The Sacrilege(9)
“Young Decius will be working with me in my upcoming campaign for the Consulship, my dear,” Celer said, with the pained look shared by all men afflicted with such wives.
“Oh, what a waste of talent. You couldn’t lose the Consulship if the other factions put up gods and heroes as competitors! Still, that means we’ll be seeing a lot of dear Decius, so it’s all for the good.” At that moment a slave came and announced a visitor, so Clodia took her leave and rushed off.
“Well,” Celer grumbled, “it’s good you and Clodia get along, even if her brother wants to cut your throat.”
“I have the highest esteem for Clodia,” I assured him.
“Starting tomorrow, I want you to pay your morning call here instead of at your father’s house.” We began to walk toward the door.
“Shall I bring my clients?” I asked.
“Only if I’m to make an important speech. Otherwise, dismiss them when you leave your house.”
“I shall be most happy to comply.” I never liked the custom of being followed around by a gang of clients. Even loyalty and devotion become annoying after a while.
In the atrium we found Clodia and the new arrival, a kinswoman of mine, nicknamed Felicia. She was Caecilia Metella, wife of the younger Marcus Crassus, who was the son of the great Crassus. She made the usual cousinly sounds of greeting.
“What are you and Clodia up to?” I said. I should have known better than to ask.
“We’re going to do something scandalous and embarrass our husbands,” Felicia said.
“Aren’t you a respectable matron now?” I asked. “Surely you’re raising a pack of little Crassi.”
“Don’t be boring,” Felicia scolded. “Breeding is for slaves and livestock. Besides, you’ve reached an advanced age without marrying.”
“No woman can pin Decius down that long,” said Clodia with a deft twirl of the thumb-screw. “He always makes trouble for someone powerful and has to leave Rome to save his skin.”
“Ladies, if you will excuse us, I must see Decius out. He has pressing duties.” Celer guided me out the door. “No man should be called upon to deal with both of them,” he muttered.
To my surprise I found Hermes waiting for me outside the gate, but in well-bred fashion I ignored his presence while I made my farewells to my eminent relative, promising to arrive early the next day.
Hermes fell in behind me as I walked toward the Forum. “So that’s the great Metellus?” he said. “Doesn’t look like much.”
“He is one of the greatest,” I told him. “I, on the other hand, am only a little Metellus. I am, however, far greater than you, which means that you are to curb your insolence.”
“As you say, master.”
It had been an eventful day, this homecoming of mine. It was to be among the more tranquil.
2
The next morning I rose far too early and greeted my clients. I still had only a small number of them, but they are a necessary adjunct of social and political life. I had about twelve at this time, mostly from families long associated with mine or else retired soldiers who had served with me at one time or other. They had little to do except cheer me in the courts or protect me in times of danger, and I was bound to help them legally and financially. They would be asking more favors now that I was a Senator.
I dismissed them with thanks and gifts and then made my way to Celer’s house. I found a great mob in his atrium. His clientage in Rome alone numbered in the hundreds, with thousands more in Italy and the provinces. Naturally, even the Roman crowd could not all call on him at the same time. I think they had some sort of system of on and off days.
I wandered among them, catching up with old friends and meeting a few new ones. People spoke mainly of Pompey’s upcoming triumph, and what a splendid spectacle it was sure to be. It seemed all but certain that the Senate’s muleheaded opposition could not last much longer. Among the crowd I found Caesar again.
“Two days in a row, Caius Julius?” I said. “Surely no Julian has ever been a Metellan client.”
Caesar smiled his dazzling smile. “No, I do not come as a client, but as a homeless suppliant. I’ve come to beg your kinsman for a roof to shelter my head tomorrow night.”
“Didn’t they ever fix the tiles on the pontiff’s palace?” I asked. “They were working on that when I left Rome.”
“No, the place is sound, but tomorrow night the rites of Bona Dea are to be held there, and I cannot be present.”
“The date had escaped me,” I admitted. “But then, I’m not married.” This rite was performed in the house of the Pontifex Maximus under the supervision of his wife, and all the noblest ladies of Rome attended. It was absolutely forbidden to men, and women were forbidden to speak of it on pain of death.