Under Vesuvius(6)
“I just know I’m going to love it here!” Julia proclaimed when the tour was over.
I was having second thoughts about the whole matter. “You understand, my dear, that these are the fruits of a lifetime of conniving, political corruption, bribery—I could go on for hours. I have a feeling that, lacking Hortalus’s stupendous income, this place might get rather expensive to support.”
“Nonsense. Just stick with Caesar and we will never have money problems.” She said this with great finality, as she said most things.
Later on that evening I discussed the same misgivings with Hermes.
“Sell off some of the statuary,” he advised. “The price of just one or two of those pieces would keep this place running for years.”
“It’s a thought,” I admitted, “though I would hate to lose them. Originals by Praxiteles!”
“The wine, then. Even you can’t drink your way through that much. Not if you live to be a hundred.”
“Even worse!” I groaned.
* * *
2
I HELD MY FIRST ASSIZES IN CUMAE, A TOWN I had never visited previously. Cumae is believed to be the oldest Greek colony in Italy, perhaps a thousand years old at this time. It was once the capital city of Campania, but that was long ago. As all the world knows, it is the home of the Cumaean Sibyl, the hereditary prophetess of Apollo and, after the Delphic, the most widely consulted of the sibyls. Cumae is always full of people from all over the world who have come to seek her counsel and so, as praetor of the foreigners, there was business there for me to attend to.
Besides the foreigners, the resident Greeks, the Romans, and the Campanians, the other major population group was the Samnites. These people, who spoke the Oscan dialect, had for many years been firm allies of Rome. But within living memory, they had been our implacable enemies, contending for control of central and southern Italy. When my father was a young man, the word “Samnite” was used interchangeably with “gladiator,” since most of our Samnite prisoners of war were assigned to that exciting if rather demanding profession.
While Julia and her ladies went to tour the sights of the town, I and my staff held court. The basilica was a fine one, an imposing structure built in the years since Cumae became a Roman colony. Although not as lofty as the vast new Basilica Aemilia in Rome, recently rebuilt by a member of the Aemilian family (using Caesar’s money, of course), it had beautiful proportions and tasteful decoration.
Since the weather was splendid, a dais had been set up on the steps of the basilica, shaded by an elaborate awning and facing the town’s forum. When I arrived, preceded by my lictors and surrounded by my staff, the bustle and hubbub of the forum stilled, the lounging idlers rose to their feet (save a few crippled beggars), and everyone faced the dais as a gesture of respect. This I took as a good sign. It meant that the people here were content, glowers and rude noises being the rule when they were not.
And why should they not be content? They were members in good standing of the greatest empire the world had ever seen, enjoying all its advantages without being involved with the political infighting of the capital; and Roman justice was always an improvement over whatever system had been in place previously.
A man in the striped robe and bearing the crook-topped staff of an augur solemnly proclaimed that the omens were propitious for official business. A priest performed the required sacrifice, and we were ready to proceed.
A young relative of mine named Marcus Caecilius Metellus stepped forward and proclaimed: “People of Cumae, attend! On behalf of the Senate and People of Rome, the distinguished Praetor Peregrinus Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger has come from Rome to hear your cases concerning foreigners and render judgment. Hail the Senate and People of Rome!” The crowd returned the salute fervently. Marcus had a fine, trained orator’s voice. He was about eighteen at the time, just beginning his public career and soon to serve as military tribune.
A gaggle of local officials joined us on the dais. Like so many Italian towns, Cumae was governed by annually elected duumviri: two local magnates who kept close watch on each other, each determined that his colleague not steal more than himself. The holders of lesser offices—three praetors, a couple of aediles, and so forth—were mostly men who had held the duumvirate themselves, and they took the office in rotation. All these men were members of three or four prominent families who regarded office holding as an ancestral privilege. The same was true of the Senate at Rome, only the pool of families there was somewhat larger.
“Have we sufficient equites present to empanel a jury, should we need one?” I asked a duumvir.