SPQR III: the sacrilege (6 page)

"How do you read the situation?" I asked.

"The Catilinarian scandal will fade in no great time. Nothing gets old as fast as yesterday's scandal. Catilina never had any firm base among the powerful men of Rome. With Pompey coming back, all attention will be on him, and lately Cicero's thrown his support behind Pompey."

"Cicero?" I said. "He was always with the anti-Pompeians before."

"But he understands the inevitable. Something has to be done to placate Pompey's veterans. You know, when Pompey comes into the city for his triumph, it will be the first time in years that Pompey, Crassus and Caesar will all be in Rome at the same time."

"You see a connection?" I knew Milo wasn't just musing aloud.

"There's a rumor floating around. Just a rumor, mind you, but there are those who say that Caesar can't leave because of his debts. Some of those he owes money to are very highly placed."

"But if he can just get to Spain, he'll enrich himself like any other bandit," I said. "Then he can pay his debts."

"Or he may get killed. He has a reputation for recklessness. Remember those pirates?"

It was a famous story. When he was quaestor, Caesar had been captured by pirates and held for ransom. He had behaved arrogantly and demanded that his ransom be appropriate to his rank. He had unbraided his captors, promised that he would return with a flotilla and crucify them all, and made them listen to his speeches. The pirates had been highly amused and treated him as a sort of mascot while he resided among them. In time his ransom arrived and he was sent on to the nearest Roman port. He immediately raised a flotilla, returned and crucified all the pirates exactly as he had said he would. It was the sort of tale that tickled the Roman fancy and made him a minor celebrity for a while.

"So his creditors want some sort of security? What can he do? Caesar spends so freely he barely owns the clothes on his back.
Pontifex Maximus
is a fine old position, but it never made anyone a copper
as
that I ever heard of."

"There is a further rumor," Milo said. "A loan. An enormous loan to stand surety for the bulk of his debts while he is away. All out of one man's purse."

Now things began to make sense. "Crassus," I said.

"What other man in the world has that kind of money?"

"Crassus is not a charitable man. He will want something in return for a loan like that. What can Caesar do for the likes of Marcus Licinius Crassus?"

"That is something I would give a great deal to know," Milo said.

Chapter III

The house of Mamercus Aemilius Capito was located in a beautiful district on the Aventine, with a fine view overlooking the Circus Maximus. As I walked up the hill I could smell the incense wafting from the nearby Temple of Ceres. Gazing across the valley, I could see the magnificent new house of Lucullus. It had been under construction when I had last climbed the Aventine, and was said to be far and away the most magnificent dwelling in Rome, built with the spoil of Pontus and Asia. Lucullus was not as rich as Crassus, but whereas Crassus used his wealth to gain more money and power, Lucullus used his to indulge himself.

The guests were already ranging themselves in the triclinium when I entered, and I took my place on one of the couches. Hermes took my sandals and stood behind my place, ready to serve me. I had ordered him to keep absolutely silent and observe closely. For a wonder, he obeyed.

As was customary, Capito had invited a mixed company. He did, however, have more than the usual proportion of exceptionally distinguished guests, a sure sign of his political ambitions for the year to come. Occupying the place of greatest honor was Marcus Pupius Piso Frugi Calpurnianus, one of the Consuls of the year. Like his colleague Messala Niger, he was a time-server of little importance. Like many such men, he insisted on using his whole great epic of a name instead of some shortened form. Men assured of their own greatness prefer to use a single name, as if they alone possessed it. Thus we have Alexander, Marius, Sulla, Pompey, Crassus and, let us not forget, Caesar. Watch out for men who use a single name.

At the other end of the head couch resided the pontifex Quintus Lutatius Catulus. Catulus was esteemed one of the greatest Romans of the day, but his star was setting like those of Hortalus and Lucullus as the ambitious military men gained ascendancy. Between Catulus and Piso was our host, Capito.

