“Does anyone know anything about this man Fulvius?” Julia asked the table at large. It was a long table, and it held a fairly representative sampling of the neighborhood: shopkeepers, idlers, a thief, a Jewish marble merchant, a craftsman or two, even another senator.
This last was a man named Spurius Gavius Albinus, a man of a totally undistinguished Suburan family. Each generation they managed to get one son elected to a quaestorship and thence to a seat in the Senate. He then never held higher office, but membership in the Senate was for life, barring expulsion by the censors. Thus these Gavii retained their status as a senatorial family. The great majority of senators at the time were such men. Only a small group of senatorial families ever held the praetorship, and a smaller group yet, my own included, were consuls.
“Word has it,” a shopkeeper said, “that he was being lined up for next year’s tribuneship elections.”
“Where does this word originate?” Julia asked.
The man looked puzzled. “I don’t know. It’s just around. Fulvius was going to make a big name for himself by taking on the Metelli.”
“I heard,” said the thief, “that he had plans to make Pompey’s life miserable.”
“Pompey?” I said. “The wretch didn’t lack ambition.”
“Way I heard it,” the thief went on, “he figured he had better blood in him than Pompey.”
“I knew his father slightly,” said the marble merchant. “I travel to Baiae two or three times a year on business.” He was a fully Hellenized Jew, meaning that his dress, hair, beard, and adornments were all Greek, and he spoke that language with cultured fluency. He went by the name Philippus. I presume he chose the nane himself, and it was a clever one, being one of the few Roman names of Greek origin.
“He was Fulvius Flaccus, wasn’t he?” I inquired.
“Publius Fulvius Flaccus Bambalio,” Philippus said, giving it the full treatment. “He and his partner donated a fine Temple of Neptune to the city of Baiae. I furnished it inside and out with beautiful, sea green marble.”
“His partner being Sextus Manilius?” I asked.
“No. It was Caius Octavius, the one who was praetor some years ago.”
I almost knocked over my cup, but rescued it in time. “Octavius? I’d no idea the man had holdings in Baiae!”
“Oh, yes!” said Senator Gavius. “Octavius served as duumvir one year out of every three. He was one of the town’s main benefactors.” He added, with a smile of satisfaction, “I go to Baiae often.”
Probably because you never do anything for the state, I thought. I might have said something indiscreet, but Julia jumped in at that moment.
“We had heard that Fulvius Flaccus and Sextus Manilius are close friends.”
“They are,” Gavius said. “Manilius is another of the regular duumviri of Baiae. There’s a little group of families down there who take the highest offices in turn.” He refilled his cup and grinned at me. “Just like here.”
“Manilius?” said a copper founder named Glabrio. “Is he any relation to the young tribune?”
“Look!” Julia cried happily, stomping on my foot. “Here’s a hero we know back from the war!” It was fortuitous timing. Even without having my foot stomped on, I knew we didn’t want to expose this Gordian knot of intrigue before our neighbors.
Entering the courtyard was a family of my clients. In their lead was old Burrus, a veteran of my legion in Spain. Crowned with laurel, in military tunic and belt, was his son Lucius, whom I had last seen in Gaul a couple of years earlier. He had a hand on the shoulder of a nephew who wore one of the Gallic torques that were showing up everywhere. His mother was swathed in what appeared to be about ten yards of vividly checked and striped cloth.
“Patron! Domina!” Lucius said, catching sight of us. I took his hands and saw that he wore silver bracelets on both wrists. Among Roman men, only soldiers wear bracelets, and these are decorations for valor. It was rare for a man so young to wear two of them.
“I see you’ve been busy.” I poured a cup and handed it to him. “Still in the first cohort?”
“I’m an optio now, in the antesignani of the first cohort.”
Old Burrus beamed with pride, and he had reason to. The term is obsolete now, but in those days the antesignani, “those who fight before the standards,” were the cream of the legions, the bravest of the brave. To be an optio over such men was a great honor.
“Amazing! You’ll be a centurion in no time!”
“Next year,” he said confidently, “when the primus pilus retires, then my centurion becomes First Spear, and I step into his place.”