The slave let us into the atrium, which was already crowded with Father’s other clients, of which he had a prodigious mob. He was an Urban Praetor that year, an office of great dignity. He would be standing for the Consulate in two years, and a man who must make innumerable long-winded speeches needs a sizable cheering section. Many of the men present that morning had permanently hoarsened their voices by cheering every point made and every clever turn of phrase during Father’s career as a lawyer pleading before the court. This was a court day and Father’s lictors were there, leaning on their rod-bundled axes. At least, this year, Father would be presiding rather than pleading; a relief to every ear and larynx present.
The room was abuzz with the usual city gossip; the lowborn chattered of races and swordsmen, the better-bred concentrating on politics and foreign affairs and the deeds of our over-adventurous and squabbling generals. Everybody traded the latest omens, and applied them to the doings of charioteers, gladiators, politicians and generals. There was much talk of the fire near the Circus. All Romans live in mortal terror of fire.
Eventually, the great man appeared. His toga was as white as a candidate’s except for its broad purple stripe. Unlike most modern politicians, Father was not accompanied by a bodyguard of riffraff such as the late Marcus Ager. He said it demeaned the dignity of a Senator to walk as if in fear of his fellow citizens. On the other hand, he had few political or personal enemies, so he was in no real danger. After greeting a few of his more prominent clients, he signaled for me to approach him. After we exchanged greetings, he clapped me on the shoulder.
“Decius, my son, I’ve been hearing good reports of your work on the Commission of Twenty-Six.” The old man had been most disappointed in my lack of aptitude and interest in a military career. I had served the bare minimum necessary to qualify for public office and used a minor wound as an excuse to go back to Rome and stay there. Now that I was embarked on my civil career, though, Father was willing to acknowledge me again.
“I try to do my duty. And I find that I have a flair for snooping.”
“Yes, well”—Father waved a hand as if dismissing my comment—"you have subordinates for that sort of thing, you know. You really should confine your activities to those commensurate with your rank: arresting those who are a danger to the community and making a report of your investigation to the Senate.”
“Sometimes wealthy or highborn people must be questioned, Father,” I explained. “Often I find that such persons will talk to a noble in a way they would never do with some state freedman.”
“Don’t try to gull me, young man,” Father said sternly. “You enjoy it. You’ve never overcome your taste for low company and disreputable pursuits.” I shrugged in acknowledgment.
Perhaps I should explain something here: In this modern age of blurring social distinctions, the significance of this exchange might be lost. We Caecilii Metelli are an ancient and incredibly numerous family of great distinction, but our ancestor arrived in Rome just a bit too late to qualify for patrician status. We are of the plebeian nobility, which to my taste is the most desirable status: qualified to hold the highest public office without the ceremonial restrictions endured by patricians. In practical career terms it meant only that we were barred from certain priesthoods, which was all to the good. Sacerdotal duties are the bane of public life, and I never held a priesthood I didn’t loathe.
Still standing, Father ate his breakfast from a tray held by a slave. Breakfast consisted of a crust or two of bread sprinkled with salt and helped down with a cup of water. This is a custom rich in staunch old Roman virtue, no doubt, but deficient in the fortifying nourishment required by a man who will spend a full day on the work of the Senate. It was my own practice to have a far more substantial meal in bed. Father always assured me that this was a barbaric practice, fit only for Greeks and Orientals, so perhaps I played an unknowing part in the downfall of the Republic. Be that as it may, I still have my breakfast in bed.
Luckily, since this was a court day, Father did not require us all to accompany him to the levee of his patron, the advocate, great orator and thoroughgoing scoundrel, Quintus Hortensius Hortalus. Instead, we merely accompanied him to the Basilica, preceded by his lictors, and made sure that his entrance was properly solemn and dignified before the day’s uproarious litigation began. As soon as he was ensconced in his curule chair, I made my way back out to the Forum for my customary round of meeting and greeting prior to embarking upon the business of the day. This could be time-consuming. As a junior civil servant, I was of little personal importance, but my father was a praetor who might well be Consul someday, so I was sought out by many.