The Tribune's Curse(5)

“I’d recommend lunch elsewhere,” Hermes concurred. He had grown into a handsome young man, fit and strong as any legionary. He had spent almost three years with me in Caesar’s Gallic camps being trained by army instructors, and on our return I had enrolled him in the gladiatorial school of Statilius Taurus for further sword training. Of course, I had no intention of making him fight professionally, but any man who was going to stay at my back in those unsettled days had to be able to take care of himself. He was forbidden to bear arms anywhere in Italy, and elsewhere in Roman territory only if he accompanied me, but by that time he was expert with all weapons and could do more damage with a wooden stick than most men could with a sword.

“I’ll find something at the booths here. Tell Julia that we are dining this evening at the home of the praetor urbanus and the lady Fausta. That’ll put her in a good mood.”

Hermes grinned. “Milo’s place?”

“I knew you’d like that, you young criminal. When you’ve delivered your message, bring my bath things to the new Aemilian Baths. Off with you, now.” He ran homeward as if he’d borrowed the winged boots of his namesake. Hermes was a criminal by inclination, and he loved to hobnob with Milo’s thugs whenever we dined there, which was often.

I sought out a stall owned by a peasant woman named Nonnia, whose specialty was a pale bread baked with olives, hardboiled eggs, and chopped pork sausage. Sprinkled with fennel and laced with garum, a small loaf of it would keep you marching all day in full legionary gear. With just such a loaf and a beaker of coarse Campanian wine, I went to sit on the steps of the rostra and refresh myself after the strenuous morning. One of my clients, an old farmer named Memmius, took charge of my candidus lest I get grease or wine on the hideously expensive garment.

“Here comes trouble,” said another client, an even older soldier named Burrus. I had saved his son from a murder charge in Gaul, and the bloodthirsty old veteran was eager to slaughter all my enemies for me. I glanced up to see my least favorite Roman coming toward me.

“It’s just Clodius,” I said. “We’re observing a truce these days. If you’re carrying weapons, keep them out of sight.”

“Truce or no truce,” Burrus said grimly, “don’t turn your back on him.”

“I never have, and I never will,” I assured him. I was not as certain of our safety as I pretended. Clodius was subject to the odd bout of homicidal insanity. Surreptitiously, I checked to make sure that my dagger and my caestus were tucked away beneath my tunic where I could reach them handily, just in case.

“Good day, Decius Caecilius!” Clodius called, all smiles and joviality. As usual when not in office, he wore crude sandals and a workingman’s tunic, the sort that leaves one arm and shoulder bare. He was accompanied by a rabble of thugs as disreputable as those in Milo’s train, but those closest to Clodius tended to be better-born. The noble youth of Rome in those days were much addicted to thuggery. After all, we couldn’t all get involved in politics. His gang looked like the younger brothers of the lot that had followed Catilina in his foolish coup attempt eight years before. Most of those had died in that ugly affair, but a new crop of young fools comes along every few years to fill the depleted ranks.

“Join me, Publius,” I said, wiping my hands on my tunic. It is unwise to have greasy fingers if you have to go for your dagger. “There’s more here than I can eat.”

“Gladly.” He sat by me and took a handful of the fragrant bread and bit into it. “Ah, Nonnia’s. I was just by her booth, but she was sold out. Your cup looks dry.” He snapped his fingers, and one of his lackeys hustled forward with a skin to fill my beaker.

I took a gulp and winced. It was crude Vatican from the third-rate vineyards right across the river.

“Publius, you can afford to bathe in Caecuban. Why do you drink this foul stuff? My slaves complain when I bring it home.”

He sneered. “Frivolous trappings of nobilitas. I have no use for such things, Decius. It’s all outdated, anyway. This whole nonsense of patrician and plebeian would have been swept away long ago if it hadn’t been for Sulla. We’re embarking on a new age, my friend.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with drinking decent wine,” I protested, drinking the foul stuff anyway. “Besides, when you took up the cause of the common man, you didn’t renounce your wealth, I notice.”

He smiled conspiratorially. “What could be more common and vulgar than wealth?”

“I wouldn’t know. Such vulgarity as I’ve achieved has been in spite of my poverty.”