate, but he was awfully rich. Clodia dragged him over.

“When did you get back, Marcus?” Clodia crowed. Another returnee. “When I sent my invitation to your house I really didn’t expect you’d be there. How lucky for me you were!” She didn’t bother with introductions. Everyone knew who Crassus was, and if he didn’t know you, you probably weren’t worth knowing.

“My dear, you know I’d have run all the way from Campania to attend one of your gatherings,” he said, grinning and showing some new, deep lines in his face. In fact, he looked tired all over. “I got back to the City last night, and I’ve given my slaves orders to tie me up if I ever talk about leaving again.”

“Is that where you’ve been, Marcus Licinius?” I asked.

“Got away from Rhodes, eh, Decius Caecilius? Lucky you. Yes, I’ve been most of the year organizing the new Capuan colony and a duller, more onerous job I’ve never had. The Senate formed a judicial board to oversee the settlement of Pompey’s veterans and Caesar’s paupers on the new lands under the new agrarian law, and they named me to head the board. When Caius Cosconius died last summer the Senate asked Cicero to replace him, but he had the brains to refuse.”

“Oh, but such important work, Marcus,” Clodia said. “It’s the biggest and most important task to face the government since the wars with Carthage. No wonder the Senate wanted you and no other to be in charge.” I had never rated such flattery from Clodia.

Crassus shrugged. “A clerk’s job, but it had to be done.” His words were blunt and commonsense, but I could see the self-satisfaction oozing all over him with her words. Clodia dashed off to deal with a new guest, Fulvia in tow, leaving me temporarily with Crassus.

“It may have been a strenuous task,” I told him, “but I’m relieved to hear that it’s settled. The business dragged on far too long.”

“Largely because of our hostess’s late husband,” Crassus grumbled, taking a goblet from the table, “though I shouldn’t say so under his own roof.”

“He was an obstinate man,” I admitted. “But he wasn’t obstructing Pompey single-handed.”

“He nearly was, last year.”

“Was it that bad?” I asked.

“Didn’t you hear? But I suppose most of the information you got was from your family. They probably spared you the embarrassing details. First, he got in trouble with the moneylenders by continuing to uphold Lucullus’s remission of the Asian tax debt. He fought tooth and nail against Clodius’s transfer to the plebs. The infighting got extremely nasty and personal, especially since they were in-laws. Then, to cap it off, he attacked the tribune Flavius over yet another agrarian law to provide land for Pompey’s troops. It got so openly violent that Flavius charged him with violation of tribunician immunity and had him haled to prison!”

“Prison! A serving consul!” This was bizarre even for our sort of politics.

“Well, it was only for an hour or two. There was a lot of argument whether the sacrosanctity of the the tribuneship overrode the constitutional immunity of the consulship. Caesar was called in to rule on it as
pontifex maximus.”

“Incredible,” I mumbled into my wine. “They must’ve been lining up to poison him.”

“Eh? What’s that you say, Decius?”

But we were interrupted by Clodia hauling in her latest prize. He was a splendid-looking young man who seemed vaguely familiar to me. He was somewhat flushed with wine, and he had a smile as dazzling as Milo’s.

“Sometimes,” Clodia announced, “I invite someone just for being wellborn and handsome. This is Marcus Antonius, the son of Antonius Creticus and nephew of Hibrida.”

“My greetings to you all,” the boy said, gesturing like a trained actor and amazingly assured for one so young. Now I thought I remembered him.

“Didn’t we meet at the time of Lucullus’s triumph?” I asked.

“Did we? Then I am doubly honored to meet you again, Senator.”

“Decius Metellus,” Clodia told him.

“Ah, the famous Decius Metellus!” I could see that he had no idea who I was, but he was one of those rare people who could make you like them even when they were being rude.

“Got a military tribuneship for next year didn’t you, Antonius?” Crassus said.

“Yes, and I’ll be joining the staff of Balbus in Asia. I wish I could have gotten attached to Caesar in Gaul, but all
the other candidates were senior to me and they were all clamoring for Gaul.”

“You’ll have your chance,” Crassus assured him. “That’s going to be a long war in Gaul.”

