Chương 174: One Friend

After the free grain bill failed in the popular assembly and the Senate's Final Decree was rescinded, life in Rome quickly returned to normal. Of course, there were still those who tried to fan the dying embers. Fulvia, Clodius's wife, was one of them.

"Caesar murdered my husband! He fought for the plebeians to his very last breath..." She gathered Clodius's remaining followers and published pamphlets condemning Caesar. Yet despite her efforts, her accusations gained little traction among Rome's citizens.

"Wasn't he already in Ostia, trying to flee Rome?"

"He fled with his tail between his legs. Caesar probably had no reason to bother killing him."

"Didn't Clodius hire thugs to threaten citizens? He surrounded himself with men like that, so it is no surprise he met such an end." But that didn't mean Rome hadn't changed. Over the past few weeks, countless citizens had bought pamphlets, and the craze showed no sign of slowing. Once pamphlets had proven their power, practically every politician—optimates and populares—rushed to join the craze. They boasted of their achievements, promoted specific policies, or slandered other politicians.

Some shops had even sprung up solely to sell pamphlets.

"Senator Cato's latest pamphlet! Written only days ago!"

"Senator Cicero's new book will be on sale soon! Preorder your copy now—supplies are limited!" The best-selling publication of all was the transcript of Caesar's speech in the Forum.

"Caesar is right. Shouldn't we stop killing each other over a single policy?"

"The Senate has been resorting to the Final Decree far too readily. Thank the gods—that seems unlikely to happen again." But the largest distributors of pamphlets were the bathhouses.

"Did you read the new pamphlet that came in today? Apparently, Caesar is planning to hold a Nova Troia festival."

"Wasn't it a literary contest?"

"It seems they've expanded it." Citizens read the pamphlets laid out in the entrance halls and changing rooms, before and after bathing. They could now catch up on the latest news without having to visit the Forum every single morning. The bathhouse owners, who had initially received the pamphlets for free, began scrambling to buy the latest publications themselves.

"First Palmolive, and now this... Lucius Caesar certainly seems fond of bathhouses."

"I heard there are plans to build a massive bathhouse in the Subura as well." As the citizens' attention shifted back to Nova Troia, Consul Caesar was agonizing over a new project.

"A great many citizens supported what I said the other day. We will never have a better opportunity than this," Father said.

"An opportunity to establish a new force to maintain law and order in Rome."

"You mean a dedicated force to maintain public order within the city?" I replied, stretching my stiff arms. Perhaps it was because I had spent the past few days pouring all my energy into the Nova Troia festival, but I was exhausted. Father was right. There would never be a better opportunity. Countless Romans had stepped forward to stop the violence in the Forum—even women, who normally had no formal role in political life.

To prevent the streets of Rome from becoming a playground for politicians and thugs, a law enforcement organization was necessary. In other words, a police force.

"The key question is how to structure it," I pointed out.

"If the Senate controls it, it could easily become a tool for suppressing the populares and anyone else the Senate opposes. On the other hand, if the popular assembly or the tribunes controlled it directly, men like Clodius could gradually take it over and turn it into a private army." It was a thorny problem. A police force would be an armed institution sanctioned by the state and authorized to use force. Whoever controlled it could easily turn it against rival factions.

That was why Rome would not see a large-scale urban security force until the age of Augustus, when power was concentrated in one man's hands.

"Winning over both the citizens and the Senate will not be easy," Father said.

"But we can follow the path you've shown us."

"The path I've shown?"

"Settling disputes peacefully instead of fighting in the streets. That is the true way of the Roman Republic." As he spoke, Father pointed to a woodblock print hanging on one wall of his office in the Regia. It depicted countless women standing in the Forum. It showed the women of Rome bringing the fighting to a halt during Father's recent speech. I had not realized Pompeia had managed to have a woodblock print produced so quickly.

"No citizen wants chaos and violence. The same goes for the Senate. We just need to use this public sentiment."

