The Sacrilege(42)
“Good. Will you oppose Clodius’s efforts to change his status to plebeian?”
“I’ll interpose my veto to stop any such attempt. And it will be needed, because I happen to know that Clodius is pushing Caius Herennius for the tribuneship. The agreement is that Clodius will help Herennius get elected, and in return Herennius will propose a bill to transfer Clodius to the plebeians.”
“I’ve heard that Clodius is using some unheard-of tactics to curry favor with the mob,” I said.
“And very successfully. To hear the tavern-talk now, you’d think that Clodius was Romulus come again.”
This sounded ominous. “If that’s the case, you may count on my support.” I had no idea whether I could trust his word, but I resolved to find out soon. We spoke of political matters for some time, until a client came to tell me that a party had come to retrieve the body. I rose and went to my front gate, my clients close behind me. I had little fear of a real fight with Clodius. Whatever his growing power in the slums, my district was strictly Milonian.
Outside, Clodius’s crowd had brought a bier and waited by the body while the Libitinarii went through a perfunctory lustrum so that the body could be handled without contamination. The priest touched it with his hammer to claim it for the goddess, then went through the usual rigmarole with liquids and powders. Then he nodded to Clodius, who had been standing by, studiously ignoring me.
Clodius then performed his duties. The body was lifted onto the bier and he leaned over the dead boy’s face, almost kissing him, miming the action of catching his last breath as it escaped the body. A little late for that, I thought, but it had to be done. He straightened, clapped his hands three times and shouted the conclamatio:
“Appius Claudius Nero! Appius Claudius Nero! Appius Claudius Nero!” After the last calling of the name, a crowd of female relatives and slaves set up the usual shrill lamentations and Clodius placed a coin under the boy’s tongue, to pay the ferryman. As the bier was raised he turned to glare at me, but he said nothing until bier and body had been carried away and the mourning wails faded into the distance.
“Metellus! You murdered my cousin and I intend to bring charges against you in the Court for Assassins!” Obviously, he didn’t really believe what he said. He preferred to kill his enemies without benefit of a trial.
“You’re babbling even more dementedly than usual this morning, Clodius,” I said. “Even if I wanted to murder the boy, I wouldn’t do it in front of my own gate. Anyone can see that he was killed by the same murderer who killed Mamercus Capito, and I was in Capito’s triclinium when that happened, as several of the most distinguished men in Rome will bear witness.” I made no mention of the poisoning attempt. People might infer from it that I bore a grudge against the boy and had a motive to kill him.
“I didn’t say you did it with your own hand!” Clodius yelled. “You’re not that good with a dagger. The assassin was your hireling!” Behind him, a gang of his thugs growled, but all the rooftops were crowded with my neighbors, armed with enough stones to build a small city.
“If you want to make formal charges, you know how it’s done,” I said, “but a man under accusation of sacrilege cuts a poor figure in court.” At this my supporters roared with laughter while Clodius grew scarlet in the face.
“Then perhaps we shouldn’t bother the courts with this!”
I saw the glint of daggers being drawn among his mob, and behind me, my own followers gripped cudgels, stones and, no doubt, a few swords. I reached into my tunic and gripped my caestus. We had the makings of a full-scale riot here, and I was ready for one. The past few days had been frustrating, and a street brawl is a fine way to relieve tension, despite what the philosophers say. I have always held that excessive equanimity is unhealthy. We were about to come to blows when something unexpected happened.
The crowd in the street parted as if by magic as a herald came forward in his white robe, parting the mob with his ivy-wreathed staff. “Make way!” he shouted. “Make way for the Pontifex Maximus!” The daggers disappeared as if they had never existed. I released my grip on my caestus and the crowd fell silent.
Caius Julius Caesar strode superbly into the space between the two hostile groups. He wore a magnificent formal toga, one fold of it drawn over his head as if he were engaged in one of his sacerdotal functions. He turned slowly in a full circle, and people fell back before his lordly eagle’s frown. This was the first time I witnessed Caesar’s easy mastery of crowds, and I was impressed. Now I could see why he was so influential before the huge public assemblies. In small gatherings, even before the Senate of his peers, Caesar’s manner looked like bombastic posturing. In the midst of a great mob it was godlike. I began to have an inkling of what he would be like haranguing the troops before battle.