Cicero nodded. “It would certainly make your name in Roman politics. You’d be singled out as consular material before even serving as quaestor.”
“At the moment, I don’t find the prospect all that tempting. My recent experiences have made me doubtful of the wisdom of a career in politics.”
“Pity. You have what I regard as the highest of qualifications, which is a sense of public duty. A rare commodity these days. Tiro?”
“From what you have said,” Tiro commented, “another of the conspirators is a Consul-elect for the next year. That complicates things further. The Consulate is not a judicial office and, technically, he may not interfere, but political reality is otherwise. Since he and his colleague will rule on alternate days, you may try to set your court dates for days when his colleague holds office, but that would be difficult.” “You have my congratulations,” Cicero said. “At a very young age, you have acquired not one but three of the most powerful enemies in the world. However, you have asked for legal advice and I shall give it. If you wish to prosecute all the conspirators at once, you must wait until this Consul-elect, who shall remain nameless, is out of office, a matter of some thirteen months and odd days. By that time, the two ex-Consuls will undoubtedly be on foreign soil, in command of very large and powerful armies. Such men may be impeached, as will probably happen to Lucullus. However, I must warn you that, as an exercise in futility, taking legal action against a Roman general in the midst of his legionaries has few peers.”
“Is there no hope, then?” I asked, what few hopes I had arrived with already dashed.
“I have spoken as your legal adviser,” Cicero said. “Now let me speak as a man of the world.” He began ticking off points on his fingertips, lawyer-fashion. “First, the people you wish to prosecute are, for all practical purposes, above the law and the constitution. One of them is the greatest general in the world; another is the richest man in the world; the third is, besides myself, the best legal mind before the Roman bar. Each of the two Consuls commands a party of supporters in the Senate so powerful that they would be safe if they broke into the Temple of Vesta and raped all the virgins. Most importantly, they have the loyalty of thousands of the saltiest, most vicious and battle-hardened troops the world has ever seen. Once, it was unthinkable that Roman generals would lead their troops against Rome herself, but Marius and Sulla changed all that.”
Now he leaned forward and spoke most earnestly. “De-cius Caecilius, nobody, nobody, is going to convict those men for engaging in a bit of conspiracy against an ambitious fellow general or killing a couple of freedmen and a foreigner. I marvel that you are alive at all. This I can only attribute to the fact that these men would like the support of the Me-tellan family in their future plans.”
“I suppose that is true of the highest of the conspirators,” I acknowledged. “But there has been one unsuccessful attempt on my life. You see, one of the less highly placed conspirators does not fear the wrath of the Metellans, the laws of Rome or, for all I can tell, the immortal gods.”
Cicero smiled wryly. “I think I know who that must be. I believe we had dinner at his table a few nights ago, did we not? Well, him you may protect yourself from. Hire a pack of gladiators from the Statilian school, like all the other politicians. They make good bodyguards.”
“Not the family tradition, I’m afraid,” I said, rising. “Marcus Tullius, I thank you for your advice. You’ve given me little cause for hope, but you have clarified some points on which I was unclear, and that will be a great help.”
“Will you not drop this matter?” he asked.
I shook my head. “They have murdered people in my district, and I must pursue the case.”
He rose and took my hand. “Then I wish you well. I look to see great things from you, if you live.” Tiro conducted me out.
Since lawyers, like physicians, were forbidden to accept fees, I pondered what I might give Cicero. I was building up quite a Saturnalia debt lately. As I walked toward the Forum I remembered that I had a rather nice original manuscript of the poet Archias, whom Cicero loved. That should do it. A morning of legal consultation was not quite as demanding as if he had won an important court case for me.
I had other things buzzing through my mind, naturally. Cicero had very aptly and succinctly made my position clear. I was Rome’s most unloved investigator and number-one candidate for the next homicide victim. My plans to expose a conspiracy were in ruins. After all, who in Rome cared which of several power-mad, plunder-addled generals ruled as cock of the roost? Who cared which oily Oriental sat on some Eastern throne? Most of all, who cared about a few corpses in the street, where on some mornings corpses were as numerous as peach pits?