“Lictors!” Juventius shouted. “Throw these trespassers out!” Since his lictors were outside trying to hold the crowd back, they were in something of a quandary.
“What’s all this unseemliness?” The voice was not terribly loud, but all disorder quieted instantly. Pompey entered the basilica, preceded by his twelve lictors. Technically, he was proconsul for Nearer and Farther Spain, but he also had an extraordinary oversight of the grain supply, so he remained in Italy to keep everyone from starving while his legates attended to both Spanish provinces. It was an unheard-of arrangement for a proconsul with full imperium to remain in Italy; but in this, as in everything else, Pompey was a law unto himself.
“Proconsul,” Juventius said, “I’ve summoned Metellus the Younger to appear before me tomorrow, and he has shown up instead today, interrupting court business.”
“You gave him short enough notice. Why should he do less for you?” Then he turned to me. “Decius, you’ve been provoked, but I’ll not have disorder in Roman courts. Go home and get your defense ready. I’m sure you’ll have a good one.”
“Naturally,” I said to him. “I have hundreds of witnesses to my activities, and they’re all on Cyprus! If I were, at great expense, to dispatch a fast cutter I could bring a few dozen here in about a month. At least I could if it were the sailing season, which it isn’t.”
“You’d better think of something,” Pompey advised, “because if your case is carried over into the next year, you can’t be elected praetor.”
He turned around, strode to the entrance, and bellowed, “This matter is to be settled tomorrow! I want you all to go about your business. There are to be no unlawful assemblies or disorderly demonstrations.”
Meekly, the whole crowd did his bidding. Pompey was acting as if he were sovereign of the City. Since the City was well-supplied with his veterans in those days, he might as well have been.
“We’ll meet at my house this evening,” Father said. “Summon our highest-ranking supporters. We have some serious planning to do.”
2
BY THE TIME I GOT HOME, JULIA ALready knew most of the story. Her network of slaves, tradesmen, and the women of her social circle rivaled the espionage organization of any Eastern potentate. She met me in our atrium that afternoon with a harried expression and a formidable degree of preparation. She clapped her hands, and the household slaves bustled to do her bidding. A slave took my candidate’s toga as another toweled the chalk from my neck and arms.
“Come along,” Julia said. “We have a lot to discuss and not much time.” I followed her into the dining room where more slaves were already setting the table for us. I flopped onto a couch and somebody took my sandals.
“Eat,” Julia commanded. “You’re going to have a long night of plotting ahead of you at your father’s house.”
“You already know about that?” I reached for the wine, and she slapped my hand. I grabbed a roll instead.
“How should I not?” She mixed the wine with water. Far too much water. “They’ll want to organize a legal defense for you. Tell them they are wasting their time.”
“Why should I do that? Even perjured testimony has to be answered and countered. I don’t see how the man can hope to make his charges stick.”
Julia rolled her eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? He has no intention of bringing in a conviction! He just wants to keep you out of the election!”
“But why? He can’t hope to make his reputation on an abortive trial resulting in an acquittal.”
“That’s the question we have to answer.” She shoved a cup of the weak mixture into my hand. I dipped my bread into balsam-steeped oil and chewed.
“If he doesn’t benefit directly from my exclusion from office, then who does? That’s always Cicero’s question, isn’t it? ‘Who benefits?’ ”
“There is another question to ask: Are you the real target of this attack?”
“What do you mean?” I downed a couple of oysters and went after a roast chicken.
“His words, as reported to me, were that he would bring down ‘the great Caecilius Metellus.’ You are not the most distinguished of your family. He may be attacking the family through you.”
“If we were known Pompeians or Caesarians that would make sense, but we aren’t. The family supported Sulla and has gone its own way since his death.”
“There are those who may find that intolerable,” Julia said obscurely.
“How well do you know Fulvia? He’s her brother.”