A Point of Law (11 page)

“The stone looks Greek,” I said.

“It is. But the old Etruscans often incorporated Greek work into
their own, just as we do today. Or, this could be a modern stone set into an old Etruscan ring. For that you will need to consult a lapidary. It is not my field.”

I took the ring back from him. “Many thanks, Laturnus. I believe that your guild and my future office will enjoy the most excellent of relations.” I rose from my chair.

“I rejoice to hear it. Why, if I may ask, is the origin of this ring of interest to you?”

“A matter of an inheritance. Several heirs claiming to be the rightful owner, you know how it goes.”

“Alas, so I do.”

Back out in the street I checked the angle of the sun. Still plenty of daylight left.

“That was interesting,” I said, “but probably irrelevant. Let’s go see if the stone has any surprises for us.”

We went to the nearby quarter of the lapidaries. Most of the workers in precious substances lived and worked in the same small area near the eastern end of the Forum. Their shops were often located in the Forum itself, but I was looking for a dealer who traveled widely and bought from many sources; one who specialized in sapphires.

A bit of questioning led me to the shop of such a man, a resident alien named Gyges. Despite his Greek name he had a distinctly Syrian look, not an uncommon combination in the eastern coastal cities. I explained what I wanted, and he looked at the stone.

“The stone is from Egypt,” he said without hesitation. “Once it had a different shape, but it was cut down and polished flat to prepare it for this carving. That is done a great deal with Egyptian stones. Outside of Egypt, nobody much likes Egyptian jewels. Fortunately, they liked massive, irregular stones, so it is relatively easy to alter them for a more refined taste.”

“How old is it?” I asked. “I mean, when was this carving made? Can you tell?”

“It’s quite recent. This treatment of the hair—snakes, I should say—was first used by Eunostes of Caria no more than fifty years ago. But this wasn’t carved in Caria. The style is that of the Greek cities of southern Italy and Sicily. I am afraid I can’t name you a specific lapidary, but I am almost certain that this came from one of the workshops of Croton.”

Croton is in Bruttium, of course, but its inhabitants are not Bruttians: they are Greeks. Croton was the home of Pythagoras, who knew things about triangles and music and said people shouldn’t eat beans. It was also the home of a great Olympic champion named Milo around five hundred years ago. Lately the place didn’t amount to much.

“That doesn’t help us greatly,” Hermes said as we left.

“You never know what bit of information may come in useful,” I assured him. “Now for something that should be truly enlightening, let’s go find someone who can decipher these documents.”

Rome is full of Greek schoolmasters, most of them penurious. But I needed something better than a man who could drill well-born schoolboys in their alpha-beta-gamma or teach youths of senatorial families to repeat the speeches of Demosthenes. Nor did I want someone who had memorized the entirety of Homer. I spoke of this to Hermes.

“So what are we looking for?” he asked.

“A cipher is no more than a puzzle. Mathematicians like to solve puzzles. We need somebody who is both a Greek scholar and a mathematician.”

“I’m game. How do we find one?”

“Let’s go ask Asklepiodes. He knows the better-educated Greek community here in the City.”

It was not a great walk to the Temple of Aesculapius on Tiber Island. The streets were thinly populated because of the
contio
called by the Tribune Manilius. Those who had not gone to participate went there to watch.

The beautiful temple on its shiplike island was where Asklepiodes
practiced and taught in the afternoons. We found him conducting an early evening sacrifice and waited respectfully with our heads covered while he finished the simple, dignified ceremony.

He smiled delightedly when he saw us. “Is someone else dead already?”

“Not this time,” I told him. When I explained what I needed, he shook his head in wonderment.

“Your activities are a source of unfailing marvel. Yes, I think I know exactly what you need. Callista is here from Alexandria, giving a course of lectures in the hall adjoining Pompey’s Theater.”

“Callista?” I said. “This is a woman?”

“Very much so. You have been to Alexandria. You are aware that female scholars and teachers are not at all uncommon there.”

“They rarely come to Rome to teach. You think she has the qualifications I need?”

“She is one of the foremost authorities on the Greek language working at the Library, and she is also a mathematician of the Archimedean school. I know of nobody else in Rome who enjoys such distinction.”

