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XXIII. ULPIAN AND THE QUAESTOR
The Lord Ulpian—Senator, Patrician, and billionaire businessman—calls you and Darwin to his luncheon. With him on couches are several city officials, whom he introduces. They are all business associates, since there is no pretense of separation between government and business. In fact, it’s already been a long day for Ulpian. Being a great lord and patronus (‘father’), he has hundreds of clientes (‘clients’). A man’s client base is a signal to the world of his importance. The man of substance in Roman society is judged, not just by the flash of his lifestyle, but by the contribution he makes to his community. Look, if he dedicates a temple (if not so well off, maybe just a wall niche), he can have his name inscribed on it in large letters for generations to see. If he sets up a soup kitchen, loads of poor people will vote for him when he runs for praetor (‘goes before’), a prestigious office from Republic days, when he might stand in for one of the ruling consuls. If he sponsors a particularly imaginative and generous set of games (lots of free food and wine, sexy young performers, and bloody combats), then maybe it’s timed so that thousands of happy commoners will vote when his son runs for works administrator or aedile—that’s the first of a set of prestigious offices whereby young patrician men get to rise in the ranks. It’s the cursus honorum, or ‘course of honor.’ Your modern world tends to call it ticket-punching—same thing. So every morning, as the last carts are still rumbling out of the city, a whole bunch of sleepy-eyed men gather in a special atrium of Ulpian’s (or any well-off man’s) villa to present their needs, offer fawning praise, condole over the recent passing of his Aunt Cloelia, congratulate over young Arpinius’ entry into the Flaminian Priesthood, and so forth. In turn, the patron signs documents, hands out loan money, congratulates on a good job, and so forth. The system has a genuine personal touch, and works beautifully for many centuries. Ulpian had a long client session this morning. He had to clear out his clients so he could get on with his important meetings with city officials and Imperial officers to regulate the business of the city. Ulpian not only is the master of thousands of slaves, freemen, and officials, but he has vested interests in building projects, library funding, city beautification, and myriad other tasks. He doesn’t worry, fortunately, about making it to the assigned hours at the public baths (varied; special hours for men, women, slaves, children, and other divisions of legitimate citizenry—therefore not criminals or gladiators) because he owns a huge private bath complex in his own home. He is more modest than many newly rich upstarts. He doesn’t keep special fondling-slaves or sex pets to entertain himself or his guests (though some guests bring their own to his lavish evening dinners and garden parties). It’s been darkly rumored he harbors Christians, those atheists who refuse to worship the state gods, and who are accused of bringing misfortune down on the city and the Empire. That may be one reason there is always one Imperial official or another hovering about and reporting to Emperor Carinus. Ulpian understands and accepts this as a price of fame and fortune, as modern movie stars understand paparazzi (‘buzzing insects’) are a staple of their lifestyle. The truth is, he is open to all gods, on the theory that this assures him the favor of them all. He performs all the rituals of the state religion on their appropriate holidays, and is even a priest in several temples. His wife, more likely, is the Christian, and keeps their sons on an austere, philosophical path that more resembles the way of the ancient Republic in some ways, and that of the Stoics. Ulpian however does whoop it up when she’s not looking.
Ulpian is a big, fleshy man with intelligent eyes and a matter-of-fact, friendly demeanor. He laughs a lot, and appears quite comfortable. He is attended by slaves who appear to love him as a father, tending to his every whim. He is a rare person—connected, of ancient family, wealthy, and on top of that successful in his own right. Darwin and you present yourselves, genuflecting at his couch and offering your hands. He takes your hands in his and squeezes them, bellowing words of welcome, admiration, and encouragement. He is one of those few individuals who is so utterly sure of himself that he needs to put on no airs, and he readily thanks the lowliest slaves for each small service (at least, as lowly as are permitted to get near him by his razor-eyed personal bodyguards, who hover nearby at all times with their hands in their togas and suspicious looking bulges). As you are shown to your couches, Darwin mutters to you: "Even at that, he looks worried, doesn’t he? Who wouldn’t, with this peacock on the throne over at the Palatine? These rich old families have been the targets of demented rulers on and off for centuries, and you’d think they’d be looking for ways to bump them off and get back to rational business. Then again, nobody succeeded in bumping off Hitler, Mussolini, and their ilk in more modern times."
One man catches your attention. He is the Quaestor Querculus. It’s no secret that Querculus (‘Little Oak’), a stout, balding man of middle-age, with the hard face of a soldier and the weathered skin of a peasant, is on the staff of Emperor Carinus. His title of office means, literally, "One Who Inquires," and he is basically the city police inspector. There are other traditional elected public offices—consul, tribune, aedile, and so forth—but most of that’s for show since the Republic died out. If the emperor says "jump," the average Roman says "how high?" on his way up. That’s your ten-second civics lesson.
Querculus is clever and diplomatic, but pushy and insinuating. His eyes are filled with speculation and suspicion, even while he asks innocent questions and feigns casualness by popping grapes in his mouth or washing them down with the watered wine most people drink here. "Been in town long? What do you do?" Those are the kinds of innocent questions Querculus starts out with, and in a few minutes has even the most innocent person twisting in his loincloth while trying to explain what he said in answer to some innocent question ten minutes earlier. Querculus omits nothing, forgets nothing, overlooks nothing. Carinus and his staff have picked him well for the job. "So where again is this place you come from?" It’s the most dreadful thing he could ask, since it opens you wide up, and you simply cannot state publicly that you are from a nonexistent, advanced civilization over 1,700 years in the future.
Ulpian saves the day by diverting Querculus’ attention to some other matters, and you secretly mop sweat off your brow while digging into the stuffed grape leaves and vegetable medley (the Romans love vegetables, eat lots of fish, and regard meat with some suspicion).
While Querculus respectfully answers Ulpian’s questions, he glances coldly and inquisitively in your direction several times. With a sinking heart, you know he is far from finished with you. You now are noticed by the Emperor, and that can only be malus (‘bad’).
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