I was just dozing off on the massage table when a vaguely familiar man flopped onto the one next to mine. The Nubian assigned to that table commenced his ministrations, but the familiar slap of cupped palms was in this case somewhat muffled because the man was as furry as a bear. He had a wide, coarse-featured face that was just then smiling at me, showing big, yellow teeth through broad lips.
“Good day, Senator,” he said. “I don’t believe we have met. I am Caius Sallustius Crispus.”
“Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger,” I said, extending a hand. “I’ve seen your name on the roll of the magistrates. One of the year’s quaestors, aren’t you?”
“That is correct. I’m assigned to the Grain Office.” I saw now that he was perhaps in his late twenties. His crude visage and hirsuteness had given the impression of an older man.
“I’ve missed the last few elections,” I admitted. “I’ve been with Caesar in Gaul.”
“I know. I’ve been following your career.”
“Oh? Why is that? It hasn’t been very distinguished so far.” In fact, I wasn’t much interested. I didn’t like the look of the man. I’ve always found ugliness to be an excellent reason for disliking someone.
“I am of a literary turn of mind,” he explained. “I intend to write a comprehensive history of our times.”
“My part in the affairs of Rome has been modest beyond words,” I assured him. “I can’t imagine what you’d find to write about me.”
“But you were involved in Catilina’s failed coup,” he said, still smiling. “On both sides, I’m given to understand. That calls for a rare political dexterity.”
I didn’t like the insinuating tone that he disguised with disingenuous friendliness. And I disliked discussing that ugly incident that had killed so many, ruined careers, and destroyed reputations and that still caused hard feelings after eight years.
“I was, as always, on the side of the Senate and People,” I told him. “And too much is made of the disgraceful business as it is.”
“But I hear Cicero is writing his own history of the rebellion.”
“As is his right. He was the central figure, and his actions preserved the Republic at the cost of his reputation and his career.” Cicero had been exiled for the execution without trial of the chief conspirators. Even at that time he was not truly safe in Rome despite the protection of Milo’s thugs. Much as it pains me to say anything good about Cato, his exertions on Cicero’s behalf had been heroic and made him even more unpopular than he had been, which is saying something.
“But he will naturally slant the facts in his own favor,” Sallustius said. “A more balanced account will be needed.”
“You are welcome to try your hand at it,” I said, sure that, like the scribblings of most amateur historians, his would not outlast his own lifetime.
“These are such lively times,” he mused, apparently determined to cheat me of my nap. “Caesar’s war in Gaul, Gabinius campaigning in Syria and Egypt, Crassus’s upcoming war against the Parthians—it seems almost a shame to stay here in Rome with all that going on.”
“You can have it all,” I told him. “Barbarians and Eastern despots hold no interest for me. If it were up to me, I would stay right here for the rest of my days and putter around in the government offices and doze off during Senate debates.”
“That doesn’t sound like a Metellus to me,” he said. “Your family is famed for its devotion to high office, not to mention the high-handed wielding of power.” His tone was chaffing, but I detected a griping undertone of envy. It was not the first time I’d heard it. This was another nobody from an undistinguished family who begrudged my family connections and the all-but-unquestioned access they gave me to the pursuit of higher office.
“I don’t claim to be a typical member of the gens. I have no desire to conquer foreigners or give Rome more desert and forest to garrison.”
“I can understand that it’s a daunting tradition to live up to. Why, within the memory of living Romans the gens Caecilia has added Numidia and Crete to the Empire.”
“Wonderful. The Numidians are rebellious savages, and the Cretans are the most notoriously shiftless pack of lying, conniving pseudo-Greeks the world has to offer.” I wasn’t truly so contemptuous of my family’s accomplishments, but something in me wanted to contradict everything the man said.
“Do you think we shouldn’t add Parthia to the lot?”
Everybody wants to talk about Crassus today, I thought. Well, nobody was talking about much else that year.