“I am pressed for time. Would it be excessively rude for me to call on her this evening?”

“Nothing easier,” he assured me. “I will take you there myself. It is a short walk from here, just on the other side of the bridge in the Trans-Tiber. And it will be no rudeness at all. In the Alexandrian fashion, she holds an open salon for persons of a scholarly bent. She should be receiving this evening.”

“Wonderful. Hermes, go tell my wife that I will be home late this evening, lest she think I’ve been waylaid and murdered. Tell her I am consulting with a Greek scholar. Don’t tell her that it is an Alexandrian woman. This is something I must explain to her in my own fashion. Then rejoin me at the house of Callista. If you run, you should be able to find it before it gets too dark to see.”

Asklepiodes explained to him how to find the house and we left the temple, crossing the bridge into the district across the river. A great many foreigners lived in the new district, finding it more congenial both as to accommodation and company. The City proper was crowded, expensive, and full of Romans.

The house of Callista was no more than a hundred paces beyond the bridge, a stroke of luck considering how late the hour was. The sun was almost on the western horizon, and most Romans were already arriving for their dinner engagements, unless the
contio
was running late.

The gatekeeper was not a slave chained to the doorpost as in a great Roman house, but rather an educated servant who recognized both Asklepiodes and my senatorial insignia in a flickering glance. He bowed deeply.

“Learned Doctor, noble Senator, welcome to the house of Callista. My lady entertains a small but distinguished company this evening. She will be so delighted that you have come.” He swept before us, and we followed him into a fine courtyard where perhaps ten people sat in a small group, their attention centered on a woman who sat on a small folding chair.

While the servant announced us, I studied the group and saw some faces I knew. Catullus the poet was there, as was Marcus Brutus. Brutus was a pontifex, and as a patrician he was barred from the
contio
that afternoon. He was known for his enthusiasm for Greek philosophy. The rest were men and women of Rome’s literary and philosophical community, both Romans and Greeks.

The woman herself rose to greet us. I had rather expected an overeducated crone, but she was a tall, stately woman with the handsome, slightly heavy features so favored by Greek sculptors. Her hair was purest black, divided in the middle and falling over her shoulders. Her gown was as simple and as beautiful as a Doric column. She took Asklepiodes’s hand first.

“Welcome, learned Asklepiodes, fountain of medical knowledge.”
She turned to look at me. “Thrice welcome for bringing the famous Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger to my house.” She released his hand and took mine. “I have hoped for so long to see you, Senator.” Her eyes were disconcertingly direct. Not to mention beautiful.

“I am amazed you even know my name, distinguished lady, and I apologize for arriving thus unannounced.”

She smiled and she did this, as she did everything else, beautifully. “Oh, but your all-too-brief stay in Alexandria is, shall we say, still remarked upon after nearly eleven years.”

“Oh, well,” I said, almost blushing, “what’s one more riot in Alexandria’s long history of them?” The riot had been the least of it.

“Besides, Princess Cleopatra recently spoke of you in the most glowing terms. She said her adventures with you on Cyprus were wonderfully exhilarating.”

“Life always seems to be exhilarating around young Cleopatra,” I told her. “She has a way of attracting excitement.”

“And Ione, the high priestess of the Temple of Aphrodite at Paphos, wrote to me of you. She said that you are the most gifted Roman to come to Cyprus. She believes you to be touched by the gods.”

This was getting embarrassing. “I’m just another Roman drudge, trying to do my duty and dodge the odd assassin,” I told her.

“Please join our little group,” she said. “I believe you must know most of these people.”

She introduced them anyway, then Asklepiodes and I took our seats while their discussion continued. Courtesy dictated that I wait until their evening’s conversation was concluded before I took my problem to her.

Catullus nudged me in the ribs and said in a stage whisper, “Touched by the gods, eh? Bacchus, I’ll bet.”

“Venus,” I muttered back at him. “Princesses and priestesses find me irresistible.” Some of the others turned and frowned at us.

They talked for a long time on some points of philosophy that I
couldn’t follow, then about the poetry of Pindar, with which I was at least familiar. I kept my mouth shut rather than stress my ignorance.

