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Authors: John Maddox Roberts
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of one of these.
“Perhaps you had better elucidate, Tribune,” I said. “It is true that I declined a loan from Crassus because I have no wish to become his lackey. I had no motive other than retaining my own political, not to mention economic, independence.” This was not precisely true, but I did not feel that I owed this odd tribune any more.
“Oh, I quite understand that,” he said. His tone said, on the contrary, that he knew a pack of lies when he heard one. “But you know that his proposed war is a disgrace.”
“And yet,” Silvius said in a well-rehearsed interruption, “the senator voted in favor of Crassus’s command.”
“As you all know perfectly well,” I said, “the Senate voted no war. Crassus is to take over the Syrian promagistracy from Aulus Gabinius. What he does with his soldiers once he’s there is up to him. It’s a disgrace that the government has so little control over how our generals employ their troops, but that is the constitution as we have received it. As usual, I voted with my family on this. The Senate only ratified the law passed by your fellow tribune, Caius Trebonius. Blame him.”
“Oh, I do, Senator, I do!” Ateius all but hissed, his fingers working reflexively as if on a dagger grip. Obviously, Ateius and Trebonius shared one of those Milo-Clodius relationships: each would happily drink the other’s blood.
“Senator,” Silvius said, “we must stop Crassus before he wrecks the Republic. Many, many Romans of all classes and all
factiones
agree with us in this. We have made it our business to appeal to all men of influence whom we know oppose Crassus to join us in this. We hope to number you as one among us.”
“Gentlemen,” I said, spreading my palms in an appeal to reason, “it is too late. There is nothing to be done. Whatever underhanded means were employed to secure him this command, the Senate and People have spoken. He has the backing of Caesar and Pompey. The Plebeian and Centuriate Assemblies have voted to pass the Trebonian Law, and the Senate has ratified it. The damage is done. There is no constitutional means to stop him.”
“Then,” Ateius said, his eyes glowing in a fashion not quite sane, “we may have to appeal to powers beyond the constitutional.”
“I beg your pardon?” I said. “Admittedly, I am just back from Gaul after a long absence, but surely I would have been informed if our government had been set aside by, say, a Dictatorship or invading Libyans.”
“I do not joke, Senator!” Ateius snapped. Clearly, here was a man of limited jocularity.
“Then what do you mean?”
“The Republic,” he began, “has for many centuries rested upon a tripartite foundation. First,” here he held up a knobby-knuckled finger, “there is the body politic—the Senate and People. Second,” he raised a finger no comelier beside the first, “there is the constitution—our body of laws and practices, rigid in place but always changeable after due deliberation. Third,” finger number three, somewhat shorter than the other two, and decorated by a ring in the form of a snake swallowing its tail, a tiny emerald for an eye, “the will of the gods.”
I tried to think of other factors, but came up with none. “I suppose that about sums it up.”
“As you just said, the possibilities of the first two have been exhausted short of violence. That leaves the third.” He seemed quite pleased with himself for a man who was making no sense.
“The gods? I am sure that in this matter, as in all others, they were consulted, the proper sacrifices were made, prayers were offered, the auguries were taken, and so forth. But we all know that it is quite rare for the Olympians to take a direct hand in the affairs of Rome. At most they send us signs that we ignore at our peril.”
“There are others,” he said, portentously. “There are gods less remote than the official gods of the State—gods willing to aid those who know how to call upon
“Perhaps you had better elucidate, Tribune,” I said. “It is true that I declined a loan from Crassus because I have no wish to become his lackey. I had no motive other than retaining my own political, not to mention economic, independence.” This was not precisely true, but I did not feel that I owed this odd tribune any more.
“Oh, I quite understand that,” he said. His tone said, on the contrary, that he knew a pack of lies when he heard one. “But you know that his proposed war is a disgrace.”
“And yet,” Silvius said in a well-rehearsed interruption, “the senator voted in favor of Crassus’s command.”
“As you all know perfectly well,” I said, “the Senate voted no war. Crassus is to take over the Syrian promagistracy from Aulus Gabinius. What he does with his soldiers once he’s there is up to him. It’s a disgrace that the government has so little control over how our generals employ their troops, but that is the constitution as we have received it. As usual, I voted with my family on this. The Senate only ratified the law passed by your fellow tribune, Caius Trebonius. Blame him.”
“Oh, I do, Senator, I do!” Ateius all but hissed, his fingers working reflexively as if on a dagger grip. Obviously, Ateius and Trebonius shared one of those Milo-Clodius relationships: each would happily drink the other’s blood.
“Senator,” Silvius said, “we must stop Crassus before he wrecks the Republic. Many, many Romans of all classes and all
factiones
agree with us in this. We have made it our business to appeal to all men of influence whom we know oppose Crassus to join us in this. We hope to number you as one among us.”
“Gentlemen,” I said, spreading my palms in an appeal to reason, “it is too late. There is nothing to be done. Whatever underhanded means were employed to secure him this command, the Senate and People have spoken. He has the backing of Caesar and Pompey. The Plebeian and Centuriate Assemblies have voted to pass the Trebonian Law, and the Senate has ratified it. The damage is done. There is no constitutional means to stop him.”
“Then,” Ateius said, his eyes glowing in a fashion not quite sane, “we may have to appeal to powers beyond the constitutional.”
“I beg your pardon?” I said. “Admittedly, I am just back from Gaul after a long absence, but surely I would have been informed if our government had been set aside by, say, a Dictatorship or invading Libyans.”
“I do not joke, Senator!” Ateius snapped. Clearly, here was a man of limited jocularity.
“Then what do you mean?”
“The Republic,” he began, “has for many centuries rested upon a tripartite foundation. First,” here he held up a knobby-knuckled finger, “there is the body politic—the Senate and People. Second,” he raised a finger no comelier beside the first, “there is the constitution—our body of laws and practices, rigid in place but always changeable after due deliberation. Third,” finger number three, somewhat shorter than the other two, and decorated by a ring in the form of a snake swallowing its tail, a tiny emerald for an eye, “the will of the gods.”
I tried to think of other factors, but came up with none. “I suppose that about sums it up.”
“As you just said, the possibilities of the first two have been exhausted short of violence. That leaves the third.” He seemed quite pleased with himself for a man who was making no sense.
“The gods? I am sure that in this matter, as in all others, they were consulted, the proper sacrifices were made, prayers were offered, the auguries were taken, and so forth. But we all know that it is quite rare for the Olympians to take a direct hand in the affairs of Rome. At most they send us signs that we ignore at our peril.”
“There are others,” he said, portentously. “There are gods less remote than the official gods of the State—gods willing to aid those who know how to call upon
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