Dinner was announced and we took our places on the couches. Hermes took my toga and sandals and hurried upstairs, where all the slaves not attending in the triclinium or the kitchen were banished for the duration. There were the usual nine at dinner, although Clodia never felt bound to honor the old custom. It was probably just coincidence. I have named six others besides myself, and I no longer remember who the other two were. Parasites, I suppose, probably poets. Clodia had a fondness for poets.

I was on the right-hand couch, with Clodia to my left and Vatinius to my right. As highest in rank, Crassus had the honorary “consul’s place” on the right of the central couch, with Bestia and one of the poets. The other couch held Antonius, Fulvia, and the other poet. Clodia and Fulvia flopped right down on the couches alongside the men, flouting yet another convention. This time, I approved. I would always rather share a couch with a beautiful woman than an ugly man. Or a handsome one, for that matter.

The food was wonderful. Clodia had better taste than most, and while her spread was lavish and included rare viands and spices, she never indulged in the vulgar extravagance flouted by the newly rich. Her wines were the best and nobody seemed to be keeling over from the effects of poison.

The serving slaves were another matter. Like the
janitor
they were exceptional beauties, and like him, they were minimally clad, only ornamented here and there with jewelery and sporting Clodia’s specialty: the jeweled neck ring. As a further exotic refinement, they were all of differing races. The
wine server was an Arab boy with enormous brown eyes. Towels were passed by a tawny-skinned Asian girl. The carver was a muscular Gaul, who wielded a pair of curved knives with incredible dexterity. The main courses were borne in on platters by southerners who came in gradations of ever darker skin: the eggs were brought in by a pale-brown Mauritanian, the fish by a slightly darker Numidian, the meats by a deep-brown Nubian, and the sweets by a soot-black Ethiopian.

The music, on the other hand, was provided by a small ensemble of albinos, their extraordinary skin like polished, blue-veined marble and their cascading hair like sea foam. Unlike the others these wore gauzy blindfolds that allowed them some vision. I presumed the reason for this oddity was that Clodia disliked their reddish eyes.

In such a company the talk, naturally, was of politics and war and foreign affairs. This was not one of Clodia’s artistic gatherings, so the two parasites kept quiet, grateful for a free meal and the radiance of their distinguished betters. The conversation stayed light while we stuffed ourselves, but with the after-dinner wine we got back to the one thing everyone really cared about. The legislations of the year that was ending were discussed, especially the amazing number of new laws rammed through by Caesar (most of them excellent and long-needed, although it pains me to admit it).

Crassus, to whom all deferred, reeled them off, counting ostentatiously on his fingers like a a fishwife totting up the price of a basket of mullets. Crassus had an excellent memory and a politician’s grasp of the relative importance of everything.

“First and most important, he passed his Agrarian Law, using public money to buy up the state lands in Campania and distribute them among twenty thousand of Pompey’s veterans
and a few thousand of the urban poor, to ease the overcrowding of the city. The Senate balked at that one. Decius, you should have heard Cato bray!”

“I’m not surprised,” I said. “We’ve called it ‘public land,’ but the senatorial families have been leasing them at almost no cost for generations.”

“Including yours, Decius,” Clodia said.

“Including mine,” I acknowledged.

“Well,” Crassus continued, “there was Cato, railing and foaming at the mouth for almost an entire day, until Caesar threatened him with arrest.”

“Cato is a tiresome man,” Antonius said. Fulvia had moved closer to him than would have been deemed decent in any other household.

“That he is,” Crassus agreed. “Anyway, by next day the crowd was so big the assembly had to be held in front of the Temple of Castor, with Caesar reading off his new law from the steps. Pompey and I were there backing him, naturally, neither of us serving in any capacity but adding a little much-needed weight to Caesar’s side of the balance.

“Then Bibulus threw in his tame tribunes: Ancharius, Fannius, and Domitius Calvinus, to interpose their veto. The crowd grabbed the fasces away from Bibulus’s lictors, broke the rods, and used them to beat the tribunes. How can tribunes claim to represent the people when the people themselves rebel against them? Anyway, that was when Bibulus stormed off to his house and said he was watching for omens. He even said he was going to sanctify the whole rest of the year, so no official business could be transacted!” This raised a general laugh.