I must confess that I felt absurdly flattered that this woman knew who I was, had spoken with Cleopatra, and corresponded with Ione about me. Even better, she had not once mentioned my connection to Caesar. By that time I was beginning to feel that, in most peoples’ eyes, being married to Caesar’s niece was the highest distinction I had achieved.

I was struck by the foolishness of my feelings. Why should I, a widely experienced soldier and magistrate of the greatest republic in the world, feel warmed by the esteem of a foreign woman? After all, she was only a woman. And while we Romans had a grudging admiration, even awe, of the Greeks of former times; we regarded their descendants, our contemporaries, as a pack of foolish degenerates, political imbeciles, and natural-born slaves. We often marveled that the Greeks we saw every day could be even distantly related to Achilles and Agamemnon, or even to the later ones like Pericles, Leonidas, and Miltiades.

Perhaps the truth was that I had grown tired and disillusioned with the Romans of my own class, self-seeking politicians and grasping conquerors who were slowly destroying the Republic more surely than any barbarian enemy could hope to.

Not that I expected to find some cure for our ills in the supposed wisdom of aliens. Many of the more idle and empty-headed members of the senatorial and equestrian orders were forever discovering the answers to the problems that have plagued mankind in the ancient “enlightenment” of Persia or Babylonia or Egypt. They never explain how this wonderful wisdom failed to save those utterly fallen and destroyed civilizations. At least men like Brutus and Cicero chose to admire the relatively rational Greeks, who knew how to carve wonderful statues.

Eventually, people began to rise and take their leave. While Callista bade each good night I spoke briefly with Brutus. He was a
man of the highest reputation but far too solemn and serious for my taste. He couldn’t decide which direction to spit without wondering how it might reflect on the honor of his ancient family. I thought it a grotesque fixation in one so young. His mother, Servilia, had been one of the great beauties of her generation, and Brutus had inherited some portion of her comeliness, which did not otherwise run in his aptly named family.

“I hope this decision of the
comitia tributa
goes well for you, Senator,” Brutus said gravely. He gave the word for the plebeian assembly the slightly contemptuous turn common to patricians. They always preferred the
comitia centuriata
, which was dominated by a handful of great families.

“I daresay their decision will be enlightening,” I told him. “This whole business has me utterly mystified. It’s true I was a bit rough on certain Romans living in Cyprus, but they were all thieves and plunderers and I can prove it. How this fool Fulvius got killed I have no idea.”

“All honest Romans agree that your actions on Cyprus were perfectly just,” Brutus said ponderously. “Cato concurs with me on this. The death of this man Fulvius, while unfortunate, is a trifling matter compared with the great dangers before us. Did you know that an invading army is about to descend upon Rome?”

“Really?” I said, doubting his sanity. “Not the Parthians, I hope.”

“I almost wish it were. Caesar has given half his legions leave of absence so that they can come to Rome and take part in the election. A rider came in not three hours ago to inform the aediles that the first cohorts would be pitching their tents on the Campus Martius in the morning. The rest will be here within two days.”

“That’s high-handed behavior even for Caesar,” I said. “But as far as I know, it’s constitutional. And he can spare them. It’s the depth of winter up in Gaul. He can keep his conquests in order with his auxilia.” The auxilia were foreigners, allies, and mercenaries. Legionaries,
on the other hand, were all citizens, which meant they could all vote. And they would vote for Caesar’s favored candidates.

“It’s good news for you, I suppose,” Brutus grumbled. I was one of those favored candidates.

“I won’t be a total hypocrite and claim I don’t want their votes,” I admitted. “But any army descending on Rome, even a Roman one, is an unsettling concept.”

“I rejoice to hear it. But the time must come when men who love the Republic must take action to curb the arrogance of Caesar.”

I won’t pretend to be an oracle and claim that in these words I perceived a portent of dire deeds to come. Nor did I foresee a bloody Ides of March when I heard Cassius, Casca, Basileus, and all the rest voice similar thoughts in that and future years, all those men who are now so notorious. Half of Rome, it seemed, spoke darkly of the other half, and many important figures jumped nimbly from one side to the other, repeatedly, not least among them the men who later plotted Caesar’s death.