The Sacrilege(8)

“Last year, when Cato was tribune, he put a stop to it by simply interposing his veto. This year, Cicero has been fighting the adoption tooth and nail. Dangerous as he is, Clodius will be ten times as destructive if he is a tribune.” In many ways, the tribuneship was the most powerful office in Rome in those days. The tribunes had regained most of the powers taken from them by Sulla. They could introduce bills and veto any action of the Senate. I shuddered at the thought of Clodius having that power.

“Working to frustrate Clodius is something I never need encouragement to do,” I told Celer.

“Stay out of his way for now,” he cautioned. “I don’t know why he’s hanging around Rome when his duties lie in Sicily, but I’ve no doubt he’s up to some devilment.”

“Always a safe bet, with Clodius.”

“Very true. Now, since we are on that subject. We senior members of the family have been discussing what we may have to do when Clodius makes his run for the tribuneship, as surely he will if he lives long enough.”

“And what was the decision?” I asked.

“We will want you to stand for a tribuneship the same year.”

I felt like a sacrificial ox when he’s knocked on the head by the flamen’s assistant. “Me? But the family is full of men better qualified.”

“Nonsense, you’re a perfect choice. Your lineage is impeccable. You’ll have a recent Censor for a father, and you have the qualifications for any office. Not that that matters, because any citizen can be elected tribune, so long as he’s not a patrician. You’re an aristocrat, but you’re something of a favorite with the commons because of your feat with the October Horse.” He grinned at that memory. I winced.

“Now,” Celer went on, “I think that Cicero is grooming your friend Titus Milo for the same role. I hate to think of a criminal gang leader like Milo as tribune, but I admit he’s a better man than Clodius.”

“Milo is an excellent choice,” I said, “but I’ve never even considered the tribuneship. I am flattered that you think me worthy, of course.”

“Don’t be too flattered,” he said. “The main reason we want you is because Clodius hates you so much. He’ll be so distracted by your rivalry that he may not do too much mischief.”

“I see.” My mind was working like a fermenting wine vat. “If both Milo and I are tribunes the same year, we could combine forces to keep Clodius in line.”

“You catch on quickly,” Celer said. “You may have a future in Roman politics. Well, all this may be years away, but I want you to think about it.”

“Rest assured, I shall think of little else,” I said. Somehow, I had to get out of this. Clodius hated me enough as a mere enemy. If I were a political rival, his malignancy would know no bounds. In theory, the lives of tribunes were sacrosanct, and to murder one was an impious act. The trouble was, Clodius was a man who specialized in acts of impiety.

“What are you two plotting?” The voice came from the colonnade and we turned to face its source. I knew it instantly, of course.

Clodia was still one of Rome’s great beauties, and at this time one of the most notorious. She was also famed for her charm and wit, for her learning and patronage of artists and poets. Most of all, she was feared. She was suspected of complicity in a number of murders, and I happened to know that she was guilty of some of them. However, she was Celer’s wife, and certain basic courtesies were demanded.

“You are more beautiful than ever, Clodia,” I told her, “and you know that your husband and I haven’t an ounce of conspiratorial talent between us.”

“How disappointing,” she said, extending her hand. I took it and bowed over the cool, tapering fingers, artfully kissing my thumb instead of her hand. The caution might have been unwarranted, but she was rumored to keep poison under her gilded nails.

“How long has it been, Decius? Not since dear Quintus took the field against Catilina? You left Rome then, did you not?” Needless to say, she had not accompanied her husband to Gaul, to my relief and no doubt to his as well. They were not a good match, but then, the great families always arranged marriages for reasons of policy. They had been betrothed when she was a mere girl and her brother, Clodius, no more that an obnoxious brat.

“I’ve been away from Rome and you far too long, Clodia.” Well, the part about Rome was true. Clodia and I had a tangled and, for me, embarrassing past. Nothing embarrassed her.

“Things have been terribly dull of late,” she said. “Now that you are back, perhaps matters will liven up.” That sounded ominous.