“Sallustius, surely you could not have believed that this—”
“Did I say I believed him?” He looked truly insulted. “Give me credit for some political good sense. I know a crackpot when I see one. When I hear one, at any rate.”
“And yet he had backing.”
“Certainly.”
“I know already that the house he lived in belonged to Caius Claudius Marcellus.”
“Really? I did not know that, although it’s not much of a surprise. I would have thought one of the other Claudii though. Caius is not the most ardent of them. His brother and cousin are far more forceful.”
“They’re also the most dismal of conservatives. Where did all this radical claptrap come from?”
“A good question. I pondered it at great length, as it occured.” He leaned back in his chair, and I prepared myself to sit through a lecture. Sallustius would have to show off his political acumen. I would just have to let him. His knowledge of Roman political life, both high and low, was comprehensive. And he was no fool.
“First of all, any who took this scheme seriously had to suffer from a political blindness exceeding even that of your family. They think they are still fighting the social struggles of two hundred years ago, patrician against plebeian, nobiles against peasants. Back then the equites formed a tiny class of prosperous farmers who could afford to show up at the yearly muster with a horse.
“But the equites have been quietly growing in wealth and power, and now they are, in fact, the real power brokers of the Republic. If you want to stand for high office, they are the people who can lend you the money to do it. Once you are in office, it is understood that you are in a position to do them favors. Who, for instance, will be collecting the revenues for all those new provinces Caesar has been adding to our Empire?”
“Publicani, of course. The tax farmers.”
“Exactly the people Lucullus alienated to his own political hurt. Caesar will not make that mistake. He knows where the power lies in Rome. He secured his own position through the assemblies not the Senate. The optimates think of themselves as Rome’s rightfully privileged class. They see ranged against them the populares, whom they perceive as a penniless rabble led by demagogues like Clodius and Caesar. They forget that the populares also include most of Rome’s millionaires. Their well-bred contempt for mere money precludes their giving this bloc serious consideration.”
I thought this over. “So Pompey and his supporters are out. Pompey is far from politically astute, but he understands the power of the equites. He rose from that class himself.”
“Oh, Pompey would never touch anything as foolish as this. And Caesar is not only friendly toward them, he is extraordinarily reluctant to see citizens executed. He’ll kill barbarians in droves, but he is reluctant to see even his mortal enemies killed.”
“So who?”
“Aren’t you interested in knowing what subject was not discussed?” asked Sallustius.
My patience was thinning fast, but he had a point. I was being slow that day. “All right. Did he discuss an attack on the Metelli?”
“Didn’t breathe a word of it. In fact, he hinted heavily that your family would be one of the many great ones who would be solidly behind him. After all, what he proposed was a return of the ever-popular Golden age, when Rome was ruled by the best men, when proper aristocrats drew their modest wealth from the good soil of Italy, when commoners knew their place, and base tradesmen did not flout their ill-grubbed money before their betters.”
“Does anyone really believe there was ever such a time?” I asked. “Well, I suppose Cato does. You don’t suppose—No, even Cato isn’t that loony, and he all but slapped Fulvius in the face when the man confronted me. So what brought about this change?”
“I am guessing that Fulvius changed patrons,” Sallustius said. “None of that crowd who have been howling for your blood were present when I visited his house. They seem to be mostly old Clodians, not at all the sort who would want a restoration of the old aristocracy, much as they might despise bankers and moneylenders.”
“All right,” I said, throwing up my hands. “What are you telling me? I am thoroughly confused, and my time is running short. I go on trial tomorrow, and I would really like to be able to demonstrate that I am not guilty of murder.”
“It’s the boy, Decius.”
“That child is all of twelve years old! Just being able to deliver a competent eulogy doesn’t qualify him for high-stakes political intrigue!”
“So who is behind him?” Sallustius said, as insinuatingly as always. “You know Cicero’s dictum: A cui bono? To whom goes the benefit? Who is behind him? Who stands to gain if he becomes Caesar’s heir? Who would absolutely not want to see Fulvius’s silly plan come to anything? Assuming, as we both do, that the various Claudii Marcelli bankrolled him and put him up to it in the first place as a means to undermine Caesar, who would be in a position to know what was going on in that house?”