"You mean the pamphlets?" I knew exactly what Father was getting at. We could use pamphlets to shape public opinion in favor of a particular policy. Once public opinion shifted, the Senate would have no choice but to respond. After all, a measure passed by the popular assembly could become law without the Senate's approval. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Of course, whether the Senate, which controlled the purse strings, would actually appropriate the funds was another matter. Even so, it would at least be forced to negotiate.

"The Senate can no longer ignore what the people demand."

"But even with pamphlets, we have no way of knowing exactly how many citizens support a policy. And we cannot summon everyone to the Forum every time," I replied. Citizens who took an active part in politics were always a minority. Most people merely watched events unfold. Yet it was precisely those passive observers who mattered most. In the end, outcomes depended on what they believed and how they voted.

"Are you saying there's a better way?"

"There is a more efficient way." I replied with a smile. There was one tool that had become indispensable to twenty-first-century newspapers and news broadcasts. Whenever a policy or proposal became controversial, it invariably appeared. It was the simplest and most powerful way to show what the public thought, and no politician could afford to ignore it.

"We use numbers." Father had said it himself before.

"As you once said, Father, no one can ignore numbers."

[Public opinion is the queen of the world, and not even kings can defy her. Kings themselves are merely servants who must wait upon her.] Blaise Pascal had once called public opinion the queen of the world. Public opinion could alter the fate of a kingdom. Its power was greater still in the Roman Republic, where officials ranging from consuls to tribunes were chosen by popular vote. Even the Pontifex Maximus was chosen by election. After leaving Father's office, I went straight to the strategy room.

"But until now, public opinion has always been vague. Even if we walk the streets every day and listen to what citizens have to say, there is no way to know whether those impressions are accurate." I said, looking at Felix. Felix and the other executives stared at me in obvious confusion.

"Can't we tell simply by seeing how many people gather in the Forum?"

"That is unreliable too," I answered.

"Politicians always bring their clients. During elections and assemblies, they also pay poor citizens to swell the crowd. That is not a true reflection of public opinion in Rome."

"But how can we possibly know what the citizens truly think?"

"It's simple. We ask them directly." At my answer, the entire room fell silent.

"Directly? You mean questioning citizens every time a policy or controversy arises...?"

"We can't possibly survey thousands of citizens one by one every single time!" Felix stared at me in disbelief.

"Even you could not possibly manage that, Young Master. It would cost an enormous amount of money."

"We don't need to survey everyone." I picked up a quill and began jotting down figures on a sheet of paper. Public-opinion polling had existed as early as the nineteenth century. Newspapers and magazines sent questionnaires to their readers and tabulated the responses they received. In the United States, such surveys were once used to predict presidential elections. The idea itself was not terrible. The problem was that it was extremely expensive and often wildly inaccurate. The reason was simple.

The people who received the questionnaires—and, more importantly, those who chose to respond—were not representative of the population. In other words, the sample was biased. George Gallup, later known as the father of modern public-opinion polling, improved upon this method.

"We do not need to survey every citizen in Rome. The important thing is drawing a representative sample." We would determine how many people to survey from each district, tribe, age group, and income bracket. That was the method known as quota sampling. In 1936, George Gallup accurately predicted the election results by surveying merely three thousand people using this method. By contrast, the Literary Digest mailed millions of questionnaires and still got its prediction completely wrong.

"We already have pamphlets and a postal service. We also have a vast amount of information gathered through the insurance business. If we put all of that to use, we can conduct regular public-opinion polls at low cost." Of course, it wouldn't be as easy as it sounded. We would have to experiment with face-to-face interviews and postal questionnaires to find the method best suited to Rome.

"First, we draw a quota sample, compare our findings with later outcomes, and refine the method from there."

"We are going to need a great many people who can read, write, and handle figures. I don't understand why you are so obsessed with a project that won't even make us any money, Young Master." Felix let out a heavy sigh.

