“That was a noisy funeral, what with the riot and the burning of the Senate house. I’m sorry I missed it.” I took another long drink of the Caecuban and held out the cup for a refill. “On a happier note though, I understand congratulations are in order. You are to marry Scribonius Curio?”
“Oh, yes. I know Antonius will be disappointed, but he’ll just shrug and wait for me to be widowed again. It happens often when your husband is in politics.”
“Too true. I don’t envy you if he wins the tribuneship.”
She rolled her eyes. “All the gods protect me! I’ve been a tribune’s wife before—people tramping through the house at all hours, stuck here in Rome in the hottest weather, constant political meetings—it’s all a great bother, but it establishes a man’s political reputation like no other office.” Among other things, a Tribune of the People was forbidden to lock or even close the doors of his house. He had to be accessible to the people at any hour.
“So it does. Might I ask how it comes about that you are going to marry this man?”
Fulvia looked as if she needed to give this some real thought. “To be honest, he asked. I haven’t been exactly mobbed by suitors lately. Men want me, but they are intimidated by me.” She said this as matter-of-factly as she would have if someone remarked upon the color of her eyes. “Or they are afraid of the memory of Clodius—of having to bear comparison with him. That was one thing that attracted me to Antonius—he’s afraid of nothing and nobody. Curio is the same way.”
“Antonius is rather dense,” I told her. “Fearless men often are.”
“Curio isn’t dense. You haven’t met him?”
“Never had the pleasure. I know Cicero regarded him as something of a protégé at one time, thought he possessed great gifts.”
“Cicero!” she said with venom. “I hate that man! He pretends to be such a virtuous and pure servant of the Republic, but his brand of politics is no cleaner than Clodius’s was. And Clodius really did things for the people. Cicero fawns on the aristocrats and acts as their mouthpiece—people who despise him as an out-of-town upstart if he only knew it!”
I was a little taken aback by this sudden fury, but she shed it as quickly as it had appeared.
“Forgive me. I get angry when anyone mentions that man. It wouldn’t be so bad if Cicero wasn’t such a hypocrite.”
“Do you think it was a tribuneship your brother was pursuing when he came to Rome?”
“It might have been. I am sure the action and drama of a tribune’s life would have appealed to him far more than the drudgery of a quaestorship.” These were the two offices that would boost a man into the Senate.
“But all political offices are costly. He would have needed a wealthy patron to underwrite his expenses, unless he had family money.”
“No, our eldest brother, Manius, has control of that. And he’s quite happy being one of the biggest frogs in the pond of Baiae.”
“Baiae is a wonderful place,” I said. “I wonder that any of you left.”
“Luxury is good,” she said. “Power is better.” She took another sip and looked around her. “Luxury with power is best of all.”
I could scarcely argue with the logic of that statement. Moments later the comely housekeeper arrived with the news that Fulvia’s obsequy-arranging friend was in the atrium.
“Bring him in, Echo. I want Decius Caecilius to meet him.”
Moments later a well-favored young man entered the peristyle. “Decius Caecilius,” Fulvia said, “I want you to meet Caius Scribonius Curio, my dear friend, future husband, and soon to be Tribune of the People.”
I took his hand and we studied each other. Curio was about twenty-five, well built, with sandy hair and bright blue eyes. His hand had broken knuckles and calluses only in the places where weapons-training will put them. His square face was hard and belligerent, which was a good sort of face for a tribune to have in those days. His nose was slightly askew, his ears a bit deformed, and his eyebrows scarred, all marks of the boxing enthusiast. This was something of a rarity among upper-class Romans, who preferred wrestling or armed combat. What he saw I cannot say for certain, but I suspect he classified me as a man approaching his middle years who lived too hard and drank too much. In other words, typical of my generation and class.
“You are a man to whom Fortuna has been generous, if all that I hear is true,” I said.
“I’ve wanted to make your acquaintance for a long time,” Curio responded, “but I scarcely expected to find you in this house this day.”