My arrival was greeted with enthusiasm, for while my highhandedness had rankled the duumviri and a few others, my bloody brawl with the bandits had raised me in the esteem of most. After a long soak I got Cicero aside and made my proposal. He was at first astonished, but quickly came around to my point of view. He summoned his brother and Tiro and we discussed the matter.
“So you really think the boy is innocent?” Cicero said.
“Something is just not right. He is too convenient and there are too many other contenders.”
“Decius always has good instincts in these matters, Brother,” said Lucius, “and Tiro could certainly use the exposure. Trying a capital case in Rome might be too ambitious a start, but Baiae is just right—plenty of wealth without the distraction of great political power.”
“I agree,” Cicero said. “How about it, Tiro? Would you like to launch your career as a barrister here?”
“Well,” Tiro said, “as a former slave myself, I might be reluctant to defend a slaver’s son. However, since he plans to renounce his father’s business and become a respectable thief and raider, how can I refuse?”
We were just leaving the baths when a clatter of hooves announced the arrival of my reinforcements. The forum crowd gawked as a full turma of thirty cavalrymen rode in, their scarlet cloaks streaming gaily. They wore glittering mail coats split at the sides to facilitate riding and scarlet-crested helmets of shiny bronze. Instead of the long, oval shields carried by Caesar’s cavalry, these had the old-fashioned pompanum shield, so-called for its resemblance to the round, bossed cake used in sacrifices. Their long, slender spears waved gracefully. They were fine-looking young men and had all the earmarks of the sons of wealthy equites of southern Italy, too well-bred to slog around behind a shield in the legions. Still, they were full of spirit and verve.
Their leader was an even handsomer youth who wore a bronze cuirass sculpted to resemble the torso of Hercules. It was an immensely uncomfortable thing to ride in, as I knew from sore experience, but a splendid thing to see. His helmet was skinned with silver artfully embossed to resemble a head of curly hair. He reined in and spoke to Cicero.
“I am Marcus Sublicius Pansa, optio of the Ninth Turma, attached to the eleventh Legion, now being raised at Capua by the proconsul Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus. Have I the honor of addressing the praetor peregrinus Metellus?”
“No, you address the proconsul Marcus Tullius Cicero,” I told him. “I’m Metellus.” Technically, Cicero was still proconsul while he awaited his triumph, and would not lay down his office until he reentered Rome. The boy had made a natural mistake but he looked mortified.
“My apologies, sir! I thought—”
“Quite understandable,” I told him. “It’s only natural to think the most distinguished-looking man with a purple stripe is the one in charge. As it occurs, I am the one who sent for you. Who is your commander?”
“Sextus Pompeius, sir, the proconsul’s son.” The young man’s diction reeked of the Greek rhetoric schools that were considered essential for a public career.
“Marcus Sublicius,” I said, “we’ve had an outbreak of banditry in the region. I was personally assaulted and I take that as an insult to the dignity of Rome. I want them scoured out, and a few brought back alive for questioning. They are most likely on their way to the crater of Vesuvius, although they probably won’t venture inside until the current venting dies down. Do you think you can handle that?”
He grinned. “It will be good training for the boys.” The boys. He had to be all of nineteen years old.
“Good. Go first to the Villa Hortensia and get the horse master there. His name is Regilius and he’s an old cavalryman and scout. He knows this countryside intimately and will guide you where you need to go. You have my authority to requisition supplies, grain, and remounts if need be anywhere in this district. With or without those men, be back here on the morning after tomorrow, in case I need you to keep civic order here.”
“It shall be as you command, Praetor.” He saluted, whirled, and rode out with his turma clattering at his heels.
“They seem to be a likely band of young men,” Cicero said. “What do you think, Decius? You served with Caesar’s cavalry. How would these match up to Caesar’s?”
I didn’t have to think about it long. “They’re smartly turned out. Lots of glitter and panache, but they look like the horsemen of Scipio Africanus two hundred years ago. Caesar’s cavalry look like bandits who plundered their gear off a battlefield. If it came to a fight, they’d eat those boys alive.”