The Sacrilege(3)

“Come,” said Narcissus, “the Censor is in his garden. I know how glad he will be to see you.”

I sighed. “So do I.”

We found the old man seated at a table heaped with scrolls, the winter sun gleaming from his bald head and casting into relief the great, horizontal scar that nearly halved his face. He was Decius Caecilius Metellus the Elder, but everyone called him Cut-Nose. He glanced up as I entered.

“Back, eh?” he said as if I had just stepped out for a morning stroll.

“As events would have it,” I said. “I rejoice to find you well.”

He scowled. “How do you know I’m well? Just because I’m not dripping blood on the pavement? There are plenty of ways to die without showing it.”

This alarmed me. “Are you ill? I—”

“I’m healthy as a Thracian. Sit down.” He pointed a knobby finger at a bench opposite him. I sat.

“Let’s see,” he said. “We have to find work for you. Keep you out of trouble for a change.”

“As Censor, you have plenty of work for me, I’m sure,” I said.

“No, I’ve enough assistants. Most of my colleagues have sons who need experience in public work. Even the scut work of the Censorship exceeds the competence of most of them.”

“I rejoice to know you think I am worthy of better things,” I said.

“As it happens, your services have already been requested. Celer is standing for next year’s Consulship, and he wants your aid in canvassing. I could hardly refuse him.”

My heart leapt. This would be far more exciting than the Censor’s office. Quintus Caecilius Metellus Celer was a kinsman, and he had been my commander in Gaul. He had returned early to campaign for the Consulship, leaving his peaceful province to be governed by his legate.

“I shall be most happy to serve him,” I said. “And as for staying out of trouble, that should be no great problem with Clodius out of Rome.”

“Publius Clodius is still in Rome,” Father said.

“What?” I said, aghast. “Months ago, I had word that he’d won his quaestorship and had been assigned to Sicily! Why is he still here?” The mutual detestation of Pompey and Crassus was as the love of brothers compared to what lay between Clodius and me.

“He has delayed his departure and I don’t know why,” Father said, still scowling. Scowling was something he did well, and often. “Whatever his reason, you are to keep out of his way. He has amassed a real power base here in Rome. That is how decadent the times have become.” He was always going on about the disgraceful condition of the times. I personally do not think the times have ever been anything but decadent. It didn’t look as if he was going to offer me dinner, so I rose.

“I’ll go home and change, and then I’ll call on Celer. With your permission, I shall take my leave.”

“Just a minute,” Father said. “There was something I was going to give you. What was it? Oh, yes.” He signaled and a slave presented himself. “In the cabinet in the atrium,” Father said, “in the drawer below the death masks, you will find a package. Fetch it.” The slave ran off and was back within seconds. “Take it,” Father told me.

Mystified, I took the parcel, wrapped in the finest paper. I stripped off the wrapping and found a rolled-up garment. I shook it out and found that it was a white tunic, severely plain except for the broad purple stripe running from neck to hem. The tunic was the sort worn by every Roman male, but the purple stripe could be worn only by a Senator.

“I gave you your first sword, so I thought I might as well give you this,” Father said. “Hortalus and I could think of no pressing reason to keep you out, so we enrolled you among the Senators last month.”

To my mortification, my eyes began to film with tears. Father rescued me from disgrace in his usual fashion.

“Don’t let it go to your head. Any fool can be a Senator. You’ll find that most of your fellow Senators are fools or villains, or both. Now attend me well.” He held up an admonitory finger. “You are to sit well to the back of the Senate chamber. You are not to make speeches until you have achieved some distinction. You are always to vote with the family, and you are to raise your voice only to cheer for a point made by our family or one of our adherents. Above all, you are to stay out of trouble, Clodius or no Clodius. Now, you have my leave to go.” He returned his attention to his scrolls.

I left. Father could steal the sunlight from a summer day, but that was just his manner. I was happy with my new tunic. I had already ordered several made in anticipation of admission to the Senate, but it meant something to receive this one from my father. His stern instructions were no more that I had expected. Barbarians think that every Roman Senator is a veritable god, but we know better. With or without a purple stripe, I was still a mere son. I made my way through the noontime bustle of the city and soon stood before the familiar street door of my house. Before I could even rap on its surface, the door flew open and there stood my elderly manservant, Cato, and his equally aged wife, Cassandra.