The Sacrilege(48)
“You mean they’re in the city?”
I was taken much aback. “Who? Who do you mean by ‘they’?”
She jumped up, clutching her basket. “Nobody I want to be involved with. Take my advice and don’t you fall afoul of them, either. Good day to you, sir.” She shouldered past me and headed for the street.
“Stop!” I said. “I want to…” By that time, I was addressing her back, She was not just walking away. She was running. I began to chase her, but I quickly gave it up. The toga is a wretched garment for performing anything strenuous, and I did not dare throw it off. Someone would steal it for certain.
I shrugged, thinking that I could always find her in her booth. Then I trudged back home, where I found two notes waiting for me.
One was from my father, informing me that the following morning the Senate would go to Pompey’s camp to give him formal permission for his triumph. I was to dress properly for the occasion.
The other was from Julia. It read: I have important information. Meet me tomorrow evening at sunset on the portico of the Temple of Castor.
9
It was a fine morning, and we assembled in the Forum dressed in our best togas. It was not an official holiday, but there was a holiday spirit in the air, as there always is when routine is broken. Hortalus got up on the Rostra and proclaimed our mission, and the crowd cheered, praising the Senate’s wisdom.
Of course, Pompey had known for days of the Senate’s decision, but his flunkies had insisted that we revive the ancient custom of the entire Senate trooping in a body to the victorious general’s camp to give him the good news personally. Since they had adequate historical precedent to cite, there was no way the rest of us could get out of it.
As we went down the Via Sacra to the city gate, we all kept good, impassive senatorial faces, but there was plenty of grumbling all around. I did a bit of it myself.
“It had better be the triumph to top all triumphs,” somebody groused near me, “since he’s putting us to all this trouble.”
“Just like Pompey,” said somebody else. “Not enough to get his triumph; he has to see the whole Senate come out to him to kiss his glorious backside.” This was all to the good, to my way of thinking. In those days the Senate still had a great deal of pride and was an assemblage of peers. We did not like anyone who puffed himself up and gave himself kingly airs. A triumphator received semi-divine honors for a day, and that was thought to be enough for any man.
Pompey’s lackeys had been petitioning the Senate to grant him the right to wear his triumphal regalia at all public functions, a piece of abject toadying that horrified all right-thinking Romans. Unfortunately, right-thinking Romans were getting fewer all the time.
Pompey’s camp was laid out identically to a legionary camp, but without the customary fortifications. That would have been an intolerable provocation. His soldiers were still under arms, but they showed the lax discipline Pompey allowed between campaigns. Few bothered to wear armor or bear shields, and those detailed to guard the treasure merely belted on their swords and leaned on their spears, most of them passing the time with dice and knucklebones. There were some flaming faces as we made our way to his praetorium. Many felt mortally insulted that Pompey had not bothered to have his men turn out for an inspection parade to honor a visit by the massed Senate.
At the praetorium we found Pompey enthroned on a dais. We walked down the via praetoria between the ranks of his honor guard. These indeed were finely turned out, their mail newly cleaned and oiled, the sun flashing from the polished bronze of their helmets. Their cloaks and their horsehair crests were new and colorful. The damage had been done, though, when the Senate had seen the slovenly louts standing guard. I remembered what Cicero had said about Pompey, that he was a political imbecile. A man who neglected to flatter the most august body of men in the world had little future in Roman politics.
“Just like calling on the King of Kings, isn’t it?” I turned to see Crassus standing close to me. “Look at him. That dais must be fifteen feet high, and that curule chair is ivory, unless my eyes deceive me.”
Indeed, Pompey looked more like a king than a soldier, for all his gold-plated armor and scarlet cloak. His curule chair was draped with leopard skins, and his feet rested on a footstool cleverly wrought from the crowns of monarchs he had conquered.
“He certainly doesn’t mind rubbing it in,” I concurred. Behind him stood the eagle-bearers of his legions, their heads and shoulders draped with lion pelts above their old-fashioned scale shirts, and beside him stood some odd-looking men whose long, pointed beards echoed the shape of their tall caps. They were draped in rough brown cloaks. I asked Crassus about them.