A Point of Law(2)

Also beside me was my freedman Hermes, still uncomfortable in his citizen’s toga, a garment to which he had been entitled for only a few months. Of course, for official purposes his name was Decius Caecilius Metellus, but that was for his tombstone. He elected to keep his slave name, even though it was Greek. Well, it was a god’s name after all, and many citizens of my generation went by Greek nicknames, some of which were quite indecent and for which there were no Latin equivalents.

With the dedication ceremony done, we all trooped to the Forum, past the temples of Apollo and Bellona, through the Carmentalis Gate in the old wall, around the base of the Capitol, and into the northwestern end of the great assembly place. It was even more thronged than usual, with the elections coming up and everyone who counted for anything in from the country. It was the season for parties and politics, for intrigue, bribery, and coercion.

At this time most of the Senate had split into two factions: pro-Caesarian and anti-Caesarian. Caesar was overwhelmingly popular with the plebs at Rome and hated violently by a large part of the aristocratic faction. As usual, such polarization led to strange juxtapositions. Men who, a few years previously, had reserved their greatest scorn for Pompey, now courted him as the only viable rival to Caesar. Theirs was a short-sighted policy, but desperate men will grasp at anything that promises respite from the thing they fear. I tried to keep my distance from all such factions, but my family connections made that difficult. One of the year’s consuls, Marcus Claudius Marcellus, was among the most rabid of the anti-Caesarians and had not attended my little unveiling ceremony. The other consul, Sulpicius Rufus, congratulated me ostentatiously. Such were the times.

Doing the usual round of meeting and greeting, we made a leisurely progress toward the foot of the Capitol, near the old meeting place of the comitia, where all the year’s candidates were accustomed to congregate, stand around, preen, and generally proclaim their willingness to serve Senate and People. Here our friends and well-wishers would drop by, take our hands, and trumpet loudly to anyone who would listen what splendid fellows we all were. It was one of our less dignified customs and a constant source of amazement to foreigners, but we’d always done it that way and that was a good enough reason to continue.

As a candidate for an office with imperium, it was my first order of business to greet the candidates I was supporting for the junior offices in order to take each by the hand and tell everyone what a splendid fellow he was.

First to get my hand was Lucius Antonius, standing for quaestor that year. Accompanying him was his brother Caius, who was himself serving as quaestor and would be standing down with the upcoming election. These were the brothers of the famous Marcus Antonius, who was serving with Caesar in Gaul. I had always gotten on well with these brothers, who were bad men but good company.

“Best of luck, Lucius!” I exclaimed, clapping him on the shoulder and raising a cloud of chalk dust. There was always a temptation to overdo it with the chalk when standing for office.

“And to you, Decius,” the younger brother said, his eyes slightly unfocused and his voice a bit unsteady. At the wine already, I thought. Typical Antonian.

“I suppose you have your purple-bordered toga already ordered,” Caius said, referring to my aforementioned certainty of election.

“As luck would have it, there was some Tyrian dye among the items I acquired in Cyprus,” I said. No harm in reminding everybody who’d missed my monument dedication of my latest distinction. “Julia wove me a new toga and dyed the border herself. It’s on the drying rack right now. A very handsome garment, I might add.” Well, my wife had supervised her women while they did the actual weaving, and, of course she had called in a professional dyer to do the border. That purple dye is the most expensive substance in the world, even more dear than saffron or silk.

“Some people have all the luck,” said Lucius. “By the time our brother gets through with Gaul there won’t be any gold, wine, or good-looking women left to steal.”

“It’ll be another ten years before there’s more pirate loot to pick up,” Caius said tipsily. “If Pompey conquers Parthia, there’ll be nothing left for the rest of us.”

“I suppose there’ll always be India,” I said, not really serious. I had no ambitions to be a conqueror so I didn’t take the problem as seriously as those two dedicated thieves.

“Too far,” Caius said. “You have to march for a year just to get there. Now Egypt—”

“Forget it,” I said. “The Senate will never let even an Antonius take Egypt.” This was a statement fraught with great portent, had I but known it.