At the table facing mine reclined Lucius Afranius, a man of some dignity and little importance, like Capito himself. He had served as praetor some years before. The other two at that table I no longer recall, so they could not have amounted to much. My companions on the third couch were an unusual pair. To my right, on the side of the head couch, was the poet Catullus, not to be confused with the great Catulus, who spelled his name with a single
l
. The poet had been mooning around Rome for a couple of years, cadging free meals and writing his verses. Friends of a literary bent assure me that these poems are rather good. Many of those he indited at this time were addressed to a hard-hearted woman of mystery called Lesbia. It was the opinion of most that Lesbia was actually Clodia, who had the requisite cruelty and love of poetry. He had lived in the house of Celer, but I rather doubt that he had been her lover, because he survived.

My neighbor on the other side, at the foot of the couch, was the greatest surprise. It was young Appius Claudius Nero.

"Twice in one day, young Nero," I said. "If I believed that Oriental nonsense about astrology, I would believe that our stars are intertwined."

"The stars had nothing to do with it, Decius," Capito said. "I invited Clodius, but when he learned you were to be here, he sent young Appius Claudius in his stead." Everyone found this uproariously funny, and Nero's face flushed as scarlet as Sulla's. It was always considered witty to pick on the very young, half-witted or deformed, and I felt a bit sorry for him.

"No offense, Nero," I said. "I know you have no control over who your relatives are. I have a good many I'd just as soon not associate with."

"Nepos, for instance?" Afranius needled. My cousin Metellus Nepos was Pompey's firm supporter, unlike most of our family. The year before, Nepos had served as tribune and had been a most inflammatory one. With Caesar's backing, he had tried to have Pompey recalled from Asia to fight Catilina, had even demanded that Pompey be elected Consul in absentia. There had been some rioting and the Senate suspended both of them from office. Nepos fled to Pompey with an aristocratic mob at his heels, and Caesar, ever the adroit politician, patched up things with the Senate and continued his praetorship.

Now that I thought of it, there were no friends of Caesar's here, even though he sought friends everywhere. Catulus hated him because Caesar had tried to rob him of the credit for restoring the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus and give it to Pompey. Catullus the poet suspected Caesar of having an affair with Clodia. Few prominent women escaped that particular honor. Afranius was of the aristocratic party and opposed Caesar as a matter of policy. The same was true of Piso. It was odd, but seemed no more than coincidence.

As the first course arrived, the conversation turned to the main subject of the day. Pompey's triumph. There was to be a meeting of the Senate the next day and the matter was once more to be discussed.

"This will be your first meeting as Senator, will it not, Decius?" Capito asked.

"It will," I concurred.

"And what will be the subject of your maiden speech?" the great Catulus asked. It was common for new-minted Senators to make a speech on first taking a seat in the Curia. Some made a great splash that way, but more earned ridicule.

"I have been firmly instructed to say nothing until I've attained some sort of prestige in office, with the unspoken implication that several years might elapse before any such event."

"Not a bad idea," Capito said. "I made my first speech back when Decula and Dollabella held the Consulship. I spoke in praise of Sulla's reform of the courts, taking them from the
equites
and giving them back to the Senators. Seemed a safe enough speech at the time. Sulla was dictator, after all. When I left the Curia a mob of
equites
chased me through the streets until I got to my house and barred the gate; then they burned my house down. I escaped over the back wall and fled to Capua until things died down." This, I thought, was before he had reached his present girth.

"Those were exciting times," said Catulus nostalgically. There followed some vintage gossip about the proscriptions and who had whom killed for what advantage. The wine flowed and tongues grew loose.

"What's to be done about Antonius Hibrida, Consul?" Afranius asked. Hibrida was Proconsul in Macedonia, where he had suffered some shattering defeats.

"I intend to press for his prosecution upon his return to Rome," Calpurnianus said.

"Odd, Pompey doesn't have his tame tribunes agitating for him to be given Hibrida's command," Catulus said.

"That isn't Pompey's style," I interjected. "Pompey waits until the war is almost over and then demands the command after someone else has done all the fighting. He did it in Spain, and in Asia and Africa. He's not about to go salvage a situation where Romans have been repeatedly defeated."

