A Point of Law(65)

She raised her blotched, tear-stained face and stared him fearlessly in the eyes. “Why don’t you go screw yourself, you pompous, jumped-up toad! And by what right do you address a single word to me? You have no imperium here in Italy, only in Spain. You are only allowed your lictors by courtesy. Everyone else in Rome has gotten used to jumping when Pompey speaks, but I don’t! Now step aside and keep out of my way or I’ll set my slaves on you.” As if she had any with her.

Pompey looked as if someone had dropped an anvil on his head. Everyone within hearing range gasped, scandalized and delighted. When he had his voice back, Pompey spoke to me.

“Metellus, get this woman to her home and chain her up. The Republic is not safe while she’s walking around loose.” He whirled around and stalked off, his spine actually trembling with fury. People sprang from his path as if they’d discovered hot coals under their feet.

“You don’t take advice very well, do you, Fulvia?” I said.

“Never. Escort me home, Decius.”

Like a deferential valet, I obeyed her. Hermes joined us, smiling hugely. A day like this didn’t come along very often. And I was pondering this new side of Fulvia. I had known her, slightly, for years, but only as a member of that almost laboriously scandalous social set headed by Clodius and Clodia. This fearless, determined woman who could not be cowed or intimidated was new to me.

As we crossed the Forum from west to east, headed toward the Palatine and her home, we acquired an escort of citizens, among them a number of Caesar’s soldiers. It was the last thing I wanted, but it was unavoidable. Romans prized this means of showing their support for someone they respected, and a great man sometimes found himself embarrassed by a self-appointed escort of thousands. By the time we reached the Clivus Victoriae there were several hundred in our train, and nobody seemed to think it odd that I, Clodius’s deadly enemy, was taking his widow home.

At her door Fulvia thanked them graciously, feigning hoarseness to avoid a prolonged oration. Then she went inside, closely followed by Hermes and me. As soon as the door was closed behind us she turned and removed my toga.

“Here, Decius, and I thank you for the loan.”

I took it from her hands and, with Hermes, goggled as she went about the atrium, calling for her slaves. We were seeing only what the whole city of Rome had just seen, but somehow, in this private setting, it seemed far more intimate. Her slaves, frightened and astonished, hustled her into the rear of the house while she called for her wardrobe mistress and her cosmetician and her hairdresser.

“Well,” Hermes said, “we don’t get to see something like that very often.”

“As well for our hearts that we don’t,” I told him. “My own is near apoplexy as it is. Now, where is Curio? I want a few words with him.”

“I saw Asklepiodes’s litter up the street by a fountain, with the bearers and the fighters lounging around it, so he must be here somewhere.”

I caught sight of Echo, the comely Greek housekeeper, and beckoned her over. She led us to a bedroom that opened off the peristyle, where Asklepiodes stood by a bandaged Curio, while a man in Syrian robes looked on with disapproval. This had to be Fulvia’s personal physician, resentful at being usurped by the illustrious Greek.

“Decius Caecilius!” Curio said, seeming quite spirited for a man at death’s door. “How good of you to come. My new friend, Asklepiodes, tells me that my betrothed took my injury rather too much to heart.”

“You would have enjoyed the spectacle,” I told him. “I hope someday she will perform my funeral oration. I’d like to be remembered for something. I take it that the severity of your wounds is not as great as has been feared? If so, I rejoice at the news.”

“No, I’m fine, but don’t tell anybody. This will do me endless credit at the election.” He wore a bandage around his temples and some blood was seeping through it. “The scalp wound made it look bad. You know how copiously they bleed. The rogues set upon me as soon as I stepped out the doorway, and when I staggered back inside I looked like I’d been through a taurobolium.” He referred to the odd initiation ceremony practiced by the Phrygian cult of Mithras. New members pledge themselves to the god by standing in a pit covered by a bronze grate. A bull is led onto the grate and its throat cut, showering the novices with its blood.

“How many were there? Did you get a good look at them?”

“It was only beginning to get light. To be truthful I was still half asleep and a little the worse for last night’s drinking and—well, other things. I think there were three of them, armed with daggers and clubs.”