"Just how many literate workers are we going to need...?"

"More and more citizens have been learning to read lately, haven't they? Besides, we are about to build a school. If demand for pamphlets keeps growing, recruiting literate staff will not be too difficult." A moment later, Felix's eyes went wide.

"Don't tell me... you decided to build the school so you could train more capable employees?" Gasps and groans erupted around the table.

"You planned to educate children, select the most promising among them, and eventually hire them into your service!" No, that wasn't what I was thinking at all. Anyone listening to them would think I was some kind of capitalist demon. But Felix and the other executives were already staring at me as though they were utterly convinced.

"Would you believe me if I said no?"

"..." Amidst the awkward silence, I cleared my throat.

"Anyway, there is another crucial point. The polling must remain independent of every politician and faction—even Father and me." If the results were manipulated to suit a sponsor's wishes, the polls could end up shaping public opinion instead of measuring it. Citizens might then make decisions based on those distorted results.

"But who could we possibly entrust with overseeing these surveys? Is there even a person in Rome who..." Felix's expression suddenly changed as realization dawned.

"Exactly." I nodded in response. There was one man who had proved during the pamphlet war that his principles could not be bought.

"Cato is the only candidate."

While the pamphlet war raged, no one confronted Clodius more directly than Cato, one of the fiercest hard-liners among the Senate's optimates. [Why We Must Oppose the Free Grain Distribution Bill] [Why Is the Roman Republic in Danger Right Now?] Unlike Cicero, who spent a great deal of time polishing each work, Cato produced a new piece every few days. As soon as Cato finished a piece, it went straight to the printing press, and within days copies were circulating throughout Rome.

Most were short pamphlets no more than eight pages long, yet they proved enormously influential during the conflict. Their influence lingered even after the pamphlet war ended. And that effect lingered even after the pamphlet war had ended.

"Are you all here on Lucius Caesar's orders?" Cato regarded the people gathered outside his domus with suspicion.

"If you are, you had better turn back right now."

"We all genuinely respect you, Senator Cato!" The man at the front replied hurriedly.

"We even formed our own collegium and meet every three days to discuss your pamphlets. It would be our greatest honor if you joined one of our humble meetings and shared your thoughts with us." The others nodded eagerly.

"No one—not Caesar or anyone else—sent us or gave us orders. We swear by the gods!" Cato let out a sigh as he looked at the men before him. As a Roman politician, Cato was accustomed to receiving clients at his house. But for ordinary supporters—men who were not even his clients—to gather like this was rare, rarer still for Cato. They were not asking for jobs or begging him to intervene in their lawsuits. They simply wanted to hear his views.

"Come inside, all of you. I'll have wine and food brought out." At his words, their faces lit up.

"I heard you stood alone against the Senate during Caesar's speech, Senator Cato—that you prevented it from ordering a violent crackdown under the Final Decree..."

"I didn't stop the Senate's proceedings. I merely stated my arguments."

"Senator, would you be willing to sign this pamphlet for me?"

"My signature? On the pamphlet?"

"I hear Lucius Caesar writes a short dedication whenever he signs something for one of his supporters. If it pleases you, Senator..."

"... Wait here. I'll fetch a quill." As Cato sighed and ushered his supporters inside, his wife approached.

"Dear, we just received a message from Caesar."

"From Caesar?"

"Yes. He says he wishes to discuss something with you at the Regia."

"Tell him I'm busy. Actually, just tell him I'm not home."

"He said if you couldn't come, he'd come here himself," his wife said with a smile.

"It seems he expected you to answer like that."

"I suppose I've dug my own grave." Cato looked up at the sky and sighed. A sinking feeling told him he had made a serious mistake.

"The true tradition of Rome is change," he muttered under his breath.

"Pardon?"

"It's nothing. Just something a friend once told me." Cato added with a soft chuckle.