"Well,
I
think that Pompey is a great man!" said Catullus the poet.

"You poets are always enthralled by adventurers who pose as gods," said Afranius. "They're all just men, and Pompey's not as much a man as some I know."

"Mucia didn't think so, anyway," said Capito. Now Catullus's face grew as red as Nero's had been. This was an indirect gibe at his infatuation with Clodia. It was widely known that Pompey had divorced Mucia because she had slept with Caesar. This did not prevent Pompey and Caesar from being allies. Politics is politics, and marriage, well, marriage is politics, too.

"I think you are all jealous of his fame," said the poet with some acuity.

"Deserving or not," said Calpurnianus, "it will be a show such as Rome has never seen before. I've been out to visit his camp and he's got a hundred elephants out there, with mahouts drilling them to perform tricks throughout the procession. He has a legion fully armed just to guard his treasure."

This got my attention. "I thought he disbanded his troops when he reached Italy."

"He petitioned to keep this lot under arms until his triumph," Calpurnianus said. "They've been out there practicing for so long that they'll be ready to celebrate the triumph within a few days of the Senate's granting permission."

"I hear that he's celebrating
three
triumphs at once," said young Nero. "The war with the pirates, the war in Africa and the one in Asia."

A slave came in and whispered something to Capito, and our host rose from the couch. "I must go and speak with someone in the atrium. Please continue to enjoy yourselves. I shall return within a few minutes." He left as his slaves began to set plates of sweet pastries before us.

"Pontifex," said young Nero very respectfully, "everyone is talking about the rites of Bona Dea, to take place tomorrow night. I am a bit confused. Just who is Bona Dea?" By "everyone" I presumed he meant Clodius. We all turned to hear Catulus.

"That is a touchy question," Catulus admitted. "We pontifexes are supposed to know all about our native religious practice, but the Good Goddess is rather mysterious. Some identify her with our old Italian goddess Ceres, whom the Greeks call Demeter; others say she is of Asian origin."

"We've always expelled foreign mystery cults," Afranius said.

"That's what makes it touchy," said Catulus. "The college of pontifexes has always been hostile to such practice, but since men are forbidden to ask about this rite, and women are forbidden to speak of it, we don't even know if it's foreign or native."

In the midst of this learned discourse, Hermes leaned forward to fill my cup. As he did, he whispered in my ear: "Don't eat the pastry." I was long experienced at intrigue and conspiracy and gave no sign that I had received a warning.

"Where are the rites being held this year?" asked one of the men at Afranius's couch.

"Caesar's house," I said. "He told me so himself this morning." That caused something else to occur to me. "Isn't it usually conducted by a Consul's wife, or the wife of the senior praetor?"

"It was all rather confused," said Calpurnianus, "because I'm a widower and my colleague Messala Niger just divorced his wife. Caesar was praetor last year, and since he's
Pontifex Maximus
, he said he'd volunteer his official residence. It's a great bother because
every
male must be excluded from the premises, including slaves and animals."

"Even paintings, statues and mosaics of any male creature must be covered," added Catulus the pontifex.

"Who is Caesar married to these days?" I asked. "I remember Cornelia died a few years ago."

"Pompeia," Afranius said, "and rumor has it he's not happy with her."

"More likely the other way around," said Catullus the poet.

"Pompeia?" I said. "Is she Pompey's daughter?" We began to hear voices raised in argument a few rooms away. Not an uncommon sound in a great house.

Calpurnianus shook his head. "No, she's the daughter of Quintus Pompeius Rufus, whose father was Consul with Sulla the year he brought his army into Rome and exiled the Marians. Her mother--let me see--yes, her mother was another Cornelia, the daughter of Sulla."

Between our multiple, political marriages and divorces and the quaint naming practices we inherited from our simple, rustic ancestors, it is remarkable that we can keep track of our own families, much less some body else's. Pedantic old bores like Calpurnianus always took great pride in keeping these things straight. They were often wrong, but they always talked as if their genealogical memories were infallible.