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praetor.”
    “Now,” Creticus said, “we need to discuss the various underhanded ways we can counter this exceedingly underhanded offensive. Scipio, will Pompey intervene for us?”
    Scipio’s daughter, widow of Publius Crassus who had died at Carrhae, had married Pompey, a man somewhat older than her father. The old boy was quite besotted with her, and when his father-in-law was prosecuted Pompey called the jury together at his own house and asked personally for an acquittal. Scipio was immediately cleared of all charges and carried from the Forum on the shoulders of the men who were to have tried him.
    “That won’t work twice,” Scipio said. “He earned enough resentment last time. To do it again, for a member of the same family, could turn the whole Senate against him.”
    “How about a bribe?” Father asked. He saw my mouth open and pointed a bony finger at my face. “None of your delicate scruples now, Son. This is politics at its dirtiest, and bribing the fellow may turn out to be the easiest, simplest, and, in the long run, cheapest way to go. How much of your pirate loot remains?”
    “Very little. After the monument and the new roof of the portico, clearing my debts, and my donation to the Treasury, there’s barely enough remaining to support my state as praetor.” The praetorship wasn’t as costly an office as the aedileship, but my expenses would still be heavy: compensation for my clients, who would attend me every court day; regular gifts for my lictors; and the lavish entertaining expected of an office holder.
    “You shouldn’t have given so much to the Treasury,” Creticus said.
    “We could all lend you a few talents to buy the man off,” Scipio suggested.
    “He won’t be bought if it’s the family he’s after,” I pointed out. Once again I presented Julia’s suspicions as my own.
    “So who can afford to outspend us?” Scipio asked. “Or place him in high office? The only likely suspects are Caesar and Pompey, and it makes little sense for either of them to do this.”
    “There are other men of ambition,” said Appius Claudius. “Desperate men who can’t climb by constitutional means are apt to employ desperate tactics.”
    “You mean like Catilina?” I said. “Some frustrated, would-be dictator currying favor among the malcontents and the dispossessed?”
    “I am thinking more of the exiles,” he answered. “Gabinius would dearly love to come back to Rome and resume his career. You had a run-in with him on Cyprus, did you not?”
    “Yes, early on,” I told him, “but we patched it up.”
    “You are not his lifelong friend though,” Father said, “and no man is your friend where great ambition is concerned. I think we should consider Gabinius as a possibility. What about Curio?”
    “The man’s a pauper!” Hortalus protested.
    “So was Caesar until a few years ago,” Creticus said. “Curio’s standing for Tribune of the People, he has a slate of proposed legislation that’s as ambitious as anything since the brothers Gracchi—”
    “And,” Scipio put in, “he’s suddenly presenting himself as the enemy of the
optimates
. Just a month ago he was solidly in our camp.”
    I could see that my family had been discussing Curio quite a bit already. I barely knew Caius Scribonius Curio, who was a wellborn, high-living young man of little accomplishment, although he was said to be extremely intelligent and a fine speaker.
    “If he’s elected tribune,” Father said, “he’ll be in a strong position to push Fulvius’s career. Let’s consider him a possibility.”
    It went on like this for some time, one name after another being brought forth for consideration. There were a lot of names to consider, too. A family as politically important as mine had as many enemies as friends. And not everyone at the gathering possessed as logical a brain as mine. Some names were raised simply because the raiser disliked the man, or he was known for some especially unusual