“The hour grows late,” Messala said, “and we should not detain the aedile. He has work to attend to.”
“Right, right,” Father said, shaken from his grumpy reverie. “Decius, there is something you should know, since it concerns both the family and your tenure of office.”
At last they were getting to it. “I confess I was puzzled by the presence of so distinguished a gathering. Two ex-censors and a pontifex, no less. May I assume this has something to do with our family’s growing warmth toward Pompey?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself!” Father barked. “We have to get this awful year done with first.”
“And the great difficulty with this year,” Messala slid in smoothly, “is that the past election scandals have yet to sort themselves out. We’ve been forced to appoint an inter-rex“—he nodded toward Scipio—”and it looks as if we shall have to continue the Interregnum for some time to come.”
“Is there a constitutional limit on the period of an Interregnum?“ I asked. “I confess that I’ve never looked into it.”
“Cicero and Hortensius Hortalus have researched the matter, and there seems to be no limit that’s ever been spelled out.”
“The real limit,” Scipio said, “is that it’s such a disagreeable office. There is great prestige, of course, since the Senate only chooses interreges from among the most distinguished members, but”—he threw up his hands in disgust— “you have all the duties and responsibilities of both consuls, only no imperium and no province to govern afterward. It’s a great burden.”
When the Republic was founded, we expelled our kings, and Rome has been very hostile to the concept of monarchy ever since. Only two very ancient offices survive with the title “rex“ in them: the interrex, the “king-between,” and the Rex Sacrorum, “King of Sacrifices.” Neither office is invested with any real power for the very good reason that no Roman would confer power on anyone called a king of any sort.
“For that reason,” Scipio went on, “I will step down from this office at the end of next month.”
“Will the consuls be able to assume office at that time?” I asked.
“Not without violence,” Father said. “Valerius Messala will take up the Interregnum. There will, of course, be a pro forma vote in the Senate, but it is foregone. No one else really wants the office in a year as disorderly as this one.”
Messala smiled. “One does what one must in the service of the Senate and People.”
“The consuls,” Father continued, “when they finally do assume office, will have no more than half a term. Forget about them. They are nobodies. It is next year we must be prepared for.”
“Scipio hinted at something of the sort yesterday,” I said.
“Exactly.” Father rubbed at the great scar that all but halved his face. “The City is in chaos, and this disorder must be suppressed before civic life can return to normal. It’s tearing the Empire apart. There is only one man with both the military prestige and the popularity to do the job, and that’s Pompey.”
“You can’t be proposing a dictatorship!” I objected. “Not after all our family’s opposition to him!”
Father favored us with one of his very rare smiles, the sort he allowed himself only after pulling some superlatively underhanded bit of political chicanery. It was a ghastly sight. “Not precisely. What we are going to do is make Pompey sole consul for next year. Full imperium and no colleague to overrule or interfere with him.”
I let the political implications sink in, saying nothing. Pompey would be virtual dictator except in one all-important factor: A dictator held an unaccountable office. Not only did he have full imperium, but he could not be called to account for his actions when he stepped down from office. As sole consul, Pompey would have a free hand to take whatever corrective measures he pleased, but he could not abuse the office because he would be an ordinary citizen when he stepped down and could be sued for his actions by any other citizen. Pompey would take only the necessary measures because he was a truly gifted administrator, when he wasn’t besotted by military glory.
“Excellent,” I said at last. “It’s an inspired compromise.” Barbarians, with their traditions of monarchy or tribal wrangling, never understand that our Republic was powerful, not because of our rigid adherence to principle, but because of our ability to compromise.
Father nodded. “I knew you’d catch on quickly. You are a Caecilius Metellus after all, in spite of all appearances.”